Beyond the Chocolate War (15 page)

The heat vanished.

With a final thunderstorm, more violent than earlier storms. Trees fell, power lines snapped, a small bridge over the Moosock River collapsed, sweeping a seventy-two-year-old man to his doom. Darkness enveloped Monument, broken only by occasional lightning splits.

Toward morning thunder echoed wearily in the distance and lightning scrawled feint flashes near the horizon. Bird cries greeted the dawn, and dawn itself brought the sun and fresh breezes. The breezes leaped from tree to tree, through the streets and avenues of the town. Early risers stretched magnificently, filling their lungs with the clean, bracing air of morning.

At seven thirty Obie left for school, his cold miraculously gone with the heat and the thunder and lightning. Maybe it had been an allergy, after all. He drove through the streets with purpose and determination, knuckles pale as he grasped the steering wheel, impatient with traffic lights. He drove with hope in his heart. Hope and hate. The hate, he knew, was his only means of surviving.

That, and Fair Day.

Some people called it Fool Day.

This year he would make it Fear Day for Archie Costello.

A
fternoon: classes over for the day. Air sizzling with a thousand scents and colors, sun dazzling on car roofs, setting Trinity windows aflame, but the heat of the sun benevolent now, the sun of springtime.

The Trinity campus leaped with activity—baseball players jogging to the athletic field, volleyballers lunging in the air, students in the assembly hall rehearsing the sketches for Skit Night.

Obie searched for Archie in the halls and classrooms, on the steps, in the parking lot. He finally found him in the stands at the athletic field, languidly watching the action below.

The hardest thing of all: approaching him.

"Hi, Archie."

The long slow look from Archie, the slight lifting of eyebrows but quick to hide surprise, proud of his ability to remain always cool. Ah, Obie knew him like a book, like he knew himself.

"Obie." The name hung in the air, noncommittal. Not welcoming, not rejecting. Letting Obie make the move.

"How's things?" Obie asked, trying to keep his voice normal.

"In control."

Down on the field the baseball practice went on. Players throwing the ball, hitting the ball, scooping up the ball. All that activity centered on a small round object. Obie thought of that other small round object, the black marble.

"How's things with you?" Archie asked.

Obie felt as if he were poised on the edge of a chasm, a thousand feet above sea level. Tensing his stomach, he leaped.

"Not so good. But I'll recover." Not wanting to say too much, letting Archie draw the information from him.

"Recover from what?"

Another leap:

"That girl. Laurie Gundarson." Despite his determination, her name on his lips almost brought tears to his eyes. "We broke up."

And then, astonishingly—but Archie was always astonishing—Archie turned to him, eyes melting with compassion, face twisted in an attitude of commiseration, understanding. As if Obie's pain was his own pain, Obie's loss taken upon himself like a cross.

"Tough," Archie said. But the single solitary word was imbued with such emotion that Obie felt Archie Costello was truly his only friend in the world, the only person who could understand his misery and loss. He had to forcibly remind himself that Archie was the architect of his defeat with Laurie.

He was surprised to find Archie reaching out, touching his shoulder. Archie, who never touched another guy, who always held himself isolated.

"Welcome back," Archie said.

Obie did not move. The leap was over. He had plunged into the deep, not knowing if he would sink or swim. He had come to the surface. The scheme was launched.

Down on the field, a throaty voice called:
C'mon, Croteau!
Joined by other voices:
Get the lead out, Croteau. Hey, Croteau, you dumb or what?

"Poor Croteau," Archie said. "Whoever he is."

Archie seemed to be having one of his compassionate days. Obie wondered: Should he press his luck? Why not?

"Fair Day," he said, as casually as possible.

"What did you say?"

"Fool Day."

"I thought you said Fair Day."

"I did."

They laughed, sharing the joke, the old play on words. Maybe he's actually glad I'm back in the fold, Obie thought. Which encouraged him to go on.

"It's coming up soon."

"Got to go easy on Fair Day," Archie said. "All those fathers and mothers and little kids." A touch of W.C. Fields in his voice.

"I know. But we have the Fool."

"True. Any candidates?"

"I'll check the notebook."

Archie looked down at the field. "Croteau," he said. "He'll make a great Fool. Sign him up, Obie."

Poor Croteau. So much for Archie's compassion. Then Obie tensed himself again. Big moment coming up. Walking the tightrope, with the drop far below.

"How about Skit Night?"

"What
about
Shit Night?" Archie parried.

"Remember that lad, Ray Bannister?"

"The new one?"

"Right. He's a magician, Archie. Does all those magic tricks."

Archie said nothing, eyes on the field, waiting.

"He does tricks with cards and balls. Stuff like that." Paused, hoped Archie didn't notice him taking a deep breath. "He also has a trick he does with the guillotine—"

"The guillotine?" A question in Archie's voice, and a flash in his eyes.
Guillotine
was a deadly word, an Archie Costello kind of word.

"Right. The guillotine. This kid, Ray Bannister, has built an honest-to-God guillotine. A trick, of course. But it seems too good to pass up. The guillotine and Skit Night. Some tad's head—like the Fool—on the block . . ." Get the picture, Archie? He waited for Archie to get the picture.

"Let me think about it," Archie said, moody suddenly, brooding, going deep within himself. Obie knew all the signs. He had gone as far as he dared at the moment.

"See you later," Archie said, dismissal in his voice. But something else, too.

He's hooked, Obie thought gleefully.

The Goober spotted Janza across the street from Jerry Renault's apartment building in the dusk of evening and stopped short, fading into the shadows. He swallowed hard, pressing his body flat against a stone wall. After a while he peeked around the corner to make sure it
was
Janza, and saw without a doubt the figure of Emile Janza pacing the sidewalk.

What was he doing here? And why was he out in the open like that, walking up and down like someone in a picket line? The Goober didn't know the answers to those questions, but he knew that there was something sinister about Janza's presence on the street. Every once in a while Janza's eyes swept over the building, his head thrown back, as if he were issuing some land of silent challenge to Jerry, a challenge only Jerry could hear, the way a dog hears the high-pitched whistle that human ears can't pick up.

What do I do? the Goober thought. Should he run by Janza, show himself? Or slink away in the direction he had come from? The Goober wanted to do the right thing. He didn't want to betray Jerry Renault again.

I've got to warn him, he said silently. Then stopped short. Janza was making no secret of his presence, strutting around like that in the open. Jerry must have already seen him. Okay, so what do I do? Do I face Janza now? Tell him to bug off? Get out of there? He shivered in the night air, as he always did when he paused in his running.

What would Jerry want him to do? Christ, I've got to do the right thing. This time. Can't let him down.

He peeked around the corner, carefully, squinting, one-eyed, didn't see Janza. Had he gone away or was he hiding in the shadows? Probably gone away. No reason for Janza to hide in the shadows. When Goober first spotted him, he was obviously making his presence known.

Goober looked up at Jerry's bedroom window. The window dark, curtain drawn. Other windows also dark, no signs of life. Jerry was not home, apparently, and neither was his father. Nobody home.

He glanced again toward the spot where Janza had paced the sidewalk. Still not there. No confrontation, then. He knew what he had to do. He had to warn Jerry. Put him on his guard, in the event he didn't know about Janza. And, for God's sake, offer his assistance. Jerry was in no condition to face Janza, the animal. Not alone, anyway.

Best thing was to suspend the rest of his run and go home. Start calling Jerry. Keep calling until he returned to the apartment. Keep calling all night if necessary.

Checking the front of Jerry's apartment again, satisfied that Janza was no longer there or in the vicinity, the Goober struck out for home. As he ran he told himself: I won't betray Jerry again. I won't let him down this time.

The balls, colored marbles really, danced in the air, playing games with the lights, and Obie learned that you didn't look at all of them but only at the ball that concerned you.

The ball. Playing hide-and-seek, peekaboo, here today and gone tomorrow or, rather, here this minute and gone the next. Ah, the ball, sleek and eloquent in its tiny perfection, the ball that would provide him with the means of revenge.

"Beautiful," Ray Bannister said. "You really catch on fast, Obie."

Pleased, Obie decided to try the ultimate test. Holding the ball out, on the tips of his fingers, he made a pass with his other hand, felt his fingers fighting their own impulses and following his commands. Lo, the ball appeared against Ray's cheek, held between the thumb and middle finger of Obie's right hand.

Ray shook his head in undisguised admiration.

"Now show me how the guillotine works," Obie said.

Ray hesitated, drawing back, frowning. "Hey, Obie, what's going on; anyway?"

Obie squirmed, wondered: Is it too soon to tell him? Stall a bit. "What do you mean?"

"This magic stuff. You and the Cups and Balls. You and the guillotine. You figure on going into business for yourself? Like, magician business?"

No more stalling, Obie.

"In a way, you're right, Ray."

Ray walked over to the guillotine, his hands caressing the polished wood.

Obie said: "I thought we'd go into business together. You, the magician." He waved his hand slowly in the air, his finger like a plane skywriting. "Bafflement by Bannister," he announced dramatically. "Assisted by Obie the Obedient . . ."

"I don't know what the hell you're talking about," Ray said, sorry he had shown Obie his tricks, feeling as though Obie had invaded the most private part of his life.

"The annual Fair Day is coming up. And Skit Night. Skits, songs, and dances, making fun of the faculty."

Ray nodded. "I've seen the posters."

"Right," Obie said. "Anyway, I thought your magic act would be perfect. As the big climax, in fact. You know, the Scarves, and Cups and Balls." Careful now, Obie. "And the guillotine. Every magician needs an assistant—I figure I'd be yours."

Ray stepped behind the guillotine, as if for protection.

"I don't know, Obie. I've never performed in public before."

"Look, it's just the school. The guys and the teachers. And it's a loose kind of night. Everybody hams it up. Even if you goof a bit—and I don't think you will—nobody will care. . . ."

Ray Bannister was tugged by the fingers of temptation. He had often longed for an audience, besides Obie, particularly when he worked one of the effects to perfection, yearning for admiring glances, whispers of awe and delight. The guillotine, he knew, would knock their eyes out. And it was a thing of particular pride to him because he had constructed it himself, had not merely spent money on an effect. He also considered how sweet it would be to announce himself to the world of Trinity, to let them know he existed after months of being ignored and neglected.

"We'll see," Ray said, still behind the guillotine.

Obie was elated.
We'll see
: the words his mother and father used when they meant
yes
but wanted to postpone the decision for a while.

"Okay," Obie said. "Take your time. Let me know later."

As he left he glanced back at Ray, who was still standing behind the guillotine. But his face held a soft, dreamy expression, his eyes far away, and Obie knew that Ray Bannister was at that moment already performing on the stage of the assembly hall.

He answered the telephone, finally. Had listened to the rings, too many to count, and then picked up the receiver, knowing that whatever had to be done must begin with answering the phone.

Glancing outside once more—Janza not in sight at the moment—he said: "Hello."

Goober's voice took him by surprise.

"Jerry, I've been trying to reach you since last night. Where've you been?"

Do I lie or not? Jerry wondered. And knew he had to tell the truth.

"I've been right here."

"Are you sick? Anything wrong? I called last night, then this noon during lunch. Something wrong with the phone?"

"My father's away," Jerry, said. "On a swing around New England On a business trip. But I've been here. And I heard the phone ringing . . ."

"You know about Janza, then?" Goober asked. Because why else wouldn't Jerry answer the phone?

"I know." Weary, accepting.

"He's been pacing up and down across the street from your apartment. I saw him last night. I spotted him again today, after school. I made a detour to check up on him."

"Thanks, Goob."

"I wanted to warn you," Goober said. "Wait. More than that, I wanted you to know,
want
you to know that we're in this together. Janza's always looking for trouble. Okay, he'll get it. From both of us."

"Wait a minute, Goob. You're going too fast."

"What do you mean, too fast?"

"Slow down. Just because Janza's been down on the street a couple of times doesn't mean it's an emergency—"

"What is it, then?" Goober asked, slowing down, curious, as if waiting for Jerry to come up with some marvelous, stunning truth.