Gun Church Read Free Page A

slits. “
You
tell me, since you seem to know so much.”
    This was not progress. In the span of a few seconds I’d changed the dynamic from common ground into a pissing contest.
    “That’s a trick question, Mr. Vuchovich,” I said, inching slowly closer. “I’d have to see the serial number.”
    The smile turned malevolent, detached—a smile as disconnected from joy as a legless man’s collection of spare shoes. His finger was back on the trigger. “You think you’re pretty clever, don’t you?”
    Clever! I hated the word. Clever is what my father used to call me. I wasn’t smart or bright or talented. I was clever. Drunk as he was most of the time, I suppose I should have been pleased he noticed I was alive.
    I found that I was no longer inching toward Vuchovich, but taking full strides. The room got deadly silent.
    “Hold the gun out into the light again!” I barked at the kid.
    He complied, extending his arm and lifting the Colt so that it was once again captured by the sun. I was now no more than a few feet away and on a very, very lonely island.
    The scene in
Flashing Pandora
, as originally conceived, had Harper Marx angrily waving the gun at Kant and Pandora. Kant, as always, would act like he had everything under control, which—having paid Marx off to load the burly gun with blanks—Kant would assume he had. Already rendered impotent, literally and figuratively, by his financial ruination and impending trial, Marx had different plans. There would be no blanks in this gun. He meant to kill Pandora, the only possession in Kant’s life that was more to him than just another proper noun. I needed a way for Kant Huxley to prevent Harper Marx from taking a shot at him after shooting Pandora.
    “That’s easy, Kipster,” Bart said. “Have Kant grab the cylinder and hold it tight against the gun frame.”
    “Grab the cylinder? That’s fucking crazy!”
    “Here, try it. There’s not a person alive who can exert enough trigger pressure to make the cylinder spin if it’s being held properly. Pull the hammer back and then when I grab the cylinder, try to pull the trigger. Ready?”
    …
Kant’s ears were still ringing from the shot. Harper Marx’s eyes were as loving as a shark’s, black and cold as the sea at night. He turned and saw Pandora slumped against the soot-stained Bowery brick, her blood turning pink in the rain
.
    “Too bad it’s raining, Huxley, old chum,” Marx snickered. “You’ll never hail a cab in this weather. Let me save you the trouble.”
    Kant grabbed the gun
.
    Bart grabbed the gun.
    I grabbed the gun.
    It dawned on me, perhaps a little too late, that this was hand to weapon and not words on the page. I peeked over my shoulder to see my students frozen in place, still huddled in the opposite corner.
    “Run! Get the fuck out of here!”
    Now there was a mad rush, the pressure that had built up in the room over the last several hours exploding out the door in a single panicked burst. It all happened so fast that I half expected the chairs and textbooks to be sucked out the door in the wash. I felt myself smile, thinking about the St. Pauli Girl being proud of Grandpa.
    Outside the door someone was screaming, “Go! Go! Go! Go!”
    Vuchovich, who like the rest of the class had seemed momentarily stunned by my newly grown balls, had scrambled to his feet and was tugging on the gun. I clamped my other hand on the gun and leaned back for leverage. Vuchovich lost his balance. As he pitched forward, I stumbled backward, reflexively throwing out my arms to cushion the fall. On the way down I had the following thoughts:
    Fuck!
    I hope I don’t fall on my wallet
.
    I wonder where Amy is right now?
    It’s amazing what you think about sometimes.
    The ironic thing about the “Passion Play” chapter in
Flashing Pandora
was that I never used it. Moira Blanco hated it.
    “It’s too facile, too off the shelf, Kipling.” That’s what she used to call me. “You want to take Pandora