Vigils and their victims had seen it. In the garish stadium light, the boa 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 homer 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
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
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
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 back- pedaled 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.
