He had been seized by doubt again when Archie explained how the fight and the raffle would work. How are you going to get Renault and Janza to do it? That’s what Brian wanted to know. Easy, Archie assured him. Renault’s looking for revenge and Janza’s a beast. And they can’t back down with the whole school looking on. Then Archie’s voice had gone cold again and Brian had shriveled inside. “You just do your job, Cochran, sell the tickets. And leave the details to me.” So Brian had lined up a bunch of kids to do the selling. And Archie had been right, of course, because there they were, Renault and Janza up there on the platform, and the tickets were selling like there was no tomorrow.
Emile Janza was tired of being treated like one of the bad guys. That’s the way Archie made him feel. “Hey, animal,” Archie would say. Emile wasn’t an animal. He had feelings like everybody else. Like the guy in the Shakespeare thing in English I, “Cut me, do I not bleed?” All right, so he liked to screw around a little, get under people’s skin. That was human nature, wasn’t it? A guy had to protect himself at all times. Get them before they get you. Keep people guessing—and afraid. Like Archie with his rotten picture that didn’t even exist. Archie had convinced him that there was no picture, after all. How could there be a picture, Emile, Archie’d reasoned. Remember how dim it was in the john that day? And I didn’t have a flash. And there wasn’t any film in the camera. And if there had been, I didn’t have time to focus. The truth had both relieved Emile and made him mad as hell. But Archie had pointed out that Emile should be mad at people like Renault. Hell, Emile, guys like Renault are your enemy, not guys like me. They’re the squares, Emile, they’re the ones who screw it up for us, who blow the whistle, who make the rules. Then Archie had provided the climax, the door-slammer—besides, the guys are starting to talk about how Renault was beaten up, how you needed the help of others and couldn’t do it yourself …
Emile looked across the stage at Renault. He longed for combat. To prove himself in front of the whole school. The hell with that psychology crap Archie had made him use—telling Renault he was a fairy. He should have used his fists, not his mouth.
He was impatient to get started. To wreck Renault in front of everybody, no matter what was written down on the raffle tickets.
And in a corner of his mind, there still lurked the doubt—did Archie have that picture of him in the john, after all?
CHAPTER
THIRTY-SIX
THOSE RAFFLE TICKETS.
Wow! Terrific!
Archie hadn’t seen any that had been filled out yet and he stopped one of the guys who’d been recruited as a salesman by Brian Cochran.
“Let’s see,” Archie said, holding out his hand.
The kid was quick to comply and Archie was pleased at his submissiveness. I am Archie. My wish becomes command.
The sound of the restless audience in his ears, Archie scrutinized the paper. Scrawled there, the words
Janza
Right To Jaw
Jimmy Demers
That was the simple, stunning beauty of the raffle, the unexpected twist that Archie Costello was famous for, what they always knew Archie could do—top himself. In one stroke, Archie had forced Renault to show up here, to become part of the chocolate sale, and he also placed Renault at the mercy of the school, the students. The fighters on the platform would have no will of their own. They would have to fight the way the guys in the bleachers directed them. Everybody who bought a ticket—and who could refuse?—had a chance to be involved in the fight, to watch two guys battering each other while they were at a safe distance, with no danger of getting hurt. The risky part had been getting Renault here tonight. Once he was on the platform Archie knew he could not refuse to go on, even when he heard about the tickets. And that’s the way it worked out. Beautiful.
Carter approached. “They’re really selling, Archie,” he said. Carter appreciated the fight concept. He loved boxing. He had, in fact, bought two tickets and had gotten a kick out of deciding which blows he would call for. He’d finally decided on a right cross to the jaw and an uppercut. At the last moment, he’d almost assigned the blows to Renault—give the kid a break. But Obie was standing nearby, Obie who stuck his nose in everybody else’s business. So Carter had written in Janza’s name. Janza, the beast, always ready to jump when Archie said jump.
“Looks like a beautiful night,” Archie said now, smugly, that know-it-all attitude Carter hated. “You see, Carter, I told you everybody was pushing panic buttons for nothing.”
“I don’t know how you do it, Archie,” Carter was forced to admit.
“Simple, Carter, simple.” Archie reveled in the moment, basking in Carter’s admiration, Carter who had humiliated him at The Vigils meeting. Someday he’d get even with Carter but at the moment it was satisfying enough to have Carter regarding him with awe and envy. “You see, Carter, people are two things: greedy and cruel. So we have a perfect setup here. The greed part—a kid pays a buck for a chance to win a hundred. Plus fifty boxes of chocolates. The cruel part—watching two guys hitting each other, maybe hurting each other, while they’re safe in the bleachers. That’s why it works, Carter, because we’re all bastards.”
Carter disguised his disgust. Archie repelled him in many ways but most of all by the way he made everybody feel dirty, contaminated, polluted. As if there was no goodness at all in the world. And yet Carter had to admit that he was looking forward to the fight, that he himself had bought not one but two tickets. Did that make him like everybody else—greedy and cruel, as Archie said? The question surprised him. Hell, he’d always thought of himself as one of the good guys. He had often used his position as president of The Vigils to keep control of Archie, to prevent him from going overboard on assignments. But did that make him one of the good guys? The question bothered Carter. That’s what he hated about Archie. He made you feel guilty all the time. Christ, the world couldn’t be as bad as Archie said it was. But hearing the shouts of the kids in the bleachers, impatient for the fight to get underway, Carter wondered.
Archie watched Carter drift away, looking troubled and perplexed. Great. Burning with jealousy. And who wouldn’t be jealous of someone like Archie who always came out on top?
Cochran reported. “All sold out, Archie.”
Archie nodded, assuming the role of the silent hero.
The moment was here.
Archie lifted his head toward the bleachers and it seemed to be some kind of signal. A ripple went through the crowd, a quickening of tempo, a sweep of suspense. All eyes were directed to the platform where Renault and Janza stood at diagonal corners.
In front of the platform stood a pyramid of chocolates—the last fifty boxes. The stadium lights burned bright.
Carter, gavel in hand, walked to the center of the platform. There was nothing to bang the gavel on so he simply raised it in the air.
The audience responded with applause, impatient shoutings, catcalls. “Let’s go,” someone yelled.
Carter gestured for silence.
But the silence had already fallen.
Archie, walking toward the platform for a close view of the proceedings, sucked in his breath, as if he were sipping this sweetest of all events. But he exhaled in surprise and stopped in his tracks as he saw Obie walk on the platform carrying the black box in his hands.
Obie smiled maliciously when he caught Archie standing there in surprise, his mouth wide open in astonishment. No one ever surprised the great Archie that way, and Obie’s moment of triumph was a thing of beauty. He nodded toward Carter who was on his way to escort Archie to the platform.
Carter had been doubtful about using the black box, pointing out that this was not a Vigils meeting. How can we make Archie try for the marbles?
Obie had the answer, the kind of answer Archie himself would have given. “Because there are four hundred kids out there yelling for blood. And they don’t care whose blood it is anymore. Everybody in the school knows about the black box—how can Archie back down???
?
Carter pointed out that there was no guarantee that Archie would pull out the black marble. The black would mean he’d have to take on the position of one of the fighters. But there were five white marbles and only one black marble in the box. Archie’s luck had held up throughout his career as the assigner—he had never drawn the black one.
“The law of averages,” Obie had said to Carter. “He’s going to have to draw two marbles—one for Renault, the other for Janza.”
Carter had gazed steadily at Obie. “We couldn’t …?” His voice curled into a question mark.
“We can’t fix it, no way. Where could I find six black marbles, for crying out loud? Anyway, Archie is too smart—we could never con him. But we can throw one hell of a scare into him. And who knows? Maybe his luck has run out.”
Thus, the agreement. Obie would emerge with the black box at the moment before the drawings and the fight began. And that’s exactly what he was doing now, crossing to the center of the platform as Carter went down to meet Archie.
“You guys are really something else, aren’t you?” Archie said, pulling away from Carter’s grip. “I can walk up there alone, Carter. And I’ll walk back again, too.”
Archie’s fury was a cold hard ball in his chest but he played it cool. As usual. He had a feeling nothing could go wrong. I am Archie.
The sight of the black box stunned the gathering into a silence more deep than before. Only members of The Vigils and their victims had seen it. In the garish stadium light, the box was revealed as worn and threadbare, a small wooden container that might have been a discarded jewelry box. And yet it was a legend in the school. For potential victims, it was possible deliverance, protection, a weapon to be used against the might of The Vigils. Others doubted its existence: Archie Costello would never allow that sort of thing. But here was the black box now. Out in the open. In front of the whole frigging school. And Archie Costello looking at it, reaching out his hand to draw the marble.
The ceremony took only a minute or so because Archie insisted on getting it over quickly before anyone knew what was going on. The less drama, the better. Don’t let Obie and Carter build it up. Thus, before any protest could be made, Archie had shot his hand out and pulled a marble from the box. White. Obie’s jaw dropped in surprise. Things were moving too fast. He’d wanted Archie to squirm; he’d wanted the audience to realize what was going on here. He’d wanted to prolong the ceremony, get as much of the drama and suspense out of the situation as possible.
Archie’s hand shot out again and it was too late for Obie to prevent the action. He drew in his breath.
The marble was hidden in Archie’s closed fist. He held the fist out, toward the audience. Archie held his back stiff. The marble had to be white. He hadn’t come this far to be denied at the last moment. He let a smile play over his lips as he faced the audience, gambling everything in his show of confidence.
He opened his palm and held up the marble for all to see.
White.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-SEVEN
THE GOOBER ARRIVED at the last moment and made his way through the turmoil to the top of the bleachers. He’d been reluctant to come. He had washed his hands of the school and its cruelties and hadn’t wanted to witness Jerry’s daily humiliations. The school also reminded him of his own betrayals and defections. For three days, he’d been home in bed. Sick. He wasn’t at all sure whether he’d really been sick or whether his conscience had revolted, infecting his body, leaving him weak and nauseous. At any rate, the bed had become his private world, a small safe place without people, without The Vigils, without Brother Leon, a world with no chocolates to sell, no rooms to destroy, no people to destroy. But one of the guys called up and told him about the fight between Jerry and Janza. And how the raffle tickets would control the fight. The Goober had moaned in protest. The bed had become unbearable. He had tossed and turned all day, prowling the bed like an animal seeking sleep, oblivion. He didn’t want to go to the fight—Jerry couldn’t possibly win. But he couldn’t stay in bed, either. Finally, desperate, he had gotten out of bed, and dressed hurriedly, ignoring the protests of his parents. He had taken the bus across town and walked half a mile to the stadium. Now, he huddled in the seat, looking down at the platform, listening to Carter explaining the rules of the crazy fight. Terrible.
“… and the kid whose written blow is the one that ends the fight, either by knockout or surrender, receives the prize …”
But the crowd was impatient for the action to begin. Goober looked around. These fellows in the stands were known to him, they were classmates, but suddenly they’d become strangers. They stared feverishly down at the platform. Some of them were yelling. “Kill ’em, kill ’em …” The Goober shivered in the night.
Carter advanced to the center of the platform where Obie held a cardboard carton. Carter reached in and pulled out a piece of paper. “John Tussier,” he called. “He’s written down Renault’s name.” Murmurs of disappointment, a few scattered boos. “He wants Renault to hit Janza with a right to the jaw.”
Silence fell. The moment of truth. Renault and Janza faced each other, an arm’s reach away. They had been standing in the traditional pose of fighters, gloves raised, ready for battle but a pathetic parody of professional fighters. Now, Janza followed the rules. He lowered his arms, prepared to take Jerry’s blow without resistance.
Jerry hunched his shoulders, cocked his fist. He had been waiting for this moment, ever since Archie’s voice had taunted him on the telephone. But he hesitated now. How could he hit anyone, even an animal like Janza, in cold blood? I’m not a fighter, he protested silently. Then think of how Janza let those kids beat you up.
The crowd was restless. “Action, action,” someone called. And the cry was taken up by others.
“What’s the matter, fairy?” Janza taunted. “Afraid you might hurt your little hand hitting great big Emile?”
Jerry sent his fist sailing toward Janza’s jaw, but he had swung too quickly, without sufficient aim. The blow almost missed its target, finally brushing Janza’s jaw ineffectually. Janza grinned.
Boos filled the air. “Fix,” someone called.
Carter motioned to Obie to bring the box out quickly. He sensed the impatience of the crowd. They had paid their money and they wanted action. He hoped Janza’s name would be on this slip. And it was. A kid named Marty Heller had ordered Janza to hit Renault with a right uppercut to the jaw. Carter sang out the command.
Jerry planted himself, like a tree.
Janza got ready, insulted by the cries of fix. Just because Renault was chicken. I’m not chicken, I’ll show them. He had to prove that this was a genuine contest. If Renault wouldn’t fight, then at least Emile Janza would.
He struck Jerry with all the force he could summon, the impact of the blow coming from his feet, up through his legs and thighs, the trunk of his body, the power pulsing through his body like some elemental force until it erupted through his arm, exploding into his fist.
Jerry had girded himself for the blow but it took him by surprise with its savagery and viciousness. The entire planet was jarred for a moment, the stadium swaying, the lights dancing. The pain in his neck was excruciating—his head had snapped back from the impact of Janza’s fist. Sent reeling backward, he fought to stay on his feet and he somehow managed not to fall. His jaw was on fire, he tasted acid. Blood, maybe. But he pressed his lips together. He shook his head, quick vision-clearing shakings and established himself in the world once more.
Before he could gather himself together again, Carter’s voice cried out “Janza, right to the stomach” and Janza struck without warning, a short sharp blow that missed Jerry’s stomach but caught him in the chest. His breath went away, like it did in football, and then came back again. But the blow had lacked the power of the uppercut.
He crouched again, fists erect, waiting for the next instructions. Dimly, he heard the crowd both cheering and booing but he concentrated on Janza who sto
od before him, that idiot smile on his face.
The next raffle ticket gave Jerry his chance to strike back at Janza. A kid Jerry had never heard of—someone named Arthur Robilard—called for a right cross. Whatever that was. Jerry had only a vague idea but he wanted to hit Janza now, to repay him for that first vicious blow. He cocked his right arm. He tasted bile in his mouth. He let his arm go. The glove struck Janza full face and Janza staggered back. The result surprised Jerry. He had never struck anyone like that before, in fury, premeditated, and he’d enjoyed catapulting all his power toward the target, the release of all his frustrations, hitting back at last, lashing out, getting revenge finally, revenge not only against Janza but all that he represented.
Janza’s eyes leaped with surprise at the strength behind Jerry’s blow. His immediate reaction was to counterpunch but he held himself in control.
Carter’s voice. “Janza. Left uppercut.”
Again, the quick jolting neck-snapping pain as Janza, without pause or preparation, struck out. Jerry backpedaled weakly. Why should his knees give way when the blow struck his jaw?
The guys were shouting from the bleachers for more action now. The noise chilled Jerry. “Action, action,” came the shouts from the audience.
That was when Carter made the mistake. He took the slip of paper Obie handed him and read the instructions without pausing. “Janza, low blow to the groin.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Carter realized his error. They hadn’t warned the crowd about illegal punches—and there was always a wise guy out there ready to pull a fast one.
At the words, Janza aimed for Jerry’s pelvic area. Jerry saw the fist coming. He raised his fists and looked toward Carter, sensing that something was wrong. Janza’s fist sank into his lower stomach but Jerry had deflected part of the force of the blow.