by Ron Carpol
Grossberg walked over to me. “Don’t want to know how, but did you take care of what we talked about last night?”
“Yeah. Again, thanks a lot.”
“But now I got some bad news for you.”
“What now?”
“As The Jewish Connection,” he said sarcastically, “I spoke to Hasse and Brimmer about not blackballing you.”
“Yeah? So?”
“Brimmer still hates you. And Hasse isn’t crazy about you either.”
“Hasse? I saved that ungrateful son-of-a-bitch from getting kicked out of school.”
“He mentioned that. But he says that if you’re an active, you’ll probably do something next semester to get the entire fraternity kicked out of school and he still won’t graduate.”
“That bastard.”
“Anyway,” he said quickly, “it’s pretty unlikely that you’ll get a 2.0 so the whole thing’s academic.”
“Look. I really appreciate last night’s tip-off. But this is something altogether different.”
“What do you mean?”
I flunked out of charm school in kindergarten. My voice got hard. “We got a deal, remember? If I win, you keep the money. But you’d better deliver your end.” I turned around and walked away toward Vysell and Batman who, like most of the other guys there, were standing around drinking beer hidden in paper bags.
From time to time I spotted Stovepipe’s still-injured, puffy-lipped face staring daggers at me. A couple of times his fingers traced a noose around his neck before he yanked the imaginary rope upward toward the sky. Then he pointed a finger at me. He snickered back when I blew him a kiss each time.
Finally the mailman lady turned the corner of the cul-desac, wheeling the brown mailbag containing its lethal message for me toward the house despite my silent prayer that she’d step on a land mine and blow up her cargo.
Bookie tried to clear a path for the hefty woman. “Make way!” he yelled. “Make way, or she’ll go postal!”
The crowd parted like the Red Sea as the nervous woman pushed the silver tripod onward toward the front steps, finally stopping in front of Bookie.
“What’s going on here?” she asked.
“Waiting for an important letter.”
She looked around at the mob and laughed. “Must be damn important.”
Bookie flashed a weak smile. Always a big shot, he actually looked a little nervous. Maybe he realized that putting up twenty grand just to win two hundred was a stupid bet. Especially after he saw me manipulate so many people already.
“Give me all the mail, please,” he asked.
“Fine with me.”
The muscular lady reached into the bag and pulled out two large stacks of mail, each circled with a rubber band. She handed everything to Bookie.
“Make way!’ somebody shouted. The woman turned around and wheeled her remaining cargo through the parted mob and out of sight.
Bookie stood on the top step, looking down at us like an actor on the stage starring in a one-person performance. Naturally I was standing at the front of the crowd along with Grossberg and Vysell and Batman, only a few feet away from Bookie. Immediately, he started shuffling through the envelopes, no doubt searching for my grade transcript. He was silent and seemed to be more nervous as he leafed through each of the envelopes.
From the second pile he pulled out a white envelope. He held it up. “Easiest two hundred I ever made!” he screamed triumphantly.
My heart was thumping loud and fast. Here it was. Now or never. The whole fucking semester’s climax. In Bookie’s grubby hand. I started feeling sorry that I even started pledging. I knew right then, the Marines couldn’t be worse. Even if I got sent to Iraq I’d find some way to scam everybody there. On either side.
Bookie was still holding the envelope in the air. “I’m going to open it now,” he said dramatically, like he was announcing the winner of the Academy Award for best picture.
Taking as much time as he could for the full theatrical effect, he ripped the short side of the envelope open, letting the thin edge of paper slowly drift downward onto the steps. He pushed up his shirt-sleeves to his bony elbows. Then held the left edge of the envelope in his left hand and with his right hand slowly slid out the white piece of paper, folded in thirds. He straightened it and his eyes quickly scanned the document.
“What the hell’s this?” he blurted out, looking down at me. In one quick motion, he wadded the paper into a ball and threw it at me.
I bent down and picked up the squished paper ball next to my right shoe.
“What is it?” a bunch of people demanded.
I hurriedly flattened out the paper and read it. I DECIDED NOT TO BUY YOUR WATCH. PICK IT UP AT MY OFFICE. PROFESSOR CHESTERFIELD.
FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! That cocksucker wouldn’t take the bribe! He was giving me an F! I was out of here!
Grossberg grabbed the paper from me. “What is it? Your face is white.” He read the letter. “So what’s the big deal?”
All enthusiasm for anything to do with this fraternity or even the school finally drained out of me. I didn’t answer him. Instead I turned around and walked to the back of the crowd burying myself between strangers. Better to hear my death sentence from a distance.
“Where’s Stafford’s grades?” Grossberg yelled out.
“I’m looking, I’m looking,” Bookie snapped impatiently, quickly rifling through the letters again. Half a minute later his shit-ass smile returned. “Got it.”
Somehow Lyman and me locked eyeballs. He smiled, then waived the fingertips on his right hand gesturing good-bye.
With the same melodrama as before, Bookie peeled down the side of the envelope and removed the transcript with his right hand. He let the envelope drop. Slowly he straightened out the paper that was also folded in thirds.
He looked at the audience. “Grades for Kurt Stafford!” he called out loudly with renewed fanfare. Then he looked down and slowly started reading them off: “Sociology, D. English, D. Economics, C. Man & Civilization, A?”
“A 2.0! You lose asshole!” some guy screamed from the middle of the crowd that suddenly erupted with laughter.
I couldn’t fucking believe it! An A and a C equals two B’s. And two B’s and two D’s equals four C’s. It was a 2.0 average!
After a split-second of silence, Bookie’s eyes opened extra-wide and his mouth stayed open like a shell-shocked victim. He read the transcript again. “This is bullshit!” he screamed in a cracked, uneven voice. “Stafford faked it!”
Christianson, with a big smile, pushed through the crowd and walked up to Bookie. “Let me see it,” he said, grabbing the paper from Bookie’s quivering hand. Half a minute later he said, “Looks official to me.” He turned it over. “School seal’s imprinted on the back side. Transcript’s real. Bookie, you lose.”
Adams squeezed his way over to Bookie and took the rest of the mail. “Pledges,” he yelled, “in the house, and I’ll give your grades.”
Christianson grabbed Grossberg’s arm. “Come get your money. I don’t want to hold it any more.”
Bookie rudely shoved through the crowed, ramming people aside like a blocking fullback until he stood right in front of me, his gut less than an inch away from mine. His face was still red with anger. With his sour-smelling breath he screamed, “You son-of-a-bitch! My personal mission is getting you out of the fraternity!”
“You agreed not to blackball me if I won the bet,” I calmly reminded him.
“This has nothing to do with the bet. I’m getting you out for having faggot sex!”
I smiled. “But you’ve got to prove it.”
He answered smugly, “We’ll all see him tonight.”
_____
Once inside the house, Grossberg was totally in shock, quickly stuffing the ten grand into the front two pockets of his jeans. He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Deliver.”
About fifteen minutes later every pledge was notifie
d that they had passing grades.
Still smiling, Christianson gave Vysell Bookie’s IOU for all the electronic shit in Bookie’s apartment.
Bookie was waiting for us on the porch. “On Monday when I get the cash and repay you for my home theatre, you guys will be strangers here; neither actives or pledges.” He turned away and snapped over his right shoulder, “Meanwhile I’m going to Kinko’s.” Then he flashed a crooked smile. “Be at the pier in half an hour. You’ll see why.”
_____
Around an hour later me and most of the fraternity were wandering around the pier again, staring at about a hundred large posters, each with Jody’s color picture, stating Bookie’s thousand dollar offer for information locating Jody within 24 hours, complete with Bookie’s cell phone number.
_____
4:00 P.M.
Rainey walked into Jerry’s Famous Deli in the Marina and joined me and Batman and Vysell in a large, semi-circular booth in front of one of the TVs showing a basketball pre-game show. We were nearly finished with our pastrami sandwiches and third Heineken.
“Grossberg said you guys were here,” Rainey explained, taking a menu from the middle-aged, obese waiter who lisped worse than Elmer Fudd. Rainey looked directly at me. “Stafford, you got a major problem.”
“What’s it now?” I asked weakly, doubtful that things could get any worse.
Since I was never particularly good friends with this guy, my antenna for trouble started beeping loudly.
“I’m only here because of what Batman and Vysell said you did for them last night on the pier with the photos. Pretty impressive. You didn’t have to do it. In fact if they hadn’t personally told me how you saved their asses with those pictures, I wouldn’t have believed it.”
“Why?”
“Because your reputation with the pledge class is lower than whale shit on the bottom of the ocean.”
I was really surprised. “What do you mean?”
He snickered. “Start with Watson, trying to blame him in jail for supplying liquor to you guys.”
Both Vysell and Batman fidgeted uncomfortably while avoiding my eyes.
“That cop got me wrong.”
Rainey smiled, obviously enjoying my discomfort. In fact, almost everybody seemed to enjoy my discomfort.
“Then Ovary and the letter about his father. You deny that?”
“Hell yeah. I had nothing to do with him quitting.”
“Or Higgins?”
“That crip couldn’t take a little kidding, that’s all. Besides, I think he was a faggot.”
“Yeah,” he scoffed. “Something’s always the matter with everybody else but you.”
I didn’t like the way this conversation was going. “So anyway, what’s my newest problem?”
“You know this Survivor game we’re playing tonight, where we vote out one of the pledges?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, Lyman’s mounted a pretty strong campaign to get enough pledges to vote you out.”
I was totally taken by surprise. “What’re you talking about?”
“Besides himself, he’s got Holmes, Dung, Castle, Rickshaw Boy. Five votes for sure. But probably six. Rawlings. If Lyman gets him, that’ll finish you off.”
“How do you know?” Batman asked.
“Because Rawlings called me this morning, trying to get me on their side. He told me all about it.”
“But after what you did last night for these two,” Rainey said, “I’m voting on your side.”
“So who do we have then?” Vysell asked.
“Just us four,” I answered nervously. “Hopefully Rawlings isn’t committed yet. Maybe we can still get him. If we can, who’s left?”
“Grossberg.”
“Who’s side is he on?”
“He said he’s abstaining. Not going to vote any pledge out no matter what.”
“So Rawlings is the key vote now,” I answered slowly, wondering how to get out of this mess. “We got to have Rawlings. Is there any chance we can get him to go with us?”
Rainey shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know but I don’t think so.”
“Why is he so loyal to Lyman?”
“Because Lyman helped him with his assignments all semester; even helped him with his term papers and got him through finals. He said plenty of times that he’d never have made grades without Lyman.”
“But all that’s over now, right?”
Rainey nodded. “Yeah. But so what?”
“So I have something that Rawlings wants now.”
“What?”
“It’s a secret. I’ll deal with him directly.”
“But what about what Lyman did for him?”
I finally got a chance in this conversation to smile. “You idiot. Lyman is like yesterday’s newspaper; Rawlings doesn’t need him any more.”
_____
“Why aren’t witnesses enough to prove it’s a guy,” Bookie whined to Christianson.
Most of the actives and pledges were in the living room watching TV and listening to Bookie receive more phone calls than some radio talk-show hosts get in a week.
“Over two dozen people all said that Jody was a guy,” Bookie persisted. “Some even said they saw his dick.”
“Got to have better proof,” Christianson answered. “Bring him in or get a nude photo.”
Bookie’s answer was interrupted by the ring of my cell phone. It was Gussie.
“Somebody’s been calling the number on the poster to sell Jody’s address but the line is always busy.”
“Wait a minute.”
I walked outside, onto the lawn. “Where’s Jody now?” I whispered.
“Back at my place. But he’ll be at your fraternity house waving hello to everybody with his eleven-inch dick as soon as I find your address unless we renegotiate our deal.”
“Now how much?”
“Three thousand within the hour. I’m not waiting any longer.”
“But it’s nearly 5:15 now.”
“Want to see Jody flash your fucking friends?” she asked laughing before hanging up on me.
_____
5:45 P.M.
“She’ll never stop bleeding you as long as Bookie’s on the trail,” Vysell said, driving along with me and Batman heading to the pier again.
We hurried down the wooden-planked runway, rushing into Gussie’s shop where the sound of a crying brat broke the silence.
“I’m back here,” came Gussie’s voice. “Check my work.”
She was busy in the back room tattooing some topless bottle-blonde on the wrong side of forty, whose faint, dark mustache likely matched the hair below her waist. In red script, Gussie was printing the word HOT under this debutante’s right nipple that was circled in red, orange, and yellow flames. Already under the left one was the word COLD, surrounded by about a dozen ice cubes.
This pig smiled proudly while occasionally moving the rusty handle of a baby buggy back and forth even though the little bastard in there kept screaming.
“Wait in front,” Gussie ordered. “Be done in a few minutes.”
Five minutes later Gussie joined us seconds before Castle walked in, carrying a pile of wanted posters.
“Reward’s up to four thousand,” he said smugly. “Seem’s Bookie will pay anything to get you guys out.”
An instant smile appeared on Gussie’s greedy face. “Great.”
“You know where Jody is?” Castle asked anxiously.
“Maybe four thousand will make me remember.”
Castle handed Gussie a reward poster. “Good. Call the number here immediately.”
“Fuck you,” Vysell snorted at Castle before Castle turned around and left.
As soon as the woman with the new plumbing directions on her tits wheeled out her screeching kid and paid Gussie and left, I didn’t have to guess what was coming next.
“It’s five grand now. Your last payment ever.”
I stared at her in silence for a few seconds before speaking
in a loud whisper. “We’ll be right back.”
The three of us huddled outside.
“When’s this shit going to end?” Vysell asked. “She’ll bleed you forever.”
I rubbed my nose in the damp night air. “Of course you’re right but I’ve got a lot riding on this. Besides the three of us will get kicked out too.”
“So what’re you going to do?” Batman asked anxiously.
I already knew. “You’ll see. Come on back inside.”
The smug son-of-a-bitch already had the electronic charge machine in her hand.
“The card, sonny,” she demanded.
Reluctantly I handed it to her and she started punching in the numbers. Seconds later the words on the small black screen read CALL FOR APPROVAL. She quickly dialed an 800 number, spoke a few words into the phone and handed it to me.
Some guy with a big radio announcer’s voice asked me a bunch of personal questions thinking I was my father whose name was on the card. Luckily I knew all the answers until he came to the last question:
“What’s your social security number?”
I slammed the phone down in disgust.
Gussie’s eyes got big. “What’s the matter?”
I’d had it! I took a few steps toward her with my right arm outstretched, touching the mole on the side of her nose with my forefinger. “Listen you fucking bitch!” I snarled. My eyes tightened and my voice was a whisper like from The Godfather. “I already paid you, I don’t even know how much, to keep your fucking mouth shut.” She kept backing up a little as each sentence was punctuated with my fingertip poking the tip of her nose again. “But you kept demanding more and more money from me. Stupidly, I paid you. But no more.” By now her back was against the wall and she started twitching a little, finally showing the beginning of fear. “Now we got a new deal. Here’s the good news: before Monday, if Jody shows up at the fraternity house or if a naked picture of his dick gets there, I’m going to assume you double-crossed me. Then I’m coming back here and burning this place down.”
This bitch was terrified now, breathing in short gasps while standing ramrod-stiff with her eyes opened fully wide like she was in a trance picturing the fire. She was silent as I continued.