Gun Church (7 page)

“Two, up by Mirror Lake. The mine executives need something to do when they’re not counting their money.”

“Good line, I’ll have to steal it.” Uh oh, he got that
aw-shucks-can-I-blow-you
look on his face again. I’d have to watch how I worked this kid. “But why golf as allegory?”

“Because I know you play,” he said. “You were captain of your high school golf team.”

“That’s right, I was, wasn’t I? I forgot about that. Forgetting is a skill you’re still too young to appreciate.”

He shrugged. “But you can see the analogy, right?”

“Sure.”

“When we reached the point where we were bored by how good we’d gotten at hitting targets, it dawned on me. I understood. It was like a revelation from the Bible. We were bored because, like with the golf clubs, we were hitting balls into a net. That’s not what handguns are for.”

“No, they’re for killing people.”

“Exactly!”

At that moment, the waitress delivered our food. “Fries with gravy for you,” she said, sliding the plate in front of Jim. “And a burger for you, Professor Weiler.”

She wasn’t as enthusiastic about serving me as she’d been only a few weeks ago. All fame is fleeting. The waitress’s once-pretty face had plumped up and frayed with time. She looked like she’d been squeezed into her polyester uniform by a blind sausage maker. Funny, she’d been working here since the day I arrived in Brixton, but I never really noticed her before. I mean, really noticed her.

“Do you know our waitress?” I asked Jim as she walked away.

“Irina? Sure. Everybody knows Irina. You must’ve seen her in here.”

“But what’s her deal?”

“She was Stan’s high school girlfriend. He knocked her up, made her get an abortion, and then he split for Penn State.”

“At least Stan is a consistent asshole, but how do you know about Irina and him? That had to be before you were born.”

“C’mon, Kip, I haven’t been much of anywhere, but I don’t think places get much smaller than Brixton. Everybody knows everybody else’s business ’round here.”

“Sounds like publishing.”

He laughed, but didn’t know why.

I realized that I had lived in Brixton for seven years and not only didn’t I know the lay of the land, I didn’t know the people. Sure, I knew about Stan Petrovic, but only because he wore his surliness like clown makeup. I didn’t know the place or the people because I hadn’t wanted to know. I held myself apart. I didn’t know anything about the women I slept with. It wasn’t like they didn’t try to tell me. Christ, Janice Nadir would’ve told me the pet names for her vagina had I shown the least bit of interest.

“You going to eat your burger?” Jim asked, stuffing a handful of gravy fries in his mouth. “You seem kinda distracted.”

I bit into the burger only to heave it right back up. The meat was cold and raw. When I looked up, I saw Stan Petrovic, his eyes twinkling, his crooked lips bent into a smug, self-congratulatory smile. I removed the top of the bun from the burger to confirm what my taste buds and gag reflex had already told me.

“What an asshole!” Jim jumped up like he’d done that day in class.

I grabbed his arm. “Sit down, Jim. This is my fight.”

As I walked up to Petrovic, I took notice of what a nasty package he really was. The bad knees, the alcohol and bitterness, the fried and fatty food had turned him into a pitiable-looking fat man; but I knew there was an angry, second team All-American linebacker still living inside his blubber suit. By the time I got close to him, he’d swapped his smile for a sneer. He was puffed up, the fingers on both his hands twitching in anticipation. The diner was silent except for the bubbling and hissing of oil in the fry-o-lator.

I’d done a little boxing in college—just enough to know that fights never went the way you expected and to know when I was going to get my ass kicked. Short of a miracle, I was about to get my ass kicked.

“Hey, hero, what you think you’re gonna do to me? I ain’t no college kid with a gun in his hand and there ain’t no SWAT team here to save your faggoty ass.”

“I guess I could kick you in the balls, but that would require you to have some.”

He snickered, but said nothing. His now clenching fists were going to do the rest of his talking, so I let mine get in the first word. I feinted with my left shoulder, but threw my right hand. Stan lifted his arms to protect his face as my trunk twisted to power the punch. Too bad for him I wasn’t going for his head. I caught him flush in the liver with the hook. I figured the liver was as good a target as any. Given his intake of vodka and deep fried food, it must’ve been foie gras central.

That bent him over and the rush of air that went out of him was pretty impressive. But instead of following up, I did what I always do: I spent too much time playing to the crowd. Stan, still bent over, charged me, his left shoulder burying itself in my ribs. I tried keeping my feet, but it was no good. I was going down. My left hand spun off a counter stool and that was my last moment of verticality.

Petrovic was on me, pulling at my legs trying to get me out from between the stools. But I’d hitched my arms around the stool poles on either side of me to anchor myself and I kicked out my legs. My left heel connected with something hard. His jaw, I hoped. Whatever it was just pissed him off. He gave up on my legs and brought his right forearm down across my diaphragm and abdomen. Something big and spongy, my left lung probably, caught in my throat and I gasped for air. Suddenly that first punch I threw didn’t seem like such a brilliant move. I tried turning on my side and curled into a ball like a hedgehog, but I lacked protective quills. Petrovic kicked me in the back, but it didn’t land with much force as his foot deflected off one of the poles.

The front door opened; the string of sleigh bells tied to the handle clanged against the glass. I felt a gush of cool, fresh air and I saw a pair of polished black boots walking my way. Christmas coming early. Maybe Santa was bringing me a shotgun.

“That’s enough, Stan!” Black Boots barked. Petrovic disagreed, stomping instead of kicking me. This time his shoe didn’t deflect off anything but my ribs. Good thing I already couldn’t breathe or it might’ve really hurt.

“Enough!”

I recognized the voice. It was the deputy sheriff who’d been at the Air Force base three nights ago. I guess he was taking a break from high school skirt patrol. Still, I was wary enough of Stan to brace myself against another stomp. It never came. Arms were pulling me up and I was standing—well, sort of standing—between Deputy Dog and Jim Trimble. I managed some shallow breaths.

“You all right, Professor Weiler?” the deputy wanted to know.

Do I look all right, you yokel motherfucker?
“Fine. I’m fine.” I straightened myself out and noticed Petrovic about ten feet away over by the front door. He was snarling. I can’t say that I’d ever actually seen a human snarling before. “Somebody get Stan a bone or some Liv-A-Snaps or something before he goes batshit.”

“Fuck you, asshole. This isn’t over.”

“Shut up, Stan,” the deputy said. “And, Professor, I think we could use a little less of your lip at the current moment. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Now what the hell was goin’ on here?”

“Nothing,” I said.

“Stan?”

“Nothing.”

“So, that’s the way it’s gonna be, huh?” the deputy said, shaking his head. “Have it your way, boys, but next time I’ll haul both your asses in. Professor, why don’t you take this opportunity to depart?” It wasn’t a suggestion.

Jim made sure to keep himself between Petrovic and me as I walked out.

“Remember, hero, this ain’t over,” Stan said as we passed.

I caught a glimpse of Jim’s face. He wanted me to say something. I could see it in his eyes and for some reason it was suddenly important for me not to disappoint the kid.

“Yeah, you’re right, Stan. It isn’t over. You started it, but I’ll finish it. Next time it won’t be me they’re peeling off the floor. Remember that.”

Out on the street, I took a few deep lungfuls of Brixton’s best. Jim was holding on to my elbow, walking me away from the diner.

“That was great in there, Kip,” he said.

“The part where I curled up in a ball like an insect?”

“The first punch. Do you know how many people in this town would like to pop Stan Petrovic one? You actually did it.”

“Yeah, Jim, but you heard him in there. He’s going to kick my ass sooner or later.”

“Or, like you said, maybe you’ll kick his.”

“That was just my anger talking.”

“No way,” he gushed. “Are you on campus tomorrow?”

“Freshman Comp at nine fifteen,” I said.

“Meet me by the student union after class.”

“Why?”

“So we can go hit some balls.”

My writing didn’t suck. I couldn’t believe it, but it really didn’t suck. I read and reread and re-reread the pages I put down in between the long bouts in bed with the St. Pauli Girl. It didn’t suck because what I was reading wasn’t recognizable as the Kipster’s, and that was all to the good. The Kipster was dead, not risen, and I was all that remained in his place.

The Kipster was a cynical bastard, full of high sentence, but never obtuse: a poet, a prince looking down upon the great unwashed with only contempt. He was above it all, untouchable and untouched. He was master of his instrument, so much so that it was all an inside joke to him. I didn’t recognize the writing because it came from a very different place than from where the Kipster’s art had come. It all came too easily for the Kipster, which is why he foundered when the words stopped coming to him on the cusp of the ’90s. I had nothing to hold on to but the empty shell of the Kipster. His old protagonists were whimsies and straw men, put up like bowling pins only to be knocked down. They were sacrifices meant as meat for elitist snobs. His protagonists were soulless, ironic follies to be run up the flagpole like a fat girl’s underthings.

Other than a complete loss of talent, one of the reasons I’d managed but seven first lines in all these years was the very nature of the man I thought of as McGuinn. He was a real man, not a construct. There was nothing about his bloody and violent life that even remotely resembled Kant Huxley’s or any of the other cool-boy protagonists that had flowed from the Kipster’s fingertips. The other things that had daunted me for so long were setting and form.

I wasn’t a biographer, not in temperament or by training, but what McGuinn had given me was basically the details for the biography of a murderer. The killings—their mechanics, the reasons and rationalizations behind them, the stories of the victims—as fascinating as some readers might have found those things, weren’t what interested me. Nor, do I think, were they what motivated McGuinn. It was his emotional journey and evolution from teenage murderer to soldier to assassin to target that got my attention. Besides, I’d spent all of two months in Ireland and the North. I didn’t know the place or the people, and I certainly had only a superficial understanding of the conflict. I’d been a glorified tourist, nothing more. A mostly drunk one at that. Even if I’d been up to the writing, I didn’t understand the context.

Just because I lost my talent for writing didn’t mean I’d lost my instinct for good work and a good story. I still had an eye and ear for fine ingredients even if I had lost the recipe. And McGuinn’s life had all the best ingredients. Whenever I imagined the book, I imagined it as fiction with Terry McGuinn in an alien setting. What could I have added to something set on the streets of Belfast? Nothing. If I wanted to give meaning to this man’s journey, he needed to be a stranger in a strange land. But until the St. Pauli Girl brought me to that old hangar and anointed me with gunpowder, I had no idea of where that strange land would be. It was those shots—the sight of Jim Trimble’s still body and the fat kid rolling around, the church pews, the spray of beer, the landscape of Jim’s scars—that had, after so long, helped me to arrive at a destination.

What a perfect concept, I thought. An assassin being hunted by his enemies and his brothers alike ends up hiding in an unremarkable place in the center of nowhere. Yet even in this netherworld, he cannot escape the blood. The contrast was delicious, because the violence McGuinn finds isn’t born of passion or religious hatred, but of boredom and sport. A man who was certain he understood violence and blood as well as any who had ever lived is thrust into a world he can’t fathom. Now that was something I understood, being exiled in a world that defied my comprehension.

It was a place to start, but I wouldn’t be satisfied to simply use what little I had seen at Hardentine Air Force Base, nor did I want to confine my characters in a concrete bunker. No, the fictionalized McGuinn needed to operate against the backdrop of the real world, even if it was a withered and tiny speck of the world. He was too large a character to stick in a box somewhere and duel like a gentleman. Red crosses on dirty T-shirts might have been dramatic enough for the boys and girls from Brixton, but they would not suffice for a killer like McGuinn. In my novel, there would be blood, lots of blood, and very little of it spilled for a good cause. First things first. I had to get McGuinn involved with the wrong people. No better way to do that, I thought, than with the noir conceit of a beautiful woman.