Beyond the Chocolate War

lost all perspective. He realized that he certainly didn't want Janza to know what had happened. The less Janza knew, the better it would be for everybody.

'Hey, Janza,' Obie said.

Janza had not removed his eyes from Cornacchio for an instant. He had decided that he didn't like Cornacchio. He didn't like the way Cornacchio had ignored him, had barely glanced his way. Janza liked to be recognized, did not like to be ignored.

'What?' Janza said, his voice a brief bark.

'Check the other end of the street,' Obie said. 'I thought I saw someone there.'

Janza didn't want to appear to be taking orders from Obie or anybody else. On the other hand, if somebody was lurking down the street, it was an opportunity for action, for the use of muscle.

'Okay,' he said, spitting out the word, continuing to glare at Cornacchio to show that he was not simply an errand boy.

Obie and Cornacchio watched Janza lumbering away, shoulders swinging.

'I hate that scumbag,' Cornacchio said.

Obie ignored the remark. He knew that he and Cornacchio were connected with each other by the Vigils and that Janza was an outsider. But the brotherhood of the Vigils did not make any difference to Obie as far as the attack was concerned Cornacchio was the enemy; hie was the scumbag, not Janza.

'Okay, Corny, explain. If it's not what I think it was, then what was it?'

Cornacchio flinched at the use of his nickname, knew that Obie was deliberately taunting him. But he was in no position to protest.

'The Vigils,' Cornacchio said.

Obie stepped back as if Cornacchio had spit in his face.

'An assignment,' Cornacchio said, pleased at Obie's reaction, gaining confidence. 'Bunting told Archie Costello about you and that girl. How we spotted you one night making out at the Chasm. He told Bunting to do something about it. Said the Vigils would provide an alibi.'

More than spit in Obie's face: as if a bomb had detonated nearby, leaving his body intact but sending shock waves throughout his system.

'Archie Costello gave the orders?' Disbelief in his voice. Impossible. Yet nothing was impossible with Archie.

Cornacchio nodded, gulping nervously, surprised at the way Obie had gone pale, hands groping at the air. Cornacchio was still troubled about that night at the Chasm, had replayed it a thousand times in his mind. He'd never done anything like that before. Actually, he hadn't done anything, after all, had merely held Obie a prisoner under the car. He was aware of feeling horny as he and Bunting and Harley approached the car and saw Obie and the girl. His lust and desire died, however, as he held Obie on the ground, realizing the rotten thing they were doing. But nothing had happened. That's what Bunting claimed, and Cornacchio believed him, needed to believe him. Bunting said later that it was all Archie Costello's idea, an unofficial assignment. This knowledge had greatly relieved Cornacchio. The involvement of Archie and the Vigils made it seem less serious, not such a rotten thing, more like a kind of stunt.

And nobody, but nobody, had been hurt.

Obie had regained his composure.

'Okay, tell me. What did Archie say? Precisely?'

'I can't be precise,' Cornacchio said. 'I wasn't there. Bunting told us later that it was an assignment. Unofficial but still an assignment. Look, Obie, nothing happened. Okay, I held you down, but I was only following orders.' Cornacchio knew he was stretching a point here, but he was a bit alarmed by what he saw in Obie's eyes. Wasn't sure what he saw but knew it was something to beware.

Obie's mind reeled and he ran his hand through his hair. His thoughts were a jumble of images — Archie and Laurie and Janza and Bunting and this kid in front of him, Cornacchio. Who seemed to be telling the truth. Was too smart to lie, knowing that his story could be checked. With Archie. With Bunting.

'The assignment,' Obie said. 'What was the assignment? To bushwhack? Or to do more than that?' Obie didn't want to use the word rape.

'Bunting said Archie told him: Do something. He didn't say what. Do something about Obie and the girl. So we did.' Cornacchio was confused now, realizing that Bunting had not gone into detail about the assignment. And he was worried — had he told Obie too much? He was happy to see Janza approaching.

'Nobody there,' Janza said to Obie.

His voice jolted Obie.

'Nothing but shadows.'

'I've got to get home,' Cornacchio said, doing his fighter's dance again, avoiding Obie's eyes, sensing the study Obie was making of him.

Obie nodded, eyes huge, face still pale. Looked lost. Cornacchio felt sorry for him, then remembered that Obie had called him Corny. He hated every bastard who'd ever called him Corny.

'Okay, get out of here,' Obie said at last, turning away, his voice weary, shoulders drooping.

'What the hell was that all about?' Janza asked, keeping his eye on Cornacchio until he had disappeared around the corner.

'What you don't know can't hurt you,' Obie said. Numb now, bones singing with the pain of exhaustion, all exhilaration gone. And thinking: What a guy knows can hurt him.

Rain. Pelting the streets and sidewalks and lashing at Obie as he walked toward Laurie's house. He had taken to keeping a vigil across the street from her house at various times of the day and evening, drawing comfort from being near the house she lived in, slept in, took showers in (the vision of her naked under the water's spray caused an ache in his groin), ate her meals in. The house was precious to him because she lived in it. Standing under a leafy tree for shelter, clothes soaked, hair matted — he had neglected to wear a hat or raincoat — stamping his feet now and then, he realized the futility of the solitary watch.

He saw her brother approaching from the far end of the street. Clutching a book bag to his chest, he kept his eyes down as he approached Obie, as if afraid he might be robbed. He always looked as if he expected the worst to happen. And only twelve years old. Wait until he gets to high school, Obie thought.

'When's Laurie coming home?' Obie asked, not wanting to ask this particular kid anything but the question emerging from his frustration, soaked and lonely here on this rotten street when he should be home trying to catch up on homework.

The kid didn't stop walking and called over his shoulder: 'She's home. She's been home two days.'

'Oh,' Obie said stupidly, mouth hanging open, the taste of rain bitter on his tongue.

'I don't think she likes you anymore,' her brother said, not viciously but with the uncluttered honesty of a twelve-year-old kid.

Obie did not reply, said nothing, stood miserable and abandoned, all the lights in the world dimmed and dying, knowing in the deep places of his being that he had lost Laurie Gundarson forever.

Part Three

The heat wave came without warning. In May, for crying out loud. Out of season, too early, arriving before the body was prepared, blood too thick, skin too pale. The heat rose from the streets and sidewalks as the sun hammered at the earth without mercy, shimmering from budding trees and flowering shrubs.

The heat turned the Trinity student body into a sluggish army of sleepwalkers. The exhilaration of the seniors, aware that final days had arrived and that classes were meaningless now, was muted by the waves of heat and humidity that moved indolently across the campus. Fosters plastered to corridor walls and classroom bulletin boards announcing the coming of Fair Day, the last event of the year, were met with indifferent stares or yawns.

Archie loved the heat. He loved it because other people were so uncomfortable, sweating and groaning, stalking through the heavy air as if their shoes were made of lead.

He had many ways of avoiding the blistering temperatures. Keeping cool thoughts. Controlling his emotions.