“WHAT’S THE DIFFERENCE?”
“Now, now, there now, Ponce, take it easy—”
"Don't you believe me?”
“Why shouldn’t I believe you?”
“Mr. Proffer! Boy! I’ll show you! C’mon with me— Holy Cow Wait'll You See! WOW! Right! Now!”
And the genial Principal did begin to conceive that something fairly unusual might just be up. This boy, he knew, was no crazy young pup. On everybody’s list, Tiger’s especially, he was right up. Furthermore, he had become aware of a certain unusual amount of noise and activity out there, somewhere, all over the school, it seemed. Almost like a herd. Stampeding. Herd. Come to think of it, just before the fiery entrance of the boy he had heard something, yes, far off, it seemed, which might even have been a —scream. He got up.
“HOLY COW!”
Ponce flew through the door, which was open, fortunately, yelling that out, and Mr. Proffer followed, hot on his heels. They flashed by the still petrified Miss Craymire, who looked on, utterly unable to move from her chair. . . . She merely noted, mentally, incredulous as ever, that her beloved Boss was still alive, somehow. . . . She was thankful. . . exceedingly . . . though paralyzed—totally.
Sawyersville’s Chief of Police, John Poldaski, urgently summoned from his normal duty post (for this time of day) (in fact, most of the day) at the corner of Twelfth Street and Whitmaker Avenue, the hub of Sawyersville, where he kept his eye on traffic, strangers, friends, relations. acquaintances, the weather, the Roll of Honor, the Pool Room, and this and that, arrived at the high school with a ferocious squealing of tires, and brakes, also. He catapulted himself out of the brand new Borough of Sawyersville Police Car (fully equipped with the latest crime-combating apparatus, including a twelve-gauge Remington, which, from time to time, he used for hunting), sprinted across the well-kept lawn and grounds, and burst into the high school, pistol drawn, though fortunately, and unbeknown to him, with the safety on.
He pushed his way past a cluster of students, and local citizenry, among whom were numbered a smattering of Selmo’s Bar stalwarts, located next door to the high school, rushed up the short stairway just beyond the entrance, got as far as the landing, paused, turned, as if remembering something, and said to the cluster, “Where is she?” in his barking baritone.
A fusillade of voices hit him, from which he learned nothing.
“Goddamnit! Shut Up! SHUT UP WILL YA!” He roared out, “You—somebody—Hey, Grotto—TELL ME!” He
added.
The so-named, as it happened, one of Selmo’s stalwarts, fired at him. “Stop wavin’ that fuckin’ thing. Is it Loaded?"
"Don’t piss around!“ the Chief roared.
“Who’s pissin’? You wanta kill somebody?” He had thrown at him.
A barrage of voices erupted again, slugging it out before him.
“FUCK.!” roared the Chief, turning his back on them,
“Listen, you gave me a ticket only last week for going through that Stop sign! Remember me?” The man said.
"Who The Hell Are You?" The Chief reiterated, grasping him by the arm, firmly.
“Mr. Hinkle! Ralph Hinkle! I teach here—Chief!"
“Yeh? Do you?” The Chief snarled.
Another voice hit him and looking up he saw someone being made way for by the mob.
“Chief! I’m here!"
It was Proffer. He drew up beside the Chief.
“Know this guy?” Poldaski inquired.
“Oh, that’s Mr. Hinkle, John. He teaches here.”
“Don’t you remember me?” The teacher asked again.
The Chief nodded, and released his grip, finally.
“Don’t run away,” he told him, following Proffer. “Anybody touch anything?” Now he asked.
.“I don’t think so.”
“In here?"
They had reached the lavatory door.
“That’s right, Chief.”
Poldaski surveyed the mob.
“Put some of your teachers outside the door. Don’t want anybody else in there,” he said.
TU do that, Chief,” he was informed.
They entered the lavatory.
“Huh.” ~^-8j
The Chief said.
“Huh.”
Poldaski said.
Moving to another position.
“I’ll be goddamned.”
He said, standing there.
“Jill Fairbunn, ain’t it?” He finally said.
‘That’s it. Chief.” Proffer, very quietly, said.
“Huh.”
The Chief said.
And stood there.
“Who the hell’d wanta do that?” He finally asked.
He got no answer.
He looked around. All around. He turned to Proffer. “Better call in the Staties,” he told him. quietly.
The Chief was referring to the organization which dealt
and sprinting off, somewhere, past the landing, past another set of doors, and into a hallway.
“Chief! Oh, thank God you’ve come!”
Poldaski whirled to his left, gun still drawn, and faced Miss Nectar, School Librarian.
“Where is she?” he demanded.
“Follow me, just follow me, Chief Poldaski,” she offered.
“Close all the doors! The outside doors! Lock them! Close the windows! I don’t want one window open! Lock them! He’s in here! Must still be in here!” the Chief boomed out.
“Certainly, Chief!” Miss Nectar responded.
“No!—have somebody else take care of it—I’m following you—”
“Chief, listen—just go up those stairs and turn left, it’s down the hallway—you can’t miss it—everybody's up there—”
“O.K. then! Don’t forget! All the doors! All Of Them/” And with this the Chief sprang up the stairway pointed out by the Librarian, while she fluttered.
He reached the upper hallway in record time, having taken the stairs two and three at a time, his heavy boots pounding them. And there before him, filling practically all of the hallway, was the entire school population, practically. It would soon be the entire population, plus the local citizenry and Seimo entourage he had turned his back on at the entranceway. At this moment they were pouring up that stairway, after him. The Chief plunged, pushed, prodded, butted his way down that hallway.
“It’s the Chief!”
“The Chief’s here!”
“Here’s the Chief!”
“John!”
“Poldaski!”
He heard all about him.
“Where is she?” he yelled out.
Someone had hold of his arm now.
“Thank God you’re here, man!” He heard in his ear.
“Who are you?” Poldaski demanded facing the little man who had spoken.
“Chief! Don’t you know me?”
“Hell No! Who Are You?" with serious crimes outside the immediate and/or foreseeable capabilities of local Police Forces: The State Police, no less. It was the first time he had ever done so.
“Alright, John,” Proffer murmured, nodding his head, unhappily. He was still, the truth be known, in a state of shock, or semi.
“That’s the only thing alright,” the Chief told him, in the lowest of tones, Proffer just catching it. “Get them on the phone right now. I’ll hang around.” He added.
“Yes, Chief,” Mr. Proffer managed, treading his way out of the lavatory.
“Wait! Where’s the kid that found her?” He heard the Chief shout, just as he was about to step out.
The voice of Ponce came from a comer of that lavatory, “I’m here, Chief.” And that’s alL
Poldaski faced him.
“O.K. Stay here.”
“Right, Chief,” the lad said.
Proffer was out of the place, and opening the outer door.
“Don’t let anybody out of the building! Not anybody!” The Chief yelled out to him, as Proffer walked shakily out into the teeming hallway.
“Close that door!” The Chief shouted.
“It closes automatically,” Ponce said, quietly.
The Chief turned to the lad again. There were others in the lavatory—four or five teachers (male) and a number of students (also male). Mr. Mummer was there, battered but recovering. He sat on a toilet seat, dazed, bewildered, while two of his colleagues succored him. The Chief reached for a black notepad which he had tucked away cleverly in one of his many pockets. He was somewhat hampered, however, by the pistol which he still held at the ready in his right hand, pointing more or less in the lad’s direction. The Chief in fact was getting absolutely nowhere with his free hand, and so finally he holstered the weapon, after a long look around the lavatory. He found the notepad, after a long search, and a ball-point pen also. He flipped open the notepad briskly, and found written on it. Don't Forget the Butter! In large letters, unmistakable. He ripped out the page angrily, and jammed it into one of his pockets, muttering to himself about Mary, who was always doing this. He would show her tonight, goddamn her. The rest of the pad was blank.