The guy was walking fast, not really looking around. Duncan could follow no problem. The guy beelined for a building, and Duncan stopped to read the sign. Albatross Hall.

Maybe this was it. He’d go in, find Jenks, put the grab on the coke, then fill these shits with lead and head to Mexico. It was a perfect fucking plan. He touched the butts of his two pistols through the coat’s heavy material. Okay. He was ready.

Moses Duncan entered Albatross Hall, followed Wayne DelPrego to the stairway that led up to the building’s dead floors.

DelPrego trudged the steps up to the fifth floor. There was no anger left in him, no pity or sorrow, no grief. His capacity to feel anything at all had burned away in the fire of his rage. He was hollow and exhausted and each step was a test.

He found Valentine’s office, pushed his way in without knocking. An old man was there, a giant behind him. Jenks sprang from the couch.

“Where the fuck you been, boy? Where’s the bag?”

DelPrego said, “I flushed it. I flushed it all. It’s gone.”

“Are you crazy?” Jenks blinked. “What am I supposed to tell Red Zach now, motherfucker?”

“Tim’s dead.”

“What?”

DelPrego stumbled past Jenks. “Somebody got to him.” He fell on the couch, waited for Jenks to start yelling. DelPrego didn’t care. His eyelids were so very heavy. He felt the long blackness pulling him down. He only wanted to sleep.

forty-one

Morgan sneaked out of his office and drove home. He grabbed the mail on the way in. His house was cold, and he turned on the heat.

His life had somehow spun out of control. Maybe it would be okay. Possibly Dean Whittaker would not fire him on the spot when Sherman Ellis failed to materialize at the reading. Perhaps Ginny Conrad would not be scarred for life. Ginny.

Morgan was hungry.

The kitchen was not a happy place. Cupboards bare. The refrigerator wasn’t much better. Some butter. Two eggs left in the door. He took them out, shook them next to his ear. Morgan couldn’t remember how long he’d had the eggs. They looked fine on the outside, white and smooth. But he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been to the market. It was possible the eggs had been there when he’d moved in.

This was ridiculous. Now he was afraid of eggs.

He popped open a beer and looked at his mail. A letter from Kenyon College.

Morgan had applied for a Visiting Poet position at Kenyon. He read the letter. Although they found his credentials impressive, Morgan should go stick his head up his own ass and die. Other pieces of mail wanted to sell him life insurance, pizza, and seeds.

He drank the beer.

Tired.

He went into his bedroom, kicked off his shoes, and fell on the bed. He could not immediately fall asleep. He kept thinking there was something he should be doing. His head spun with loose ends. But he couldn’t tie up any of them. Nothing was in his power anymore.

He slept and dreamed he was at the poetry reading. He had to introduce the poets to the capacity crowd, but he was naked. This was when he realized he was dreaming, naked in front of people. Even his subconscious had run out of ideas. He laughed, started stroking himself in front of the audience. Stroking and stroking and not getting anywhere at all.

When Morgan awoke it was dark. Panic jerked him out of bed. He thought he’d overslept, that the poetry reading had started. But it was only six o’clock. He checked the window. The sky looked serious about ruining everyone’s plans.

He flipped on the TV news. The meteorologist’s plastic smile beamed at him. The cold front, said the weatherman, had shifted somewhat, and Green County was going to get a bit more snow than expected. However, the heavy stuff was going to pass north.

Morgan showered. He stood under the hot water a long time, trying to compose a poem in his head. He was still thinking about the eggs, about fear of the unknown, but it came out adolescent and silly. Then he tried a poem about dreaming and nudity, but that didn’t go anywhere either. The hot water started turning cold, but Morgan stood there pretending it wasn’t. At last, he couldn’t kid himself anymore. He turned off the water, dried himself.

He looked in his closet. How did one dress for a doomed poetry reading? The blue suit was too formal. A shot of Jim Beam helped him decide. Tan slacks and his brown tweed jacket with a black turtleneck. Now he looked his most professorial. Another shot of booze. He could feel it on his breath when he exhaled.

It was still a little early to meet Ginny, but he didn’t want to hang around. He took his long coat and went to the car. It was cold, and he almost went back for his gloves and a hat. To hell with it.

He unlocked his car door, felt a wet pinprick of cold on the back of his hand. He looked up. One or two flakes, then another. It was light but steady, swirling in the wind like ash.

Morgan parked on the street across from the administration building. There was a dark tavern across from campus that catered to professors. The drinks were just expensive enough to discourage students.

The snow was coming heavier. A few light flakes my ass.

He went in, took a table in the corner. Morgan no longer cared if anyone saw him with a student.

Morgan ordered three vodka martinis. “Keep them coming.” He looked at his watch. The poetry reading started in twenty minutes. He was screwed.

Ginny walked in. Morgan saw her and waved her over. He looked her over. The bruises around her eyes were already fading. A scab on her bottom lip.

She sat. “I have something important to tell you.”

“You found Ellis!”

“Huh? Oh no, I made a few phone calls, but nobody’s seen him,” Ginny said. “Don’t worry. He’ll turn up.”

Godamnsonofamotherfuckingbitchshit-

“I want to talk about us.”

Morgan blinked.

Ginny said, “I don’t think we should see each other anymore.”

“Jesus.”

“I don’t want you to take it hard,” she said. “But don’t worry about me. I’m a strong person. I’ve always been strong.”

“Sure.” Morgan wished it were true, but he didn’t think Ginny strong. He didn’t think himself strong. Nobody he knew was strong. Maybe people weren’t strong anymore. In the 1950s maybe folks were strong. Eisenhower.

The next martini arrived. Morgan took half in one gulp. He waved at the waiter and pointed at his glass, a gesture meant to indicate you’re too goddamned slow.

“It’s just that this thing has run its course,” Ginny said. “We both knew it couldn’t work. We’re from different worlds.”

Morgan realized he was hearing a prepared speech. He decided to ride it out.

“I just don’t think we should be… involved.”

“I understand.” Morgan finished his drink just as the third martini arrived.

“But I want us to be friends,” Ginny said.

Morgan was a little slow remembering his lines but finally said, “I want that too.”

She stood, dramatic, jaw set. Morgan could almost hear the music swelling. Ginny looked like a chubby Scarlett O’Hara. “Farewell, Professor Morgan.”

Morgan flipped her a wave. “So long.”

“Well, you could at least act a little upset.”

Morgan rolled his eyes. “I’m in a shitstorm here. I don’t have time for this.”

“Fine.” She began to stomp out of the tavern.

“Ginny,” he called after her. When she turned around, Morgan cleared his throat, and said, “I’m sorry about that guy. Sorry you got hurt.”

Her features softened. She nodded once and left.

Morgan tossed his drink down and took the empty glass to the bar. He took a stool next to an elegantly dressed black man and ordered another drink from the bartender.

Morgan turned to the black man. “Some snow, huh?” A little random small talk would get him back on track.