Beyond the Chocolate War

'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