Pistol Poets

fucking greenbacks. Shit.”

He pulled the kid up by the shirt. “All you got is eighty fucking dollars, motherfucker. Shit. Not even worth jacking your ass.”

“Please-”

“Shut up, nigger.”

“Aw, shit,” Spoon said. “We got to kill this boy.”

“Please, no, I-”

“I said shut your cunt mouth.” Jenks rapped him on the nose.

“I know this boy,” Spoon said.

Jenks shook the boy by the shirt. “You know us?”

The boy nodded.

“Who’s that?” Harold pointed at Spoon.

“Spoon Oliver.”

“Shit,” Jenks said. “Who am I?”

“Harold Jenks.”

“Who are you?”

“Sherman Ellis.”

“He live three blocks over,” Spoon said. “Pappy in prison. Momma died of the cancer last year.”

“You gonna die now, Sherman Ellis.”

“I won’t say anything. I promise.” He was shaking. Tears.

“Can’t take that chance,” Jenks said. “Nobody to cry for you anyway. All alone in the world. Say good night.” This always scared them good. Jenks had even seen a few motherfuckers piss themselves.

“W-wait,” pleaded Sherman. “I’m leaving. What if I promise I’m never c-coming back. Never returning to Missouri. That would be okay, wouldn’t it?”

“Shit,” Spoon said. “A motherfucker about to die will say any shit.”

“It’s t-true,” Sherman said. “I’ve got a scholarship to Eastern Oklahoma. Grad school.”

“Bullshit.”

“The letter’s in my pocket,” Sherman said.

Jenks pulled the letter out of Sherman’s coat pocket. It had been folded into quarters. He opened it and read by the dim light of the streetlamp.

“You gonna be a poet?” Jenks couldn’t believe it. Of all the fucked-up things.

“Please.” Sherman’s face contorted with anxiety. “I’ve worked hard. Straight A’s in high school. I worked two jobs to get through Truman State. Please, brother. Not like this.”

As Sherman talked, Jenks felt himself deflate. He let go of the kid’s shirt. This nigger was on his way out. On his way to something better. He and Spoon always said that shit about killing. Kept the suckers scared. Make them keep their mouths shut. Hell, maybe they should let the kid go, give him his damn eighty dollars back. Maybe just this once-

Spoon moved forward, stuck the knife into Sherman’s chest, slammed it down to the hilt.

“Goddamn!” Jenks fell back.

“Motherfucker,” Spoon yelled.

Sherman twitched, clawed at the knife still in his chest, arched his back, eyes open to the night sky. He worked his mouth, no words. A trickle of blood welled up over his lips, stained his teeth red.

“Nigger thinks he can give us that brother shit,” Spoon said. “Who the fuck he think he is? He think he better than us. Fucking scholarship motherfucker.”

A long, strained breath leaked out of Sherman, and he went slack. Steam floating up from his open mouth, drifting out of the alley like a soul.

“Damn.” Jenks stood, looked down at the body, and shook his head.

Spoon grabbed Sherman’s bags. “Come on, Harold. Let’s go.” Spoon jogged to the end of the alley where his Eldorado was parked.

Jenks stood a moment looking at Sherman, then followed Spoon. They put the bags in the trunk, then climbed in the front seat. Spoon started the engine, and they drove away slow without the lights on.

After three blocks, Spoon turned onto the big four-lane and switched on the lights. “I’m going to Wendy’s. You want something?”

“No.” Jenks still had Sherman’s wallet. He flipped it open, looked at Sherman’s picture. He and Jenks were both very dark, same hair, same long nose and square chin. He was only a year older than Sherman. There was a Greyhound ticket folded into the wallet. Sherman had been on his way to the bus station. “Nigger was gonna be a poet.” He hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

“Fuck that,” Spoon said. “My cousin Jimmy busts rhymes at the Starlight Lounge Thursday nights. Don’t need no bullshit college for that. You sure you don’t want a Frosty or something?” He turned into the Wendy’s drive- thru.

Jenks put the wallet in his own pocket.

“You crazy?” Spoon asked. “Toss that out.”

“I got an idea.” The way Jenks said it frightened Spoon.

“Now hold on, Harold,” Spoon said. “You know that ain’t smart, keeping something like that. Cops hang a murder on you.”

“Nigger, I said I got an idea.”

And Spoon shut up. He ordered a triple with fries and shut his mouth.

three

Professor Morgan dismissed the class, stepped foot into the hall, and immediately saw Ginny the cub reporter waiting for him at the other end. She lifted her hand to wave, and Morgan turned, fast- walked around the opposite corner. He could hear her cloppity footfalls on the tile behind him.

Morgan zigzagged a labyrinth of office corridors, past a heretofore unseen set of rest rooms, a water fountain, some kind of tutoring room.

Where the hell am I?

The sound of Ginny’s blocky shoes pursued, dogged, relentless. Hath thou slain the jabberwock? Morgan scrambled. Looked side to side.

A stairwell.

He darted up and around, into the dark, dusty reaches of the third floor. The door was nailed shut, but the stairs kept going. Dry, wooden, creaking with each step.

He climbed.

A fourth floor. A fifth.

How many floors does this goddamn building have?

Morgan shoved open the fifth-floor door and found himself in a dim hall, murky with yellow light. Faded rectangles still remained where nameplates had been pried from office doors. He walked the hall, stale and silent like a ghost town. He stopped, cocked his ear down a cross hall. Listened.

What was that? He strained to hear. Music. He walked toward it. A smell. Sickly sweet.

He recognized the album now. Bad Luck Streak in Dancing School by Warren Zevon.

Who in God’s name is up here? This floor had obviously been abandoned, light fixtures empty, no blinds on the windows, dust.

Morgan glanced behind him. He’d shaken off Ginny. He could find another stairway down and go home if he wanted to, or find his own office and hide. But the smell and the music drew him on, the nagging tickle of curiosity.

He turned down a long hall. The music came from a door at the far end, and the smell grew stronger as