The Pistol Poets

Chapter 14

twenty-four
Jenks scooted close to the little campfire DelPrego had built. They were deep in the strange woods, glowing eyes watching from the shadows. Jenks gritted his teeth against the wind that whistled through the branches.
"We can't stay out here." For the first time, DelPrego showed he was aware of the cold. "This fire ain't enough. I can't feel my damn fingers." He blew on them, held them toward the fire. The wind stung his ears.
Jenks didn't say anything. He was cold too, but didn't know where to go. He couldn't go back to his garage apartment, that was for damn sure.
"Let's get my truck," DelPrego said. "We could sneak back slow. Check it out. If we can get to the truck, we can go anywhere."
"Shit on that idea. You don't know Red Zach. I'd rather freeze than have my own balls fed to me."
A long silence before DelPrego spoke. "What's going on?"
Jenks looked at the fire, didn't say anything.
"Sherman." DelPrego raised his voice. "Who's Jenks? He called you Jenks."
"Never mind."
"Fuck that. Talk to me. I killed-" DelPrego's voice caught. He swallowed hard. "I bashed a man's skull in with a golf club. I thought I was doing it to save a friend." His voice shook, tight, nerves raw. "Now you goddamn tell me what's going on right fucking now."
Jenks opened his mouth, shut it again. He needed to gather himself.
"I'll tell you, but you got to let me tell it all."
"Fine."
"You got to listen," Jenks said. "You got to let me get it all out, try to understand where I'm coming from."
"I said fine."
Jenks let it all spill out, Spoon and the alley and Sherman Ellis. He told him about his crazy idea to steal Ellis's life, slip into Eastern Oklahoma University, and write poetry. It had been his way out, his way to shed the ghetto and the drug trade and all the gangster bullshit. And he realized he was telling the story for himself too, trying to downplay his part in Ellis's death. He needed to believe, even more than he needed to convince DelPrego, that what he had done was forgivable. Or at least understandable.
And by the end of Jenks's story, the truth had shifted, taken on a new shade. He told DelPrego that his old life, his old patterns, the old ways had such deep hooks in him, that only a crazy plan could get him free. Sherman Ellis had lost his life, but Jenks could resurrect it again, make it work for good. Sherman Ellis's death could save Harold Jenks.
Jenks's story trickled out. He looked at DelPrego, but couldn't see his expression in the dark. The fire had dwindled, the coals casting them in a dim, hellish orange. The silence stretched.
"Wayne?"
"Don't talk to me."
"I had to do what I had to-"
"Stop talking right now."
Jenks started to bark at DelPrego. Fuck you, man. You don't know what I had to live with. He clapped his mouth shut, saw the bulk clenched in DelPrego's fist glinting orange and metallic in the light of the coals. It was the big automatic DelPrego had taken off Zach's boy. The complexion of Jenks's situation shifted uneasily. He was aware of the woods again. It would be a long time before a body was found out here. DelPrego wasn't quite pointing the pistol at him, but Jenks kept his mouth shut.
"I'm going to tell you something," DelPrego said at last. "I don't know anything about your life. Maybe we had to kill that guy in the trailer or be killed ourselves."
DelPrego's voice tightened. "But you can't steal education, man. It's up here." He tapped his head with the pistol barrel. "You can steal a car or a radio or a big-ass bag full of drugs, but you can't steal an education."
"I'm not hurting anybody."
"Fuck you." DelPrego stood, sudden, violent, knocking sticks into the fire and spreading the coals. Sparks. "You're hurting me, man. Me. I worked my ass off for my college education. I pulled third shift as a security guard at a rendering plant, stayed up all night wired on coffee reading Milton and Shakespearean sonnets and smelling hog stink just so I could pay rent and buy books. My senior year, I slept more nights in the library than I did in my bed."
He exhaled raggedly, sat down again hard. "Maybe my life wasn't dangerous. Maybe my neighborhood wasn't as tough, but I earned my education." He tapped the side of his head again. "Everything in here belongs to me."
DelPrego stood, shook the gun at Jenks. "This fucking thing is your way." He turned, tossed the pistol into the woods.
Jenks felt hot in the face. DelPrego made him mad and guilty. "That's right. You didn't come from my neighborhood. You don't know what it's like."
"I'll bet Sherman Ellis did."
The words hit Jenks like a punch in the gut. DelPrego had said what Jenks secretly already knew deep in his heart. Sherman Ellis had earned his way. Sherman Ellis had worked for it. Jenks had tried to sneak in the back door.
Jenks wiped at his eyes. "Fucking campfire. Too much smoke."
The fire's orange glow faded.
"What's your name?"
Jenks looked up. "W-w-what?" He was freezing.
"Your real name."
"Harold Jenks."
"Okay."
Jenks said, "I know it won't work, so don't worry about me. Shit, you should see how the professors look at me. They know something ain't right. I can't do it, so don't worry. I'm not stealing anything." He sniffed, wiped his nose on his sleeve. "Only class I'm keeping up in is the poetry workshop, and that's only because I'm as bad as everybody else."
DelPrego laughed sudden and hard, the tension draining. "Shit. Professor Morgan. What would he say?" More laughter.
Jenks laughed too, wiped his eyes again. When the laughter spent itself, he asked, "You still mad?"
DelPrego said, "Mostly I'm cold."
"Me too. Let's get the fuck out of here."
"Where?"
Jenks stood, stomped his feet. They felt like lead bricks. "Anyplace indoors."
DelPrego snapped his fingers. "I know, follow me. The back of the campus is only about a mile this way." He headed off into the underbrush.
Jenks followed, shoving his way through the branches. He was so cold he could barely move. They made their way slowly.
"Wayne?"
"Yeah?"
"Where's the gym bag?" Jenks hesitated to raise this question, but he had to know.
"I stashed it. Someplace safe."
"Where?"
"Someplace safe."
So that's how it is, thought Jenks. Okay. I won't press it for now.
They found an open window and climbed in. Jenks was so happy to be in the relative warmth of the classroom he didn't bother asking DelPrego why they'd broken into Albatross Hall. At least it was unlikely Red Zach would find them there.
"Come on." DelPrego led him out of the classroom and down the hall to the stairwell.
They climbed.
The fifth floor looked deserted. Dark.
"What are we doing here?" Jenks asked.
"Quiet." DelPrego froze, listened. "You hear that?"
Jenks listened too. "Music."
"Yeah."
"What is it?"
"Wagner," DelPrego said.
DelPrego walked faster, Jenks right behind him. They took a few turns and ended at a door. The music came from the other side. DelPrego twisted the knob, pushed the door open slowly.
DelPrego looked in. "Professor Valentine?"
The old man jerked his head around. "Wayne. Hello. A bit late to be out and about isn't it?"
Valentine was reading an enormous leather-bound Bible. He was stark naked except for a black beret with the words SEA WORLD, ORLANDO, stitched in yellow.
"I thought you were still away," DelPrego said.
"A long story." Valentine's eyes shifted from DelPrego to Jenks. "Who's your friend?"
DelPrego hesitated. "Sherman Ellis."
Jenks wondered about DelPrego. He hadn't told his real name. DelPrego wasn't going to rat him out. Not yet anyway.
Valentine leapt up, setting the Bible aside. He walked to Jenks, hand outstretched, his old-man genitalia swinging between his legs like a Ziploc bag of shriveled fruit.
"Good to meet you, Ellis."
Jenks shook his hand. Not eagerly. "You're naked."
"Yes."
"Could you not be, please?"
Valentine chuckled, crossed the room, grabbed a robe, put it on.
"I didn't know you'd be here," DelPrego said. "We were sort of looking for a place to hide out."
"How long do you want to stay?"
"Until the heat's off," DelPrego said.
"On the lam, eh? I understand," Valentine said. "But mum's the word. Nobody knows I'm here."
And that suited them just fine.
Part 3
twenty-five
Deke Stubbs knocked on Timothy Lancaster's door. He smelled like a six-pack of Busch. He swallowed a belch.
Lancaster opened the door a crack, eyed the detective. Lancaster looked a little annoyed and also worried. A nervous bookworm type, custom-made to cave under pressure. Stubbs liked it when they were worried. He could lean on them good and stiff and get them to talk. He hadn't had to do that with Annie Walsh's mousy roommate, but he wouldn't mind with this guy.
They stared at each other a long second.
Finally Lancaster said, "Yes?" The word slipped meekly through the crack in the door like an apology.
"Lancaster?"
Another long pause from the kid. "Yes."
"Can I ask you some questions?"
The pause was really long this time. "About what?"
"About Annie Walsh," Stubbs said. "And about drugs." Stubbs threw the part in about drugs at the last second. Sure. Shake the kid up. He looked nervous already, so why not push the envelope?
The kid paled. "Are you the police?"
"Drug Enforcement Administration." Stubbs flipped his wallet open and closed again at light-speed before shoving it back into his jacket. "I think you better let me in."
Lancaster stepped back, eyes steady on Stubbs.
Stubbs closed the door behind him, looked around the apartment. The kid had about a thousand books stacked along the walls. He read the title of one at eye level, "The Spanish Tragedy."
Lancaster didn't say anything.
"We had a Spanish tragedy ourselves a few months ago. Buncha wetbacks coming across near Juarez, and we knew some of them were mules, carting a wad of smack across the river. So we figured what the heck, shoot 'em all and let God sort 'em out." Stubbs mimed sighting a rifle. "We picked 'em off as they hit the American side. That's how we handle drug dealers in the DEA."
Lancaster looked like he was about to puke or faint.
"Listen, kid. I think you know why I'm here. I need you to talk and I need you to talk right now and real loud about what you know."
"About what?"
"Everything. All of it." This wasn't the approach Stubbs had in mind when he came to talk to Lancaster, but it was obvious the kid was right on the edge. If Stubbs could just nudge him over, he might spill his guts big-time. There was some shit going on here and it was all tangled together, drugs and Annie Walsh and this kid Lancaster. A lot of dumb shits thought detective work was all fingerprints and looking at cigar ash under a magnifying glass like Sherlock fucking Holmes. Bullshit. It was asking the right questions and squeezing out useful answers.
Lancaster started to shrug and talk and stammer all at the same time.
"Hey, take it easy," Stubbs said. "I'm here to save your ass if you cooperate. You got any beer?"
Lancaster raised an eyebrow. "Uh... I have a Grolsch in the refrigerator."
"And that's beer?"
Lancaster nodded.
"Bring it."
Lancaster went to the kitchen, came back with a big green bottle, and handed it to Stubbs. His hands shook.
Stubbs tried to open the bottle. But the cap wouldn't twist.
"Sorry," Lancaster said. He went to the kitchen again and came back with a church key. He popped open the beer for Stubbs.
Stubbs drank. "This some foreign shit?"
"From Denmark."
Stubbs took another slug. "Not bad."
"I haven't seen Annie Walsh in weeks," Lancaster said.
Good. The kid was ready to talk. The suspense was eating him alive.
"To hell with Walsh, kid," Stubbs said. "Talk to me about the drugs."
"I really don't know anything about that." Lancaster's voice was weaker than dishwater. He wouldn't meet Stubbs's eyes.
"Talk, kid."
"I-I don't know anything."
"Talk, you little shit. I'll put you in jail and you'll get butt-raped by a nigger the size of Mike Tyson."
"I don't know-"
"Talk!"
"Please, I-"
"You little prick." Stubbs shook the beer bottle at him. It foamed, dripped on the carpet. "I'll shove this bottle up your ass and break it off. You don't fuck with the Drug Enforcement Agency." He put his nose an inch from Lancaster's, yelled, beer spit flying.
Lancaster backed up, eyes wide. Terror.