"That's right, Bunting." Archie continued to shuffle his books around on the shelf.
"Suppose I stopped coming around?"
"Then you'd just stop coming around."
Bunting wanted to say: Look at me, will you? Instead: "Wouldn't you want to find out why?"
"Not particularly. It's a free country, Bunting. You can come and go as you please." Archie had opened a book, looked through the pages, speaking absently as if his mind were on more important matters.
Dismayed, Bunting said: "But I thought—" And paused, wondering how he could say what he wanted to say delicately, diplomatically.
"Thought what?"
"I thought, you know, next year. ." And let the sentence dribble away. Archie sometimes made him feel like he was still in the fourth grade, for crissakes.
"Next year?"
Bunting knew that Archie was making him spell it out. He knew he should just walk away, tell Archie Screw you and split. But knew he couldn't There was too much at stake.
"Yes, next year. Making me, like, the Assigner. You know. After you graduate."
Archie replaced the first book on the locker shelf and took down another. A math book, spanking new, it looked as if it had never been opened.
"You are going to be the Assigner, Bunting."
"What did you say?" Bunting asked, blinking.
"I said, Bunting, that you are going to be the Assigner next year."
"Oh." He had a desire to leap and shout, go bounding down the corridor, but maintained his cool. Let the "oh" echo. Had to play it smart. The way Archie always played it. "Don't the Vigils have to vote on it or something?" Bunting said, knowing he had blundered as soon as the words were out of his mouth. Asking that question was definitely not playing it cool.
Archie looked at him for the first time, a pained expression on his face.
"Don't you take my word for it, Bunting?"
"Sure, sure," Bunting said hurriedly. "I just thought—"
"There you go, thinking again, Bunting," Archie said, turning back to the locker, taking down another textbook, looking at it as if he'd never seen it before. "There's one condition, however."
"Name it," Bunting said.
"You'll need an assistant A strong right arm, right?"
"Right," Bunting snapped.
"I know you've got your stooges. Cornacchio and Harley. Keep them around, if you want. But your right arm will be Janza. Emile Janza. ."
"Janza?" Trying not to betray his dismay. Dismay? Hell, disgust. Complete disgust.
"Emile will serve you well. He's an animal, but animals come in handy if they're trained right."
"Right," Bunting said, but thinking: When you're gone, Archie, I'll be boss and I'll choose my own right arms.
"Bunting," Archie said, looking up again, looking at him with those cool blue appraising eyes. "I'll be telling Emile about it. Emile Janza will be looking forward to his job as your assistant. And Emile doesn't like to be disappointed. He's very unpredictable and gets very physical when he's disappointed. Never disappoint Emile Janza, Bunting."
"I won't," Bunting said, trying to swallow and finding it difficult, his throat dry and parched.
"Good," Archie said, studying the book in his hand, turned away from Bunting now.
Bunting stood there, not knowing what else to say. Wanting to ask a million questions about the duties of the Assigner, but not quite sure how to proceed. And afraid to ask another dumb question.
Archie looked up, surprised. "You still here, Bunting?"
"Oh, no," he said, which was stupid. "I'm leaving. I'm just leaving. . "
Archie smiled, a smile as cold as frost on a winter window. "We'll go into details later, Bunting. Okay?"
"Sure," Bunting said, "sure, Archie."
And got out of there as fast as he could, not wanting to risk screwing up the biggest thing — despite Emile Janza — that had ever happened in his life.
Later, leaving school, without any books in his arms, of" course, Archie paused to drink in the spring air. He spotted Obie walking across the campus in his usual hurried stride, as if hounded by pursuers. Poor Obie, always worried.
Obie saw him and waved, waited for Archie to catch up to him at the entrance to the parking lot.
"What's up, Archie?" Obie said, the mechanical greeting that really asked nothing.
But Archie chose to answer. "I've just spent a few minutes guaranteeing the ruin of Trinity next year," he said.
And said no more.
"Are you going to explain what you said or just let it hang there?" Obie asked, trying to mask his impatience and not doing a very god job.
"I just told Bunting that he will be the Assigner next year," Archie said, "and that Emile Janza will be his right-hand man."
"Boy, Archie, you really hate this school, don't you? And everybody in it."
Archie registered surprise. "I don't hate anything or anybody, Obie."
Obie sensed the sincerity of Archie's reply. The moment seemed suspended, breathless, as they walked toward their cars. Obie wanted to ask: Do you love anything, then, or anybody? Or is it that you just don't have any feelings at all?
He knew he would never find out.
Carter saw his chance: Archie parking his car in the driveway at his house, stepping out of the car, pausing as if testing the atmosphere, his thin body knifelike and lethal silhouetted against the rays of a spotlight above the garage door.
The pause propelled Carter into action. Otherwise he might have hesitated, and then Archie — and the moment — would be gone.
"Archie," he called, walking toward him.
Archie turned, saw him, waited, his head haloed by the spotlight.
Carter stopped within a few feet of Archie, was tempted to turn away and get out of there but instead heard himself saying:
"I did it, Archie."
"Did what, Carter?"
"Wrote that letter."
"What letter?"
"To Brother Leon."
"I know that, Carter."
What do I do now? Carter wondered. He had never faced Archie as an adversary before.
"I want to explain about the letter."
"There's nothing to explain," Archie said, cool, unforgiving.
"Yes, there is!" Carter cried, a tremor in his voice. He had to get this over with, couldn't endure the waiting anymore, waiting for Archie to strike. He knew the trophy case was only the beginning and dreaded what would come later. "Archie, I wrote that letter to protect the school. I didn't do it for myself. I was afraid the assignment would screw us all up. I didn't do it to double-cross the Vigils. . "
"The Vigils are more important than the school," Archie snapped. "You should have come to me, Carter. Told me your doubts. I'm not the enemy. Instead, you went to the enemy—"
"I thought it was the right thing to do."
"The right thing to do," Archie mocked. "You guys make me want to vomit. With your precious honor and pride. Football hero. Boxing champ. Strutting the campus with your chest out and your head high. Carter, the ace of aces. ."
Carter had never heard such rancor, such venom in Archie's voice, Archie who was always so cool, so detached, as he had been a moment before.
"I'm sorry, Archie. I made a mistake. And I'm sorry."
Archie studied him for a moment and then turned away, his movement indicating finality, meeting over, so long, Carter.
Panicky, Carter stepped forward, hand shooting out, almost touching Archie's shoulder but stopping short at the last moment.
"Archie, wait."
Over his shoulder, Archie asked: "Something else, Carter?"
"No. . yes. . I mean. ." Flustered. Groping for words and not finding any. But having to detain Archie somehow. "What happens now?"
Archie turned full face toward him again.
"What do you want to happen?"
Is this the moment? Carter wondered. Is this when he should make his move? He had approached Archie with a bargain on his mind. First, to make his confession about the letter. Then, as amends, to tip Archie off to Obie's plan for revenge, on Fair Day and Skit Night. He paused now, deciding to stall awhile longer.