Beyond the Chocolate War (3 page)

T
he Stripper Deck is a trick deck, but its secret is simple: The cards are tapered at one end. Thus, if a particular card is turned around and slipped back into the deck, it can be detected by touch because it sticks out from the other cards. The object of the trick is to locate the projecting card with fingertips or thumb tip. This is called "stripping the deck."

When Ray first tried the trick he was instantly discouraged. He picked up the cards at odd moments, however, and as he fooled around with them, shuffling and reshuffling, his fingertips developed sensitivity. After a few weeks he was able to locate the reversed card without hesitation. The Stripper Deck was a good time-killer, blunting the edge of his loneliness.

As spring burst into vivid life without warning, Ray became aware for the first time of the beauty of an inland spring. Weeping willow trees that he had never noticed before wore halos of soft yellow as the buds came to life. He grudgingly admitted that Monument was not as gray and ugly as it had been at first sight. Sweet fragrances filled the air, and the hills surrounding Monument, while not exactly alive with the sound of music, were beautiful in their sweep and radiant in their colors.

Lounging in the shade of a maple tree in front of Trinity, inhaling the zesty spring air, Ray manipulated the deck as he waited for the school bus to take him home. He watched the other guys coming and going, ignoring him as usual. Screw them all, Ray thought.

He removed the ace of spades from the deck, reversed it, and riffled the cards. As he blew on his fingertips, he looked up to see a kid standing nearby, hands on his hips, watching him with small, squinting eyes.

Ray waved a greeting.

The kid ignored the greeting but advanced toward him, face neutral, neither friendly nor unfriendly.

"You a card sharp?" the kid asked, hovering over him now.

Feeling suddenly vulnerable, Ray scrambled to his feet "No, I just like to fool around with cards," he said.

"What do you mean, fool around?" the kid asked. Ray changed his mind: The kid's face wasn't neutral. The small eyes were watchful, challenging. His lips were thick, poised on the edge of a sneer. He wasn't particularly big or muscle-bound, but he gave an impression of strength. Brute strength, maybe.

"Tricks. I do tricks," Ray said, putting the cards in his pocket, shuffling his feet, looking away, searching the distance for the bus.

"Do one," the kid said quietly. His hands were still on his hips. He barely moved his lips when he talked. Like a ventriloquist.

Ray hesitated, having only performed before a mirror. He knew lie would goof it up if he attempted to strip the deck before an audience. A hostile audience of one, at that.

"Well, I'm not too good yet," he said lamely, feeling his heart quicken. "I'm still at the practicing stage."

"Do, one," the kid said, lips still not moving, voice still quiet except for a slight demand, a slight menace in the words. A caricature of a tough guy. But still menacing.

"Look, when I really get good at it, I'll do one." Keep it tight. "In fact, I'll see that you get a complimentary ticket for opening night. . . ."

No response from the kid except that aura of menace his presence created.

"Hello, Emile."

Both Ray and the kid turned at the greeting.

"Hi, Obie," the kid said, disgust in his voice, his menace evaporating. He was suddenly just a slightly overweight guy.

"Introducing yourself to the new student?" the kid called Obie inquired.

A kind of secret signal seemed to pass between them, an unspoken understanding. Ray looked away, kicking at a stone on the grass. Sometimes Trinity gave him the creeps. Something in the air, in the attitude of the kids, something he couldn't pin down or put his finger on. A mood, a sense of mysterious goings-on. Like now: the kid called Obie intervening as if challenging the lad called Emile. And Emile backing off, backing down although he looked as if he could pick up Obie and throw him against a wall. "Hell, I was just curious, Obie. I saw him playing with those cards and thought he might do a trick or two. I thought he might be a magician. . . ." Voice trailing off.

Obie ignored him, turning away as if he hadn't heard his words or, if he had heard them, didn't consider them worthy of attention. "You're Ray Bannister, aren't you?" he asked. As if Ray was a long-lost friend.

"That's me." Surprised and trying not to appear surprised.

"I'm Obie." Extending his hand Ray took it.

"I'd like to see those tricks sometime," Emile called, lingering at a distance, directing his remarks to Ray, the menace back in his voice. Ray felt as though he had made an enemy. Cripes, he thought, I was better off when nobody paid any attention to me.

As Emile finally left the scene, Obie chuckled. "You've just encountered the one and only Emile Janza," he said.

"I'm glad he's the one and only," Ray replied. "Two of him would be too much."

"He's an animal," Obie said. "He thinks the world is out to put the screws to him. So he tries to put the screws to everyone else." Shifting gears: "How are things going, Ray?"

"How do you know my name?"

Obie pulled out a small frayed spiral pad, flipped the pages. "Ray Bannister. From Caleb on the Cape. Height, five ten. One hundred forty-two pounds. Father an insurance executive. Doesn't make friends easy. Likes to play with cards."

"You seem to know a lot about me," Ray said, feeling positively spooky, as if somebody had been spying on him all this time. "This school is weird."

"Not really," Obie said. Suddenly Obie hated what he was doing and wanted to turn on his heel and get the hell away from Trinity and everybody here. He had approached guys like this too many times. For Archie. Setting up yet another assignment. Carrying out orders. Like some . . . stooge. He hadn't always felt this way: he used to enjoy Archie's schemes and strategies. Now other things seemed more important All because of Laurie, of course. But more than Laurie. A name surfaced from the depths of his brain and memory. He denied the name, concentrating on the notebook and then looking up at Ray Bannister. The name came anyway—Renault.

"Look, Ray. Trinity isn't as weird as it seems. We had a rough first term—hell, our football team lost more games than it won, and our boxing squad—boxing used to be the big thing here—folded up. And then the Headmaster got sick and retired and somebody new took over—"

"Brother Leon?" Ray asked. Leon gave him the willies.

"Right." Obie seemed about to say something about Leon but didn't. After a pause: "Anyway, it's been a tough year. Actually, Trinity is a great place, a great school." He tried to inject enthusiasm, heartiness, into the words, but they sounded unconvincing to his ears, and he wondered if Ray Bannister heard the phoniness in his voice. Ray merely nodded as if his real thoughts were elsewhere.

"You waiting for a bus?" Obie asked, knowing that he had to stop acting like a press agent for Trinity and get down to business.

Ray nodded.

"I'll drive you home. My car's in the parking lot."

Suspicion ran like a chill through Ray's bones. After weeks of being ignored, why this sudden attention?

"Come on," Obie said, plastering his friendliest smile on his face. Like a label, he felt, on a stick of dynamite.

Ray shrugged and picked up his books. What the hell. He'd been alone too long. Maybe he was getting paranoid about the school. Actually he should be grateful for this kid called Obie. Trudging behind him now, Ray thought wistfully of Caleb and the Cape, and the sea lapping the shore like the tongue of an old and friendly dog. No sea here, no benevolent sun. No girls lounging on the beach. He'd better make do with what he had: at the moment, a ride home with a guy who might become a friend.

Obie was properly impressed by Ray Bannister's manipulation of the Stripper Deck, watching in awe as the card Obie had selected, the queen of hearts, appeared magically before him, unerringly drawn from the deck although Ray had not known its identity. Ray did it again—although magicians should never repeat their tricks, he said—with the three of diamonds and the ace of clubs, and Obie was fooled each time.

"The hand is quicker than the eye, to coin a cliche," Ray said, laughing, obviously delighted with the effect on Obie. He had been hesitant about performing for Obie at first, but the kid had seemed so genuinely interested and friendly that he had taken a chance. His nervousness had disappeared as he shuffled the deck. He was pleasantly surprised to see his fingers behaving so beautifully.

"Wow," Obie said, sincere in his admiration. But his mind was also working. Here was a kid with an obvious talent: how could it be used for the Vigils? "Do you do anything else?" he asked.

Ray hesitated once more. He was not as skilled with the Cups and Balls, but the effects were simpler to attain. Frowning, studying Obie, trying to judge if Obie was really being sincere, Ray thought: Why not give it a whirl?

So he took out the cups, balls, and a small table and was amazed once more at his performance, making the red balls appear, it seemed, at will from under the cup of his choice. Palming one ball, he passed it swiftly to his other hand and then appeared to be taking it out of Obie's ear.

Obie looked thunderstruck, his mouth open in astonishment.

"What's the matter?" Ray asked, puzzled. Hadn't Obie ever seen the ball trick before?

"Will you do that again, Ray? I mean, make the ball disappear in your hand and then appear someplace else?"

"I'm not supposed to do it twice," Ray said. But did it anyway, because he liked the challenge. Obie would be watching him closely now, anticipating his every move. And anticipation was fatal to illusion, making it difficult for Ray to use misdirection, a magician's most powerful tool. He wondered if he should tell him about the guillotine.

The red ball, no larger than a marble, flashed in the air. Obie watched closely. Ray's hands moved, open-palmed; fingers wiggled and then nothing—the ball vanished. Ray reached out with his right hand—Obie could swear the hand was empty—and popped the ball into view, as if he had removed it from Obie's shirt pocket.

Turning away, blinking into the sunlight that slanted into the bedroom, Obie whistled softly, thinking of Archie. Had Archie all these years used sleight of hand when he drew the white marble from the box? Was that how he had avoided the assignments he would have had to take on if the black marble had appeared in his hand? The possibility dazzled Obie. Nothing was beyond Archie. Archie was always one step ahead of everybody else. The members of the Vigils had always been amazed at Archie's luck, resented, in fact, the way he laughed mockingly when the white marble appeared in his hand time after time. Archie had been taken by surprise only once, last fall during the chocolate fracas. That time Archie had also pulled out the white marble, but sweat had danced on his forehead—Archie, who never perspired—and he had looked apprehensive.

Obie regarded Ray Bannister once more. "Great, Ray," he said, "simply great." Then, carefully: "How long did it take to learn the ball trick?" Trying to sound only casually interested.

"Not long. A few weeks. I've had time on my hands," Ray said. "Frankly, Obie, Trinity isn't the friendliest place on earth." Rolling the red ball between thumb and forefinger as Obie watched fascinated. "In fact, the school is kind of spooky. Is there something wrong with the place?"

Obie snapped out of his contemplation of the ball, wondering how much he should tell Ray Bannister about Trinity.

"Like I said, we've had a tough year," he began. A perception formed itself in his mind: Ray Bannister and his sleight of hand, something Archie didn't know about, a secret weapon Obie might be able to employ in the future. Maybe he should level with Bannister, let him know what was really going on at Trinity. What had gone on. . . .

"It's like this," Obie said. "We had our usual chocolate sale last fall. Our biggest fund-raiser. And a kid by the name of Jerry Renault, a freshman for crissake, refused to sell any. The only kid in school who refused to participate . . ."

Ray Bannister lifted both hands in a
so what?
gesture.

"The problem is that one rotten apple can spoil the barrel. And this kid became a kind of symbol. Other lads started to follow his lead. Everybody hates school sales to begin with. Brother Leon was ready to have a nervous breakdown. The Headmaster was in the hospital, Leon was in charge of the place . . ."

"All over chocolates?"

"It was twenty thousand boxes of chocolates."

Ray whistled.

"Right," Obie went on. "Leon bought them on the cheap. They were left over from Mother's Day. He bought them for a dollar a box. Which sounds okay except that means he spent twenty thousand dollars of school money—which he wasn't authorized to spend—for the chocolates. Which also means that each lad had to sell fifty boxes at two dollars to make a killing."

Obie was reluctant to say more, had been avoiding thoughts about the chocolate sale and Jerry Renault for months, sorry he had started to tell Ray Bannister the story. But he couldn't stop now.

"Anyway. The school was in an uproar. The guys were in an uproar. And the Vigils—"

"The Vigils?" Ray asked. "What's the Vigils?"