Beyond the Chocolate War (16 page)

"I don't know. But it's time to sit and wait awhile. . . ."

Silence from Goober. Which Jerry expected.

"Look, Goober, I'm glad you called. I appreciate what you're doing. But I don't know yet what I'm going to do. That's why I didn't answer the phone. I thought it might be Janza and I wasn't ready to talk to him—I'm still not ready."

"You don't have to do anything, Jerry. He can't keep this up forever. He'll get tired of it. Just sit tight for a while, Jerry. When's your father coming home?"

He heard the nervousness in Goober's voice.

"Tomorrow night. But that doesn't matter, Goober. Whether my father comes home or not doesn't matter."

"You shouldn't be alone, Jerry. Janza's such an animal, you never know what he's going to do. He's one of Archie Costello's stooges. He might be doing this on an assignment from the Vigils."

"You're going too fast again, Goob. Way too fast All we know is that Janza's been walking up and down out there. He's not there right now. So the best thing to do is wait and see."

"Want me to come over? I can spend the night—"

"Hey, Goob, I don't need a bodyguard. Janza's not going to launch an invasion."

Another pause, more silence.

"Why didn't you answer the phone, Jerry? Last night I must have called three, four times. Again today. Why didn't you answer?"

"I already told you, Goob. Because I'm not sure what I want to do. I don't know yet—"

"Well, don't do anything crazy. Don't try to fight him. That's probably what he's looking for."

"I'm not going to fight him," Jerry said. "But I have to do something. I can't sit in this apartment forever."

"Wait him out. Let me come over."

"Course not, Goob. I'm safe here. Janza's not going to murder me. Look, it's getting late, and Janza hasn't shown his face for an hour. Wait a minute. Let me look. . . ."

He glanced out the window, saw the empty street, all grays and shadows like a scene in a black-and-white movie. A car passed, headlights probing the shadows. Nobody in those shadows. No Janza.

"He's not there. We'll probably never see him again. Get some sleep, Goob. I'll be okay. Let's wait and see what happens tomorrow." Felt the need to say more. "I appreciate your call. You're a good friend, Goob. . . ."

"What are friends for, right, Jerry?"

"Right . . ."

After he had hung up, Jerry glanced out the window again.

And saw Janza again. Rain had started to fall, the sidewalks glistened with wetness, but Janza stood there, hands on hips, looking up, black hair plastered to his skull, ignoring the rain.

Jerry thought of the fight last fall and he thought of Trinity and he thought of the chocolates and he thought of his father, and his thoughts were like a tired caravan of images.

Most of all, he thought of Canada. Wistfully. Those beautiful moments on that frozen landscape, the wind whispering in the Talking Church. He suddenly felt homesick for a place that was not really home. Or maybe it was. Or could be.

"I'm going back to Canada," he said, speaking the words aloud to give them life and impact like a pledge that had to be spoken in order to verify its truth.

Back to Canada.

But first—Janza.

While Janza continued to stare up at the building, his short blunt figure dripping with rain, cold and dark and implacable, as if he had emerged from a block of ice.

Carter was reluctant to help.

But then Carter was reluctant about everything these days, walking around school like a zombie.

Obie needed him, however.

"I don't know," Carter said, rubbing his chin. Dark sharp bristles on his chin, cheeks. Carter hadn't shaved yet today. And probably not yesterday.

They were sitting in Obie's car in front of Carter's house. Twilight muffled the neighborhood sounds of evening.

"I thought you were all hot to start a mutiny against Archie," Obie said. "Remember when you called me about the Bishop's visit?"

"What's the Bishop's visit got to do with this?" Carter asked suspiciously.

"Nothing," Obie said, studying the athlete, his bloodshot eyes, damp, pale face. Like he was suffering a hangover or the aftermath of drugs. But Obie knew that Carter didn't do drugs, didn't want to ruin that precious physique. It was evident, however, that Carter was in turmoil. Obie felt, crazily, as if he was looking into a mirror. He didn't know what kind of demons had invaded Carter's life, but he recognized a suffering, kindred soul. "This has got nothing to do with the Bishop's visit. It's got to do with Fair Day. And Skit Night . . ."

Carter raked his hand along his unshaved cheek. "What do you want me to do?" he asked, still reluctant.

"It's simple," Obie said. "I need you to create a diversion. For a minute or two." He couldn't spell out the entire scheme. Hell, Carter would head for the hills if he knew the plan.

Now it was Carter's turn to study Obie. Obie had changed in the past few weeks. Not physically, of course: he was the same scrawny kid. But something was different about him. His eyes, for instance. Carter remembered Brother Andrew in Religion describing missionaries who challenged jungles and cannibals as "God's holy men." That was Obie now, the gleam in his eyes, his intensity, his missionary zeal. Carter knew, of course, that Obie had broken up with his girl. Had heard rumors of a gang rape. He also knew that Bunting had split Archie and Obie apart Otherwise he wouldn't trust Obie at all.

"Tell me about the diversion," Carter said.

Obie told him. He required two pieces of action by Carter. The first at the Vigil meeting when the Fool would be chosen. The second during Skit Night.

"Is that all?" Carter asked.

"That's all."

"Then tell me why. Why you need these diversions."

"It's better if you don't know the details, Carter. Then you can't be blamed for anything later."

"Archie's the target, right?"

"Right."

Carter wondered if he should confide in Obie, if he could tell him about the letter to Brother Leon and the telephone call, about these terrible days and nights while he waited for Archie to take his revenge.

But Obie, he realized, was too preoccupied with his own concerns. And suddenly Carter felt a wave of optimism. Obie was taking action against Archie. And this action, whatever it was, could draw Archie's attention away from himself.

"Okay," Carter said.

Obie punched his shoulder. "Terrific," he said.

"Details," Carter ordered.

"Later. But I'll tell you this much. Archie Costello will never be the same again."

"Good," Carter said, slapping his hand against the dashboard, the sound like a gunshot in the car.

"Unfinished business," Obie said, flipping through his notebook, using it as a prop in order to avoid looking Archie in the eye.

"The Fool, right?" Archie asked, running his hand over the hood of his car, flicking a speck of dust off the gleaming metal.

"Right," Obie said.

"And the guillotine," Archie added, studying his car with a critical eye. He disliked dust and dirt, kept the car properly polished and shining all the time. "Frankly, Obie, it doesn't excite me. . . ."

But then nothing ever excited Archie.

Obie was prepared for that reaction but could not show too much eagerness.

"I've got a few ideas," Obie said.

"What ideas?" Having concluded his inspection of the car, Archie leaned against it now as he fumbled in his pocket for a Hershey.

Obie told him, spelled it all out in detail, as much detail as he dared to risk, knowing Archie would want to provide the final finishing touches. Which he did, of course.

"You surprise me, Obie," Archie said as he opened the car and slid easily behind the wheel. "You're developing a devious mind."

"I learned it all from you, Archie."

But Archie had already roared away, leaving Obie in a cloud of blue exhaust.

As Carter turned into the main corridor, a book slid from the bunch he was carrying and dropped to the floor. The others also spilled out of his hands. Sheepishly, he bent to pick them up. Disgusted with himself, he pondered the possibility that he was losing his coordination along with everything else.

A commotion farther along the corridor caught his attention. A group of guys had gathered at the trophy case across from Brother Leon's office. Marty Heller, pimple-faced, greasy-haired, called down the corridor: "Hey, Carter, take a gander at this. . . ."

Carter hurried toward the cluster of students, curious about what he would encounter at the trophy case.
His
case, because most of the trophies in it had been won through his efforts.

Marty Heller stepped back and swept the other kids aside. "Look," he said.

Carter looked. Aware that the other guys were not looking at the trophy case but at him as
he
looked.

It was a trophy case no longer. A trophy case has trophies and this case no longer had any. It was empty. But not really empty. On the middle shelf stood a small porcelain ashtray, the land purchased in a joke shop or trick store. The ashtray was in the shape of a toilet.

"Who the hell would steal the trophies?" Marty Heller asked in his squeaky off-key voice. His voice had been changing for three years now, was still totally unpredictable.

"They're not stolen," somebody said, a voice Carter did not recognize, probably a Vigil plant, courtesy of Archie Costello.

Stunned silence then, but a silence filled with the knowledge of what the voice meant. There was only one alternative to the theft of the trophies. The Vigils. And everybody knew that.

"Jeez," Marty Heller said, "Brother Leon'll go ape when he finds out. . . ."

But Brother Leon did not go ape. Because he never found out. He was away for the day at a conference of headmasters and school principals in Worcester. By the time he returned the next day, the trophies were mysteriously back in place, the small toilet gone.

Marty Heller confronted Carter before the bell rang the next morning. "What the hell's going on?" he asked.

"I don't know," Carter told him, hurrying on his way.

But he did know, of course. The knowledge had kept him awake most of the night. And had given him nightmares when he slept.

The cafeteria. First lunch period. A group of guys huddled around the table nearest the entrance to the kitchen. They were staring so intently at a hidden object on the table that everyone else felt it must be a pornographic magazine, something dirty.

Richard Rondell stumbled away from the table in utter disgust. He had in fact expected to see a beautiful dirty picture when he made his way into the group—Rondell was the raunchiest guy in the senior class, with only one thing on his mind—and he was angered to learn what all the excitement was about. Newspaper headlines, for crying out loud.

STUDENT BEHEADED IN MAGIC ACT

And below, in smaller type:

AMATEUR MAGICIAN

GETS PROBATION

The dipping was frayed and wrinkled, edges tattered, obviously ripped from a newspaper. Obie handled it delicately as he held it up for display. He had chosen this moment carefully, making certain that Bannister had been assigned to the second lunch period. The clipping needed only a minimum amount of exposure. Only a few students had to see it. But Obie knew the outcome. The word would be carried to all reaches of the school, exaggerated and embellished probably, racing from student to student, class to class.

By the time the last bell had sounded and everyone headed home or to afternoon jobs, the effect of the newspaper story was firmly established. Now everyone thought that Ray Bannister was a killer.

With a guillotine.

Nobody knew yet that Ray Bannister and the guillotine would become the highlight of Skit Night.

Nobody but Archie Costello and Obie, who'd had the fake newspaper made to order at the magic store in Worcester.

T
he command came to David Carom from the piano in the parlor as he went down the stairs on his way to take a walk. He had taken a lot of walks in recent days. Had to get out of the house. Away from prying eyes.

The command was earsplitting, a chord played off-key, followed by another, as if a maniac were in the parlor playing madly away at a song no one could recognize.

Except David Caroni.

He walked to the kitchen, through the dining room, drawn by the sound of the broken music. The French doors had been thrown open. His mother, her hair hidden in the white cap she wore when she charged into her spring housecleaning, an event that shook up the entire routine of the Caroni household for at least a month, was dusting the keyboard with a white cloth. David stood transfixed, surprised but somewhat pleased that his mother was the medium through which he would receive the message. He had been waiting for so long. For the sign, the signal, the command, the order. Knowing that it must come and trying to be patient. And now it was here.

He listened, silent, still. His mother, unaware of his presence, continued to produce the discordant music that was telling David what he must do.

David listened, smiling. Listened to what he must do and how he must do it and when it must be done.

At last.

Bunting caught up to Archie at his locker, timing it beautifully, waiting until most everyone else had left the vicinity.

"Hi, Archie," Bunting said, a bit breathless and not sure why.

"What do you say, Bunting?" Archie was arranging his textbooks on the shelf of the locker. Bunting realized that he had never seen Archie Costello carrying books out of the building. Didn't Archie ever do homework?

In Archie's presence, he abandoned all his preconceived notions and the conversation he had been rehearsing in his mind.

"Know what gets me, Archie?" he asked instead, going in a direction he hadn't intended.

"What gets you, Bunting?"

"If I didn't come to find you, you'd never come to find me."

"That's right, Bunting." Archie continued to shuffle his books around on the shelf.

"Suppose I stopped coming around?"

"Then you'd just stop coming around."

Bunting wanted to say: Look at me, will you? Instead: "Wouldn't you want to find out why?"

"Not particularly. It's a free country, Bunting. You can come and go as you please." Archie had opened a book, looked through the pages, speaking absently as if his mind were on more important matters.

Dismayed, Bunting said: "But I thought—" And paused, wondering how he could say what he wanted to say delicately, diplomatically.

"Thought what?"

"I thought, you know, next year . . ." And let the sentence dribble away. Archie sometimes made him feel like he was still in the fourth grade, for crissakes.

"Next year?"

Bunting knew that Archie was making him spell it out. He knew he should just walk away, tell Archie
Screw you
and split. But knew he couldn't There was too much at stake.

"Yes, next year. Making me, like, the Assigner. You know. After you graduate."

Archie replaced the first book on the locker shelf and took down another. A math book, spanking new, it looked as if it had never been opened.

"You
are
going to be the Assigner, Bunting."

"What did you say?" Bunting asked, blinking.

"I said, Bunting, that you
are
going to be the Assigner next year."

"Oh." He had a desire to leap and shout, go bounding down the corridor, but maintained his cool. Let the "oh" echo. Had to play it smart. The way Archie always played it. "Don't the Vigils have to vote on it or something?" Bunting said, knowing he had blundered as soon as the words were out of his mouth. Asking that question was definitely not playing it cool.

Archie looked at him for the first time, a pained expression on his face.

"Don't you take my word for it, Bunting?"

"Sure, sure," Bunting said hurriedly. "I just thought—"

"There you go, thinking again, Bunting," Archie said, turning back to the locker, taking down another textbook, looking at it as if he'd never seen it before. "There's one condition, however."

"Name it," Bunting said.

"You'll need an assistant A strong right arm, right?"

"Right," Bunting snapped.

"I know you've got your stooges. Cornacchio and Harley. Keep them around, if you want. But your right arm will be Janza. Emile Janza . . ."

"Janza?" Trying not to betray his dismay. Dismay? Hell, disgust. Complete disgust.

"Emile will serve you well. He's an animal, but animals come in handy if they're trained right."

"Right," Bunting said, but thinking: When you're gone, Archie, I'll be boss and I'll choose my own right arms.

"Bunting," Archie said, looking up again, looking at him with those cool blue appraising eyes. "I'll be telling Emile about it. Emile Janza will be looking forward to his job as your assistant. And Emile doesn't like to be disappointed. He's very unpredictable and gets very physical when he's disappointed. Never disappoint Emile Janza, Bunting."

"I won't," Bunting said, trying to swallow and finding it difficult, his throat dry and parched.

"Good," Archie said, studying the book in his hand, turned away from Bunting now.

Bunting stood there, not knowing what else to say. Wanting to ask a million questions about the duties of the Assigner, but not quite sure how to proceed. And afraid to ask another dumb question.

Archie looked up, surprised. "You still here, Bunting?"

"Oh, no," he said, which was stupid. "I'm leaving. I'm just leaving. . . ."

Archie smiled, a smile as cold as frost on a winter window. "We'll go into details later, Bunting. Okay?"

"Sure," Bunting said, "sure, Archie."

And got out of there as fast as he could, not wanting to risk screwing up the biggest thing—despite Emile Janza—that had ever happened in his life.

Later, leaving school, without any books in his arms, of" course, Archie paused to drink in the spring air. He spotted Obie walking across the campus in his usual hurried stride, as if hounded by pursuers. Poor Obie, always worried.

Obie saw him and waved, waited for Archie to catch up to him at the entrance to the parking lot.

"What's up, Archie?" Obie said, the mechanical greeting that really asked nothing.

But Archie chose to answer. "I've just spent a few minutes guaranteeing the ruin of Trinity next year," he said.

And said no more.

"Are you going to explain what you said or just let it hang there?" Obie asked, trying to mask his impatience and not doing a very god job.

"I just told Bunting that he will be the Assigner next year," Archie said, "and that Emile Janza will be his right-hand man."

"Boy, Archie, you really hate this school, don't you? And everybody in it."

Archie registered surprise. "I don't hate anything or anybody, Obie."

Obie sensed the sincerity of Archie's reply. The moment seemed suspended, breathless, as they walked toward their cars. Obie wanted to ask: Do you love anything, then, or anybody? Or is it that you just don't have any feelings at all?

He knew he would never find out.