“Let us all bow our heads therefore once again, let us pray, each in his own way—” Proffer was saying, solemnly. ...
The lavatory was spread out before them, and appeared deserted. There were the cubicles, their doors closed, most of them. There was the one. No feet were visible in the space between the doors and the floor, in any one. Of course there was the one at the end, near the far wall, which was in a sort of secluded spot and might just be hiding a pair of feet. They started toward that cubicle. . . .
Ponce wasn’t praying. He tried to find some way to pray for poor Jill, but just couldn’t. The truth was, he found his thoughts going in a crazy circle, touching here, there, finding Rochelle, Miss Smith, and Jill as she was, always there. . . .
They were almost halfway down that line of cubicles when the door of the last cubicle burst open and a figure plunged out, catching them by surprise. They hadn’t even drawn their revolvers, and certainly they needed them now, for the figure before them was formidably armed.
“Don’t Make A Move!" They heard him shout.
Et was Chief John Poldaski, with a drop and a half on them. . . .
“Now let us all silently rise and file out of the auditorium,” Proffer was saying, finally, “Just let us go back to
Pretty Maids All in a Row 157 our classrooms, and carry on, as that wonderful girl would have wanted us to. ...”
‘‘What the hell are you doing here?” Surcher asked, sharply, after a moment or two of rattling silence.
‘‘Put that thing away,” Grady said, not too kindly.
“C’mon, do that,” Folio chimed in.
The Chief did so, slowly, fumbling around with the holster a while.
“Well?” Surcher said, eyeing him,
“Well—” The Chief said, shifting around, eyeing them, patently unhappy with everything, “I had an idea—”
“What idea?” Folio asked.
“Well—goddamn it—” The Chief said, “It’s this way—” He also said, “I got the idea—” He then said, “What about this guy, wouldn’t he just maybe give it another whirl?” He finally said. “See what I mean?” He said.
“With you here?” Grady said.
“Aren’t you supposed to be out there?” Surcher said.
“Seen that traffic? Take a look out there,” Grady said.
Poldaski stood there. The questions had staggered him.
“Listen—this is my town—” He said, finally.
“And our case,” Surcher informed him.
“So get out there,” Grady told him.
“Listen—” The Chief tried, narrowly.
“Out of here,” Surcher said, definitively.
They stood there.
Poldaski finally said, in an angry mumbling tone, “O.K. —O.K., you guys.—O.K., O.K. Yeh. You guys,” He paused—"But wanta put a bet? Huh? I bet 1 find the guy. 1*11 show you smart guys. Put that bet? Huh? Wanta?” He eyed them all. Nothing at all. He started to leave. Muttering. “Smart guys,” he muttered, at the door. “I got my leads—You’ll see—” He was halfway out the door. “Wait and see.” He was out, the door closed.
The three State Police officers looked at one another, then grinned. Then, they had a little laugh. Surcher shook his head.
Grady said, “Oh man.”
Then they finished looking around. There was nothing to be found. Surcher glanced at his watch.
They left.
On his way out of the auditorium, Tiger passed Marjorie Evanmore, and smiled at her, saying a friendly good morning to her. Her eyes sparkled and a slight flush distinctly spread over that honey of a face, as she smiled and said Hello. She moved on, with her class. He was on his way to the Guidance/Counseling Office, where he had two appointments this morning, one with Mona Drake, a Junior—a colored girl—and Hetty Nectar, that excellent Librarian, if ever there was one, who wanted to talk with him about that new list of Guidance/Counseling publications which had just come out—she needed his advice and final O.K. He would take the opportunity to have her order Eble’s book, he reminded himself, nearly out of the auditorium now and nodding here and there to students, in his way, saying good morning to some, hi, and hello, to others, there was Rochelle Hudson, whose smile now really perked up his morning, and there was Ponce, that great kid, looking a little better, though still of course under the weather, Tiger taking the opportunity to remind him there would be Practice tonight, definitely, and to pass the word along to all the boys, which of course Ponce would, without fail, and there was Jim Green, and he nodded to him, also reminding him, that really fine Right End, one of the finest he'd ever had—And Betty Smith, that sweetie sweet, a cheery good morning to her, just for her, what a smile she had—And Kathy Burns, that petite sweet, that honey, she was absolutely and without the slightest doubt one of the sweetest of little bunnies—Now there were Dink Reagan and Petie Smith, great kids, true blue, and feeling mighty blue, sort of boyfriends as they were, in a way, of the late Jill, he knew. He said a serious good morning to them. And there was Anne Williams, that cute sophomore who was coming up, on the up and up, without a doubt, a cutie if ever there was one about, he smiled at her. she caught her breath, he saw that, she smiled, she said hello, in her way. What a way. Jeannie Bonni with that nice dark hair, not unlike Rochelle’s, greeted him, she said hello and smiled at him, walking by, in her way. That girl would go places if no one else did, she was terrific out there with those majorettes, and when Marjorie finally
relinquished her post, upon graduation, or possibly
sooner, for who knew, he was sure she would be in line for the job. When was she due for her Brooder? Soon, he thought, pretty soon, he thought. He would check. Alice
Patmore *and Yvonne Mellish, probably Jill’s best friends,
he knew, passed by, looking lovely, despite all, they smiled and said hello to him, he said a compassionate hello to them. He could tell they were pretty blue. And up ahead, just entering her Home Room, was Marie Amis, he just caught a glimpse of her red hair. He loved red hair, there was this something special about it, though he couldn’t put his finger on it. Tiger chuckled to himself, coming across a special section of warmth, of good humor, all concerned and connected with red hair. Everywhere. He was chuckling, within, walking on, greeting still more students, thinking Proffer hadn’t done too bad a job, at least he had kept it short, as Jill would have wanted it, he knew. He greeted fellow teachers, feeling a special camaraderie for his colleagues, as ever, of course. And there was that little lynx Peggy' Linski, a pure Polish blond, a delightful kid, weren’t they all though. What a sweet kid. Down in Molbic, all those little Polish sweeties, blonds, most of them. Some of the best football material came from there. There was his fullback, Fifi Gaudi, now saying hi to him, he asked his Coach if there would be Practice tonight. Tiger told him. Feef, who was going to Notre Dame next year, having decided upon that one out of the dozen or so offered to him, coast to coast, nodded happily and buzzed off to his classes. There' was nothing he liked more than football. Tiger knew. He was fond of the boy, powerful line-bucker that he was. Tiger saw him as All-American without a doubt, maybe his first year, even, with the Irish. He grew warm. How many All-Americans had he turned out? He grinned, within, mighty proud. Of all the high-school coaches in the country, he must hold the record. Must. Though no one, as far as he knew, kept such records. He made a mental note to check into that. He thought of his team, all his teams, feeling good. He thought of Dink Reagan, his quarterback, whom he had passed just a little while back. What a lad. Where was he headed for? A batch were hot after him. He hadn’t decided yet. What a sparkplug he was. All he or Ponce had to do was give that kid the gist of a new tactical switch and he would do the rest, even if there were three or four minutes to go, and they might be behind. He would get it through to the team just like that, what a lad. How many times had he got them across in the last minute or so, racking up another one yet for old Sawyersville? Yes, Tiger mused, feeling pretty good, despite all, the sad event, what a crew, what a lucky guy to have material like that on his crew. He was grateful for small mercies, aware of the sad circumstances hanging over the school like a pall, thankful indeed for the quiet and happy life in many respects that he led here in Sawyersville, and the High. It made it easier to cope with the downward curve of his life, always on his mind. That was where he stood, of course, he wasn’t one to kid himself about that, the years couldn’t be held back or dispersed or reversed, he was only too poignantly aware of that, he would go forward, unidirec-tionally, to his end. Nothing could halt that trend. But he was entrenched happily here, in his own little sphere, and he did what he could, to help everyone. How many could say that? He mused over that. He turned a corner and headed down the hall on his last lap to the Guidance/Counseling office now, where Mona would probably be waiting already for him. He knew. They had a lot to do, to get through. He mused. Affluence was a phenomenon of this century, its base being precisely that which any self-respecting cultured intellectual or at least individual would acknowledge, right off: Technology. At least in great parts of the world. For that was the rub, the irony, wasn't it—the rich got richer and the poor poorer, despite everything, speaking of nations, that is, the have and have-nots, that is. The developed and under-developed countries, so to speak, grew further and further apart, no doubt of it. It was that vexing, trying, most difficult question of getting them to that taking-off point. Taking off. Tiger mused. They had to take off. or never get there. And while in fact what was there was something to ponder thoughtfully about, at least it was something, certainly not starvation, pure and physical, he knew. Or misery, through and through. He had arrived, practically.