Beyond the Chocolate War

carried out orders.

'Here's a buck, Consalvo,' Obie said, handing him a dollar bill. 'Get in there and throw the balls. . '

'Not me,' Consalvo said, backing away.

'Why not? It's fun time on Trinity campus. . '

Consalvo shook his head, his black-olive eyes shining with apprehension. 'I'm not throwing any balls at Archie Costello.'

'You don't throw the balls at him. You throw them at the target and Archie Costello gets dunked—'

Consalvo had backed away several feet now. Having achieved what he considered a safe distance, he said: 'I'm not dunking any Archie Costello.'

A chorus of shouts drew Obie's attention back to the scene. A sophomore by the name of Bracken had stepped up, paid his money, and taken the three balls. He turned to the crowd, flexing his muscles comically. The crowd responded, a chorus of cheers and catcalls. Obie added his voice to the vocal fray.

Bracken was one of the wise guys. Loved dirty jokes, sly pokes in the ribs of other kids, tripping people in the corridor. Always sneaky, though, then putting on an innocent act.

He faced Archie, holding one of the balls in the palm of his right hand. As if weighing it. He looked over his shoulder at the shouting crowd, and as he turned to Archie again, the volume of shouts and calls died down. The immediate area had suddenly become a pocket of stillness. Bracken studied Archie for what seemed a long time while Archie sat there imperviously, untouched by it all, looking merely curious, apparently wondering what Bracken was about to do. As if it had nothing to do with him, really.

Bracken cocked his arm, stuck his tongue in his cheek, leaned back, pumped his arm, and let the ball fly. The ball was a bit wide of the mark. Hoots and jeers from the crowd, which Bracken accepted with an exaggerated bow.

He turned to the target again, pumped his arm, paused, waited. Studying his target. The crowd was quiet, the calliope music faint in the air. Bracken threw the ball. But softly. No pep, no steam in the throw, Obie realized. He also realized that now Bracken was only going through the motions, not intending to hit the target. Sure enough, Bracken threw the last ball without hesitation, without a windup, and again it went wide of the mark. He turned, shrugged, smiling weakly.

Obie couldn't help glancing at Archie, although he did so against his will. Archie was still perched in the chair and now there was a half smile on his face — what was the other half? Obie didn't know. Didn't want to know.

The small crowd began to disperse as the hawker tossed his balls in the air again, imploring someone to 'hit the target, dunk the kid.' The guys ignored his plea as they drifted away, avoiding one another's eyes. Sensing a lost cause, the hawker shook his head in dismay and looked at Archie curiously, a question in his eyes. Obie knew what the question was: Why won't anybody dunk you? Good question, Obie thought, and he knew the answer. The answer angered him. More than angered, frustrated him. Even as a victim, Archie retained his goddam hold over them.

'Okay, guy,' the hawker said, motioning to Archie. 'Out. I'd go broke with you there all day long. . '

Archie leaped from the chair in a graceful motion, landing lightly on his feet. Obie saw the flash of KICK ME on Archie's jersey as he joined the crowd No one kicked Archie, of course. Several guys glanced at the Sign and then looked quickly away. Obie tried to stifle his disappointment. He knew that if nobody was willing to dunk him, nobody would be willing to kick him.

But wait for the guillotine, Obie said silently. That's what counts, the guillotine. Just wait for the guillotine to fall. And Archie Costello will smile no more.

'What are you doing here, Caroni?' Brother Leon asked, looking up from his desk. He squinted toward the doorway. 'It is Caroni, isn't it?'

'Yes, it is,' David answered, closing the door soundlessly, hiding the object in his hand behind his back.

The windows were closed, but he could hear the sounds of Fair Day faintly: the carnival calliope, the muffled shouts of hawkers, typical crowd noises.

Brother Leon regarded him sternly. 'I didn't hear the doorbell. Were you announced, Caroni?'

David Caroni shook his head. He was glad to see the surprise on Brother Leon's face. Surprise had been a key element in the command. Catch Brother Leon on Fair Day when he least expects it. David was pleased at the clarity of that inner voice. Pleased, too, at how much he was in control of the situation, everything sharp and beautiful in its clarity. Clarity, that was the word of the day.

'Repeat,' Brother Leon snapped. 'Repeat: What are you doing here?'

'Detention,' David said.

'Detention?'

'Yes,' David said, enjoying Leon's bewilderment, puzzlement.

'I don't understand.'

'Detention, Brother Leon, is from the word detained. Students are detained after class when they break a rule or do something wrong—'

'I need no lectures, Caroni,' Brother Leon said, beginning to rise to his feet, pushing himself away from the desk.

'I'm not going to lecture you,' Caroni said. 'I am merely saying that you are having a detention. For breaking the rules, for doing something wrong. . '

Ah, he loved the look on Brother Leon's face, the look that said: Have you gone mad, Caroni? An unbelieving look, a look of surprise and a bit of curiosity, too. Nothing more, yet. No fear yet. Caroni was eager for that moment of fear. But not yet, not yet.

'Have you gone crazy, Caroni?'

'I am not crazy, Brother Leon. Not now. I may have been crazy before. Before the Letter. .'

'What letter?'

For a moment he had forgotten about the code and had called it the Letter. To disguise the disgusting thing to himself. But now he could use the real letter again. Especially to Brother Leon.

'F,' David said, exulting. It was going beautifully, exactly as planned, his mind clear, the words glib and perfect as he pronounced them. 'The sixth letter of the alphabet. But a terrible letter. .'

Leon had gained his feet and leaned a bit against the desk.

'Tell me what this is all about,' he demanded, his voice crackling with sudden authority. But a false authority, Caroni knew.

'It's about the F you gave me,' Caroni said, exactly as he had planned to say the words for so long. 'And about this,' he added, drawing his arm from behind his back and brandishing the butcher knife.

'Put that down,' Leon snapped, immediately becoming the teacher, as if this office were a classroom and Caroni his only student.

Caroni did not answer, merely smiled, allowing the smile to permeate his features.

Leon stepped to his right, but David anticipated his move. As Leon came around the corner of the desk, David intercepted him, slashing the air with the knife, causing Leon to fall back against the wall. Which was a mistake on Leon's part. As the Headmaster instinctively lifted his hands to protect his face, David thrust the knife into Leon's neck, just above the Adam's apple, the knife point penetrating a bit into Leon's flesh. Caroni smiled, enjoying the spectacle of Leon pinned to the wall, at bay, eyes wide with fright, skin gushing perspiration.

'Be careful, Caroni,' Leon managed to say without moving his lips, as if any movement would bring death. Which, David considered, was exactly correct.

'I am being very careful, Brother Leon,' he said. 'I don't want to harm you, don't want to injure you, don't wish to kill you.' Perfect, exactly as rehearsed. 'Not yet. .'

The effect of David's last words—'not yet' — and the knife at Leon's throat was marvelous to behold. More than David had hoped for. Brother Leon immobilized, paralyzed by fear. David felt strong and resolute, felt as though he could stay like this for hours, both he and Leon in this wonderful tableau, as if frozen on a movie screen, the projector halted or broken or both.

'Caroni, for God's sake,' Leon said through gritted teeth. 'Why are you doing this?'

'Let me tell you why,' David said. And this was the best part, this is what he had been waiting for all this time, all these months. This moment, this opportunity, this chance. 'The F, Brother Leon.