The Poet With a Terrible Wish
By Claude Hall
The poet wore his usual frown today. He always wore a deep, dark frown and
belonged more in a film noir tale starring Humphrey Bogart paired against Richard
Widmark. But, no, he was merely a towering poet six-foot-four inches tall with
tangy red hair and the grimace of a frog found one chilly dawn under a flight of
stairs at the University of Nevada, Las Vegas. Though he taught freshman English
at the university, he considered himself the world’s second great assassin …
secretly, of course … and this was only because his father, a trade journalist on a
music magazine, had been the best in the field and he wasn’t all that much like his
father. He only used an ice pick. Ice picks were difficult to obtain these days, but
he had a collection spanning many years and many countries, even obscure
haunts such as the island of Malta and the backwoods of Virginia. The ice pick
from Virginia was handmade, of course, and the knob that was the handle featured
a silver inlay which bespoke of whiskey. The pick itself was of stainless steel,
medical quality, and he had learned how to throw it over his left shoulder into a
target five yards away and just a foot wide.
The poet had thought about becoming a disc jockey at a radio station in Las
Vegas, but his grandmother wanted him to be a poet and one does not deny salty
grandmothers who, for some weird reason, also collected ice picks.
His passion paid well. Mostly because he was quite thorough at his work.
His poems may have occasionally lacked a certain zeal, but not his work with an
ice pick. He seldom took an assignment that garnered less than twenty-five
thousand in cash. And expenses came upfront. That’s the reason he was able to
afford a Buick convertible and a very pretty lady to sit in the passenger’s seat
except when he was on assignment. She taught history and was quite glamorous
perhaps because of this she only collected demitasse teacups from India.
Because these were quite beautiful and very expensive, she had never thrown one
at him even when he read his poetry to her.
Currently, he was on assignment in San Antonio along the riverwalk. It was a
pleasant evening. He’d taken one of the tourist barges, leaving behind him at the
end of the ride three Mexicans on one of the benches. They appeared to have had
too much to drink. One of them had spilled a can of Tecate beer when he died.
The boatman was just preparing to ask the three “intoxicated” men to leave
the barge.
The poet quickly took a flight of steps up to one of the bridges that crossed
the riverwalk. As he paused on the street just long enough to look back, he noticed
the boatman trying to wake up one of the Mexicans. In another moment, the
boatman would be shouting for the police. There was always a policeman not too
far away along the riverwalk. It was a very popular tourist attraction. People
everywhere talking and laughing. No one had noticed the poet slapping one of the
Mexicans cheerfully on the back. The poet had been sitting directly behind the
three men. The first victim, the short man with long sideburns sitting in the middle,
had been killed first. An autopsy, if there was one, would discover that a very
sharp, round instrument had penetrated his right ear into his brain, causing
immediate death. The newspaper in the morning would identify him as a local
drug lord and the men on either side his guards. They had just recently met some
other men in a nearby hotel and were en route back to their car. The newspaper,
however, more than likely wouldn’t mention about the meeting.
This was summer and the poet wasn’t teaching this semester; he was
supposedly on a trip to Italy to collect impressions about Rome for a little pamphlet
of poetry that he intended to write.
He noticed the man following him as he crossed the street to dart into the
garage where he’d parked his rental car. Strange. The poet was always careful.
He had not seen the man, a dumpy little figure of a human being, before. The
stranger had appeared out of nowhere.
As he opened the door of his rented Chevrolet, he made sure that the
stranger was actually following him in his rearview mirror. No doubt about it. He
was especially sure when the stranger walked quickly forward and tapped on his
car window.
His heart pumping rapidly, the poet pressed the button to lower the window.
“I saw you back on the boat,” said the stranger. “I was up on the bridge over
the river.”
He appeared to be even more nervous than the poet.
“I don’t understand,” said the poet.
“I saw you kill those two men. You missed on the third guy. But don’t worry. I
took care of him with my gun. He’s dead for sure now. I’m quite accurate.”
He raised a small .22 caliber pistol into view, then quickly tucked it under his
belt beneath his light jacket.
“You’re mistaken, of course,” said the poet. “I didn't kill anyone.”
“I figured you’d say something like that so I put it all on this smart phone.
Smart of me, huh? But not to worry, good fellow. You make a deal with me and
you can have this little movie of a murder.”
The poet frowned. Or he laughed. It was difficult to tell because he was
silent and academic about it.
“I don’t know what you’re trying to pull off, but I didn't kill anyone.”
“Of course not. Anyway, you deserve a medal in my book. Those three
characters were not – in any way, shape, or form – what I’d call respectable
citizens of dear old San Antone. Nor anywhere else, for that matter. However,
you’ve no choice but to make a deal with me.”
“A deal with you?” pondered the poet.
“Yes. Please understand that I’m just a novice in this particular craft or
whatever you wish to call it. I really would like to talk to you about being, well, your
assistant or something and I’m willing to get into your car and we could go
somewhere for coffee or a beer … as long as you promise not to use that murder
weapon on me. What was it? A stiletto? I really couldn’t tell.”
The poet … for one of the few times in his life … was speechless. He was
not about to admit anything to this stranger. And he also felt the need to get away
from this area before attracting too much attention.
“Look, I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”
“Shall I scream for the cops? They’re everywhere in this city because of the
tourists. I could get a cop here in just a minute or two. I’ve already noted your
license plate and I could give them a pretty good description of you and everything.”
The poet gave the situation serious thought.
“I suppose you’d better get inside the car,” the poet said after a moment.
The stranger flashed his gun.
“First, place that stiletto on the dashboard. Then I’ll walk around to the other
side of the car and get in.”
The poet, with considerable floundering and hesitating, finally did as he was
bid. He placed his ice pick on the dashboard.
“Wow,” exclaimed the stranger as he slid into the car seat and examined the
ice pick.
“As I said, I don’t carry a gun or knife.”
“No need to frown like that,” said the stranger. “To my way of thinking, you’ve
done the city a favor. Those three creeps deserved to get gone. Big time. All I’m
really asking is for you to have a beer with me. You see, I need to learn about the
business. I’m very vacant about that sort of thing. I’ve got a good pistol. The kind
of .22 caliber pistol I understand the big guys use, the Mafia. The tools of the
trade, so to speak. Nothing else. What kind of gun do you think is best, if I may
ask?”
The stranger didn’t believe him when the poet said he didn’t own nor carry a
gun. Nor even know where to get a beer because he was from out of town.
“Turn left once we get on the street. There’s a Mexican cantina about two
miles away. I think I could use a shot of Jose Cuervo Gold. With salt and lime, of
course.’
“I’m afraid that I don’t drink,” the poet said.
The stranger coughed.
“I hope I don’t have to give up the booze to get into the business,” the
stranger said. “And all disc jockeys smoke a great deal.”
They parked outside Papa El Gallo and went inside. It was cool and fairly
dark and full of the delicious aroma of refrito frijoles.
The poet ordered coffee.
“I must admit to some confusion,” the poet said. “First, why would you wish
to go around killing people? Have you thought about visiting a psychiatrist?”
The stranger laughed.
“No. I’m not nuts. And, quite frankly, I enjoy being a disc jockey. And I think
I’m good at it. I do a little news now and then. That’s how I know so much about
those drug lords we just killed. But I’ve been in this radio business four years now
and, well, the earnings are not all what you dream about. Not in this city. And I
hear tales about jobs in Dallas and Houston. Even Los Angeles. There aren’t any
of us making enough to buy a new car or pay down on a house even if we could
find some bank to give us a mortgage. Oh, I suppose a few guys who’re into payola
are doing a bit better. But the salaries aren’t anything to brag about, believe me. I
heard about a disc jockey’s body being discovered in a trash dumpster over in
Nashville the other day … Roger Scutt, known on the air as Captain Midnight …
and, hey, I don’t want something like that to happen with me.”
“You have no other skills, I presume?”
“Nothing to brag about,” said the stranger. Then, suddenly, he held a hand
across the table in the booth. “They call me Sundown Slim on the radio. I’d rather
not tell you my real name. Just yet, that is. Maybe later.”
“Okay, so we now have a raison d’etre … a reason why you’d like to earn
money. A great deal more money. What makes you think another methodology
might not be a better for solution for you? Such as television repair.”
“Oh, I’ve given this some research, believe me. Thought about this thing
quite a bit. Whatever I get into – you know, line of business – it has to also be
somewhat interesting and, from what I noticed this afternoon assignation may be
just the career. Well, sort of a side career, perhaps, because I believe I could keep
my day job. You have another career, I guess.”
“Assuming that I’m also an assassin,” the poet said.
“Right. But, quite frankly, it will not do you much good to deny you didn’t kill
those gents. They needed killing, you know. Knife or gun. Or whatever.”
“Would it do much good to insist that I don’t carry a gun or knife?”
“Really?”
“Really. And the use of only an ice pick does heighten the risk a great deal, I
assure you.” The poet sipped at his coffee. Checked his pulse. His heartbeat had
slowed more or less back to normal. He felt quite relaxed. He always did after a
mission. As if he’d achieved something. He didn’t know why. Not much had
actually been achieved. The three men on the tourist barge needed killing, as this
disc jockey had pointed out.
The disc jockey squirmed in his seat uncomfortably.
“You aren’t going to tell me your name?:
“No.”
“Look, you’ve got to help me out on this. True, I don’t need your name. But I
desperately need some information. For instance, you do have another job? A real
career?”
“Yes. I’m willing to tell you that. Although, I’m not willing to confess to
anyone that I’m a killer.”
“Okay. Fine. I’ll buy that.”
The disc jockey suddenly slammed his palm on the table. Some of the poet’s
coffee splattered onto the surface of the table. He waited patiently while a waitress
came by to wipe up the spilled coffee.
“Have you been seeing a doctor?” asked the poet.
“No. Definitely not,” said the disc jockey. “And, look, I’m willing to pay for my
education. Say, fifty percent of my earnings from the new career for the first year
or so. Meanwhile, and I’m not kidding, us disc jockeys do not necessarily make a
great deal of money. But I’m willing to put ten dollars a week into any back account
you give me. If I miss a week … because work in radio is not always regular or
secure … I’ll catch up as soon as I get a new job. And if I goof up and get arrested,
we’ll call the education null and void. Deal over. You really haven’t much to lose
by this deal.”
The poet grinned at himself. This disc jockey was quite beguiling. He
appeared sincere. Would he be willing to accept only “pubic good” assignments?
“I appear to have a great deal to lose, my disc jockey friend … but let’s not
discuss all of that. How do you propose to, shall we say, take basic training? How
do I go about teaching you? I confess to being a teacher, but teaching something
like this? Need I offer up a gentle wow or I’ll be danged and double danged?”
The disc jockey’s eyes brightened. He appeared to be very pleased.
“So you’ll do it?”
“Frankly, I’m not sure yet. Mind you, if I were actually an assassin, I’d still
need some thinking time on some project such as this. It, frankly, is sort of
mindblowing.”
“I’ll agree with you one hundred percent on that,” said Sundown Slim. “And
I’ll be honest with you. I don’t think I could go around killing women and children or
anything like that … just people, maybe, who really needed bumping off.”
“Sounds kosher to me. However, I’d rather think that you’d merely wish to
improve in your own trade. Get getter as a disc jockey. They would pay you more.”
“I wish it worked that way. And, true, sometimes I’ll bump into guys that have
a natural talent for radio. Actually, I think I’m pretty good. Just not good enough.
You know what I mean?”
The poet sighed.
“That seems to be true in my chosen field as well,” said the poet. “I’m a poet.
And you don’t meet a hell of a lot of them who’re well off financially.”
“No bestsellers lately, huh?”
“You’re kidding, of course,” said the poet. “To be honest, I’ve only had one or
two poems published. In one of the academic quarterlies. Nothing to brag about.”
Slim shook his head. “It’s a tough world out there.”
“Assassinating people isn’t exactly easy either,” the poet said. He didn’t know
why he said it. Here he was, admitting everything to a guy who might actually be
an undercover cop. It was easy to talk to the disc jockey. Was this, perhaps, one
of the especial skills of the job?
“Hey, somebody’s gotta do it,” said the disc jockey. “Police have been after
that head guy you just bumped off for at least three years.
“Let me see your gun,” he said, wondering if the disc jockey was actually
dumb enough to hand him his weapon.
He was. It was a snub-nosed special make small bore pistol that held nine
bullets in the handle.
“Neat,” he said. He handed the gun back to the disc jockey.
“Guy near Ballinger, Texas, makes these … if you ever decided to diversify
your business.
“No thanks,” the poet said. “I’m an elitist. Frankly, I don’t take a lot of jobs.”
“Probably not a lot for ice pick jobs out there. To tell the truth, I sort of admire
you for even getting near those guys. El Casa Grande, well, that hombre was
known for at least six killings. Gang killings, you understand although I think at
least one of his victims was collateral damage, so to speak. Some kid.”
“Correct,” said the poet.
“Oh, you know about that one?”
“That was El Casa Grande’s downfall, I believe.”
“I can put two and two together,” Slim said. “Your client, huh?”
“His only son. Paid fairly well,” admitted the poet.
“The newspaper ad,” said Slim. “I saw it in a local tabloid thee or four weeks
ago. The ad didn’t say anything outright, you understand, but I sort of got the
meaning.”
“I never saw the newspaper ad. My contact was through the social media, as
they call it. A blind notice on the Internet. After much correspondence, to a box
number, of course, I finally received twenty-five thousand in the mail.”
“Whew! All that and no taxes.”
“I pay taxes,” the poet said. “Just in case. Through my poetry.”
“Good sideline.”
“Well, I’ve always hoped that it would lead to more than just a sideline.”
“Of course,” said Slim. He snapped his fingers as if having a sudden idea.
“Say, would you be interested in seeing what a disc jockey is all about?”
The poet sat there stunned a moment. He’d never been in a radio station.
He was overwhelmed by the offer.
“Yes. Yes, I would.”
“Tomorrow? Shortly before noon?”
“I would like that very much.”
Slim gave the poet instructions on how to reach the radio station. The poet
didn’t expect to go on the air, but Slim introduced him as Bart Jones out of El Paso,
Texas, a tourist who’d been a witness to “the drug-related killing yesterday along
the riverwalk.”
“Not really,” the poet said. “I’m afraid that it had already happened by the
time I got there. Police were everywhere. May I compliment the San Antonio
police force on their work? I don’t think too many people were crying about the
killings, though.”
“I heard someone say it was poetic justice,” said Sundown Slim.
“That sounds very apt to me,” said the poet.
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