by Anthony Izzo
They gathered by the punch bowl. Ronnie stuffed a handful of cheese curls in his mouth, puffing his cheeks out. Melanie Peters said, “Gross.” Jessica giggled as if charmed by Ronnie. She seemed like an okay girl so far.
The seventh graders stood in nervous clusters around the gym, the boys playing with their ties and the girls going in their purses every few minutes. It gave them something to do amid the nervous laughter and awkward silences.
The DJ played Duran Duran, The Police, and a Prince song. After Prince, a slow song came up, an old one. Jack thought it was by a band called The Temptations.
Emma leaned over and whispered in his ear, “Let’s dance.”
Here it goes.
“Okay.”
They walked side by side onto the dance floor. Jack faced Emma and slid his arm around her back. They linked hands, and she placed hers on Jack’s shoulder. Don’t let her get too close. She’ll feel your heartbeat, he thought. Who said the girls were as nervous as the guys?
They circled around, Jack trying hard not to step on her feet. He looked over at his friends and they pointed and whispered, amazed one of their group had ventured onto the dance floor.
“What did you want to tell me?” Jack said.
“I’m nervous, are you?”
“That’s what you wanted to tell me?”
“I took care of Jacob.”
“What?”
“I made him do something he didn’t want to.”
Jack gave her a puzzled look.
“I talked him into coming upstairs with me.”
“Are you nuts?” Jack said.
“Let me finish. I set a trap for him.”
“Now I’m really confused,” Jack said.
“I tricked him into pulling his pants down and pulled him on top of me. Then I screamed. Mom came upstairs and caught him.”
“That was pretty smart of you,” Jack said, as they turned. “What happened to him?”
“He’s in big trouble.”
“Cool. No more Jacob.”
He looked at her and became aware of the hand on his shoulder, the presence of it, its solidity. She smelled like flowers, and the light from the ceiling made her hair shine.
“I can always tell you things, Jack. Thanks.”
She looked over her shoulder and back at him. Emma leaned toward him and cocked her head. Her lips brushed his and she tasted like strawberries. Jack felt as if he had just taken the first hill on the Comet at Crystal Beach. The room floated around him, as if it were just the two of them. She pulled away, a blush filling her face.
“You’re turning red. Are you okay?” she asked.
“I’m great.” He would later rewind this moment and play it back hundreds of times in his head.
In his moment of glory, he didn’t see Vinnie Palermo slip through the gym doors.
CHAPTER 36
Vinnie Palermo smoldered outside the gymnasium doors.
That fat pussy Winter had gotten him detention. The second Lewis had sentenced Vinnie, he started planning revenge. He had talked Harry into getting his little brother Kenny to help them. Kenny was a wiry little fuck, and meaner than a wolverine.
Vinnie had swiped ten bucks from his mom’s purse to pay Kenny for helping, and he got Rudy Vitch to come along, too. Rudy was big enough to handle Francis, and he would fight for no money.
He waited at the gym doors. Kenny, Harry, Joe, and Rudy materialized out of the snow. Next to the other three, Rudy looked like a brontosaurus.
“What you got under your coat, Vin?” Rudy asked.
Vinnie produced an egg carton. “These have been sitting under my bed. We’re going to give those little shits an egg bath.”
Vitch laughed. Kenny danced back and forth like a boxer waiting to charge out of the corner.
“You guys ready?” Vinnie asked.
They all nodded.
“Hurry up. I’m freezin’,” Harry said.
“I’ll go in and get Francis to come out first. The other turds will follow him. Rudy, you jump Francis when he comes out. We’ll handle the other ones.”
Vinnie took an egg from the carton and cradled it in his palm.
“I knew he would kiss a girl first,” Paul said. “Who’s going out there next?”
Ronnie tugged at Jessica’s sleeve. “We are,” he said.
“Watch it,” Jessica said. They hit the dance floor, leaving Paul, Chris, and Melanie standing at the punch bowl.
“Fussel, why don’t you ask someone to dance? Sara and Emily are standing over there by themselves,” Chris said.
He pointed to Sara Ray and Emily Stoldt. They stood at the end of the snack table.
“Are you nuts?” Paul said.
“Go on. Ask one of them.”
“I need more snacks.”
“You’re going to dance with someone before we leave,” Chris said.
“I wish someone would ask me to dance,” Melanie said, scowling at Chris, who didn’t notice.
“Yeah.” Chris nudged Paul with his elbow. “Dance with Melanie.”
Melanie took Paul by the hand. His whole arm tingled and before he could protest, she led him onto the floor. Jack and Emma had broken the ice, and now other kids braved the dance floor. They did the same box-step the others did as The Temptations song came to an end. The DJ put on another slow Motown tune.
“You’re not a bad dancer,” she said. A smear of punch dotted the corner of her mouth. It made her look cute. It also made him wish he’d asked Melanie to the dance.
“Did Chris tell you to say that?”
“No.”
“Honest?”
“Honest, Paul.”
They turned and spun under the yellowish light in the gym. The scents of Old Spice and Brut hung in the air. Cologne borrowed from fathers and big brothers. Melanie smiled at him, and he returned it. He could get used to this, dancing with girls.
Someone bumped his arm and jarred him.
Chris dipped the ladle into the punch bowl, lifted it, and let the red fluid dribble into his cup. Something jabbed him in the kidney and he turned, expecting to see Jack or Paul standing behind him. Instead he found Vinnie with one hand tucked inside his denim jacket.
“Hey, Francis.”
“Get lost,” Chris said.
“You like eggs?”
“Piss off, I said.” Chris reached out and shoved him.
Vinnie recoiled and slipped the hand from inside his jacket. He had a white object in his hand and whipped it at Chris, pelting him in the chest. The shell cracked, and cold egg dribbled down his shirt. It stank like sulfur. Vinnie made sure his ammunition was rotten, the prick.
“You want toast with your eggs?” He laughed, a barking sound. Chris started forward and Vinnie darted away, shoving Billy Marino as he went. He flung open the gym door and raced outside. Chris stomped through the crowd, intent on squeezing Vinnie’s neck until his eyes popped like grapes. He whizzed past Jack, who said, “Wait!”
He reached the doors with Jack and Paul in tow. Through the glass, Vinnie waited, waving him forward, issuing the challenge. Chris plowed through the doors and the moment he was outside, it felt as if someone dropped a heavy punching bag on his back. It drove him forward and crunched him into the pavement.
Jack followed Chris out the door. A kid nearly as big as Chris tackled his friend and Chris hit the ground with a smack. The big kid was on top of Chris, shoving Chris’s face into the snow. Paul came out, followed by Emma. Harry grabbed Jack and Joe Leary yanked Paul aside. Another smaller kid jumped out from behind a snowbank and kicked snow on Chris. It was Kenny Cross, Harry’s little rat of a brother.
“Beat the shit out of them,” Vinnie said. “Fatty should be out any second.”
As if on cue, Ronnie hit the doors like a Brunswick against a bowling pin. He skidded on the snow and stopped three feet past Jack.
Chris was still on the ground, swinging elbows at the big kid sitting on top of him. The big kid fired rabbit punches into the ba
ck of Chris’s head, and Kenny Cross kicked him in the ribs. Leary clipped Jack in the ear and spun him around. Harry shoved Paul, and Paul tumbled into a snowbank.
“Can’t fight your own battles, can you?” Emma said.
“Shut up,” Vinnie said. “Come here, fat boy.”
He waved Ronnie on, but Ronnie instead charged forward, wrapping his arms around the big kid’s neck and knocking him off balance. Chris threw another elbow and dislodged the kid from his back. As Chris rose, Kenny kicked him again in the ribs.
Ronnie rolled to his feet but before he could turn, Vinnie slammed his knee into his head. Ronnie hit the ground like a box of hammers and Vinnie booted him in the gut. Ronnie moaned and rolled over.
What was with these guys? If they didn’t stop, one or all of them were going to take a trip to County Memorial tonight. It was like fighting a miniature version of the Hell’s Angels.
Chris lifted his arm and blocked Kenny’s boot from striking again. He snapped a jab at Kenny and caught him square on the nose. Kenny reeled away, covering his nose and whimpering. The big kid charged Chris, and Chris wrapped his arms around him. The two of them looked like crazy slow dancers, Chris with the kid in a bear hug, and the kid shifting his shoulders back and forth to break the hold.
Paul wasn’t faring much better. He hit the ground and tucked his knees into his chest. He covered his head with his arms, like one of those kids in the nuclear attack films from the fifties. Harry slapped him in the head, saying, “Get up, Fussel.”
He was half crouched over Paul, so Emma came up behind him, cocked her leg, and kicked him, planting her toe in Harry’s scrotum. Harry grabbed his crotch, howled, and hopped away from Paul, cupping his nuts the whole time. Jack was busy dodging punches from Leary, and he was never so glad for the cavalry to arrive.
Mrs. Eckerd pushed open the door. “Vincent! Joe!”
She hurried down the steps, followed by Mrs. Avino, the eighth grade science teacher.
Vinnie took a look at them. He stomped on Ronnie’s outstretched hand and it made a sound like chalk snapping.
“Let’s go,” he said. Vinnie ran and the other goons followed.
The teachers grabbed Ronnie by the arms and hoisted him up. He looked as steady as someone who had just downed a fifth of whiskey. Blood dribbled down his chin and Mrs. Eckerd cupped her hand under his lip, catching the drops. Chris followed them, his hand pressed against his right side.
“You okay, man?” Jack said.
“I think they busted my ribs, the bastards.”
Jack took his friend’s arm and wrapped it around his shoulders, allowing Chris to use him as a support. It was like trying to lug a concrete sack around, but he needed to help his buddy.
“Follow me,” Mrs. Eckerd said.
She led them to the principal’s office and flipped on the lights. They buzzed to life.
Paul, Chris, Emma, Ronnie, and Jack sat in the orange plastic chairs across from the secretary’s desk. Chris leaned back in the chair, hand on his side, eyes closed, and sweat dribbling down his forehead. He had taken the worst of it. Ronnie didn’t look much better. He held a balled-up tissue to his lip, now dotted with blood. His eyes were those of a dead fish, glassy and blank.
“Ronnie?” Jack said.
“What time does class start?” Ronnie asked.
“He might have a concussion,” Paul said.
Mrs. Eckerd took out a key ring and opened the top drawer of a gray filing cabinet. She took out a white box with a green cross on it and opened it. She took out a piece of gauze and pressed it to Ronnie’s lower lip.
“Chris, how is your side?”
“Hurts bad.”
“I’m calling the paramedics and your parents. That rotten little shit,” she said.
Jack had never heard a teacher swear. That was like being mooned by a priest or given the finger by a librarian. People like that didn’t do those things.
Mrs. Eckerd said, “We’re having a conference with all the parents, Christmas break or not.”
She licked her finger and used it to open a file folder. She dialed a number, spoke with Mrs. Winter, and then called the paramedics.
Five minutes later, two paramedics in pressed white shirts hurried in. One of them knelt in front of Ronnie. He took out a penlight, clicked it, and waved it in Ronnie’s eyes. The other guy knelt in front of Chris and pressed a stethoscope to his chest.
“What happened?”
Jack turned to see Ronnie’s mom standing in the doorway with a woven purse slung over her shoulder.
“Ronnie.”
She swooped down on Ronnie, nudging the paramedic out of the way.
“He has a concussion. We need to get him in for a CT scan.”
“This kid’s ribs are busted. You’re going for a ride,” the paramedic in front of Chris said.
They ran out of the room, presumably to bring back a gurney.
“How could you let this happen?” Cassie said.
“Here.” Mrs. Eckerd handed Cassie a fresh paper towel. “His lip is bleeding.”
“Some of the other boys jumped them, Mrs. Winter.”
“You didn’t answer my question,” Cassie said.
Just don’t piss her off, Jack thought.
“It happened very fast,” Mrs. Eckerd said.
Cassie pressed the paper towel to Ronnie’s bottom lip.
“Mom, my head hurts,” he said.
“Who did this?”
Jack said, “Vinnie and his friends.”
“The same ones who dumped garbage on you?”
Ronnie nodded.
“Give me names, Jack,” Cassie said.
“Vinnie, Joe Leary, Harry Cross, Kenny Cross, and some big kid I never saw before.”
He regretted saying that immediately. He liked Vinnie about as much as the stomach flu, but he didn’t want to see him hunted down by the Wraith.
“Let’s go.” She clutched Ronnie’s hand and he stood up.
“Mrs. Winter, he needs to go to the hospital.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Cassie said.
She led Ronnie out the door as the paramedics returned carrying a gurney with the wheels folded up.
Jack’s dad appeared in the doorway, followed by Mr. Francis. Mrs. Eckerd rounded the counter and intercepted the fathers. “The kids got jumped by some other students,” she said. “They need to take Chris to the hospital for his ribs.”
“What little son of a bitch did that?” Mr. Francis asked.
“Watch your language, please.”
“Was it the Palermo kid?” Jack’s dad said.
“We’ll need to meet about this next week,” Mrs. Eckerd said.
“I should call the cops,” Jack’s dad said.
It looked like Jack Harding Sr. had his tomahawk out, ready to make war.
“That’s up to you, I guess,” Mrs. Eckerd said.
The paramedics had Chris on the gurney ready to go.
How the hell did it come to this?
CHAPTER 37
Jack sat in the backseat, listening to the slush and snow hit the underside of the car. He peeked over the seat and looked at the speedometer. The needle stayed at twenty, Dad taking it easy the whole ride home.
“I can just about see with this snow,” Dad said.
Jack thought of Chris being wheeled out on the stretcher, the first time he had ever seen something like that. Chris, the strongest out of their group, the one who dragged two of them along when they tried to tackle him in football. He looked shrunken on that stretcher.
“What do you think will happen to Chris?” Paul said.
“He’ll be all right,” Jack said. He really had no idea but didn’t want to worry Paul.
“That Palermo kid’s a little bastard,” Dad said. He honked the horn at an unseen driver. “Don’t tell your mother I swore in front of you.”
“What do we do about the sleepover? I’m afraid not to go,” Paul said.
“How do I know?”
Right now the party at Ronnie’s was about as appealing as a trip to the guillotine. At least that was quick. One sharp cut and off with the noggin, nothing compared to the tortures Cassie might inflict. Or so Jack imagined.
“You always know,” Paul said.
“Right now I don’t, ’kay?”
“Maybe he’ll move away,” Paul said.
“Not likely.”
They continued home in silence, save for the occasional muttering of “bastard” or “son of a bitch” from his father.
John set the picture of Ray and Maureen in the brown suitcase. He would not see them again, never kiss his wife between the shoulder blades before sleep, never toss his son in the air and catch the boy. And it was all because of that red-haired bitch. Didn’t matter now because he was done with her and the whole sick situation.
He placed razor, deodorant, and other essentials on top of his clothes and topped it off with the .45 from the bureau drawer.
It might be nice out West, sitting under a palm tree somewhere and getting lost in the latest Robert Ludlum novel. Anything to get away from Cassie and the slop that passed for weather in this area. She had at least paid him well, and he had a little over a hundred thousand stashed away at First Federal. He would hit the bank, buy a plane ticket, and ride into the California sun. Then try and occupy himself, maybe work as a bodyguard for someone famous and forget about his family best as possible.
He zipped the suitcase up and headed for the closet to fetch his coat. The phone rang.
“Hello?”
“It’s Kempf.”
“Good-bye,” John said.
“You might want to talk to me.”
“I’ve got a plane to catch.”
“It happened again,” Kempf said.
“Where?”
“Near the old Conrail tracks. Couple of teenagers. We found a bottle of Jack in their car and the boy’s head in the backseat.”
Suddenly the receiver felt as if it were cast from iron. He wanted to let it slide from his hand and thud to the floor.
“You there?” Kempf said.
“What do you want from me?”
“Help me find it. You know the tunnels.”