The Chocolate War (3 page)

Jerry closed his eyes, exhausted suddenly, and it seemed like too much of an effort even to think.

“HOW MANY BOXES?”

“Twenty thousand.”

Archie whistled in astonishment. He usually didn’t blow his cool that easily, particularly with someone like Brother Leon. But the image of twenty thousand boxes of chocolates being delivered here to Trinity was ridiculous. Then he saw the mustache of moistness on Brother Leon’s upper lip, the watery eyes and the dampness on his forehead. Something clicked. This wasn’t the calm and deadly Leon who could hold a class in the palm of his hand. This was someone riddled with cracks and crevices. Archie became absolutely still, afraid that the rapid beating of his heart might betray his sudden knowledge, the proof of what he’d always suspected, not only of Brother Leon but most grownups, most adults: they were vulnerable, running scared, open to invasion.

“I know that’s a lot of chocolates,” Brother Leon admitted, managing to keep his voice
casual, for which Archie admired him. A smart one, Leon, hard to pin down. Even though he was sweating like a madman, his voice remained calm, reasoned. “But we have tradition working in our favor. The chocolate sale is an annual event. The boys have come to expect it. If they can sell ten thousand boxes of chocolates in other years, why not twenty thousand this year? And these are special chocolates, Archie. High profit. A special deal.”

“How is it special?” Archie asked, pressing his advantage, none of that student-talking-to-teacher crap in his voice. He was here in Leon’s office by special invitation. Let Leon talk to the real Archie, not the kid who sat in his algebra class.

“Actually, these are Mother’s Day chocolates. We were—that is,
I
was—able to pick them up at a bargain price. Beautiful boxes, gift boxes, and in perfect condition. They’ve been stored under the best of conditions since last spring. All we have to do is remove the purple ribbons that say
Mother
and we’re in business. We can sell them for two dollars a box and make a profit of almost a dollar on each one.”

“But twenty thousand boxes.” Archie performed some quick calculations although he wasn’t a whiz at math. “We’re about four hundred guys in the school. That means everybody’s got to sell fifty boxes. Usually, the guys have a
quota of twenty-five boxes each to sell and the price is a dollar.” He sighed. “Now, everything is doubled. That’s a lot of selling for this school, Brother Leon. For any school.”

“I know that, Archie. But Trinity is special, isn’t it? If I didn’t think the boys of Trinity could do it, do you think I would take a risk? Aren’t we capable of what others aren’t?”

Bullshit, was what Archie thought.

“I know what you’re wondering, Archie—why am I burdening you with this problem?”

Archie, in fact,
was
wondering why Brother Leon had laid his plans before him. He had never been particularly friendly with Leon or any other Trinity teacher. And Leon was a special breed. On the surface, he was one of those pale, ingratiating kind of men who tiptoed through life on small, quick feet. He looked like a henpecked husband, a pushover, a sucker. He was the Assistant Headmaster of the school but actually served as a flunky for the Head. Like an errand boy. But all this was deceptive. In the classroom, Leon was another person altogether. Smirking, sarcastic. His thin, high voice venomous. He could hold your attention like a cobra. Instead of fangs, he used his teacher’s pointer, flicking out here, there, everywhere. He watched the class like a hawk, suspicious, searching out cheaters or daydreamers, probing for weaknesses in the students and then exploiting those
weaknesses. He had never taken on Archie. Not yet.

“Let me paint you the picture,” Leon said, leaning forward in his chair. “All private schools, Catholic or otherwise, are struggling these days. Many are closing down. Prices are going up and we have only so many sources of income. As you know, Archie, we’re not one of those exclusive boarding schools. And we don’t have any wealthy alumni to draw on. We’re a day school, dedicated to preparing young men from middle class homes for college. There are no rich men’s sons here. Take yourself, for instance. Your father operates an insurance agency. He makes a good salary but he’s hardly wealthy, is he? Take Tommy Desjardins. His father’s a dentist—very well off, they have two cars, a summer home—and that’s about tops for the parents of Trinity boys.” He held up his hand. “I’m not trying to put down the parents.” Archie winced. It irritated him when grownups resorted to student language like
put down
. “What I’m saying, Archie, is that the parents are mostly in modest circumstances and can’t absorb any more tuition increases. We have to find revenue wherever possible. Football barely pays for itself—we haven’t had a winning season for three years. The interest in boxing has fallen off now that television doesn’t feature boxing anymore …”

Archie stifled a yawn—so what else was new?

“I’m putting my cards on the table, Archie, to show you, to impress upon you, how we have to tap every source of income, how even a chocolate sale can be vital and important to us …”

Silence fell. The school was hushed around them, so hushed that Archie wondered whether the office was soundproof. Classes were over for the day, of course, but that was the time when a lot of other action got started. Particularly Vigil action.

“Another thing,” Leon went on. “We’ve kept this quiet but the Head is ill, perhaps seriously so. He’s scheduled to enter the hospital tomorrow. Tests and things. The outlook isn’t good …”

Archie waited for Leon to get to the point. Was he going to make a ridiculous pitch for the chocolate sale to be a success in honor of the sick Headmaster? “Win one for the Gipper” like some pukey late-night movie?

“He may be incapacitated for weeks.”

“That’s rough.” So what?

“Which means—the school will be in my charge. The school will be my responsibility.”

The silence again. But this time Archie felt a waiting in the silence. He had a feeling that Leon was about to make his point.

“I need your help, Archie.”

“My help?” Archie asked, feigning surprise, trying to keep any trace of mockery out of his voice. He knew now why he was here. Leon
didn’t mean Archie’s help—he meant the help of The Vigils. And didn’t dare put in into words. No one was allowed to breathe a word about The Vigils. Officially, The Vigils did not exist. How could a school condone an organization like The Vigils? The school allowed it to function by ignoring it completely, pretending it wasn’t there. But it was there, all right, Archie thought bitterly. It was there because it served a purpose. The Vigils kept things under control. Without The Vigils, Trinity might have been torn apart like other schools had been, by demonstrations, protests, all that crap. Archie was surprised by Leon’s audacity, knowing his connection with The Vigils and bringing him in here this way.

“But how can
I
help?” Archie asked, turning the screw, emphasizing the singular of himself and not the plural of The Vigils.

“By getting behind the sale. As you said, Archie—twenty thousand boxes, that’s a lot of chocolates.”

“The price is doubled, too,” Archie reminded him, enjoying himself now. “Two dollars a box, instead of one.”

“But we need that money desperately.”

“How about the bonus? The school always gives the boys a bonus.”

“As usual, Archie. A day off from school when every chocolate has been sold.”

“No free trip this year? Last year we were
taken to Boston to a stage show.” Archie didn’t care about the trip but he enjoyed this reverse position—himself asking the questions and Leon squirming, so different from the classroom.

“I’ll think of something as a substitute,” Leon said.

Archie let the silence stretch.

“Can I count on you, Archie?” Leon’s forehead was damp again.

Archie decided to plunge. To see how far he could go. “But what can I do? I’m just one guy.”

“You have influence, Archie.”

“Influence?” Archie’s voice was coming out loud and clear. He was cool. In command. Let Leon sweat. Archie was sweet and cool. “I’m not a class officer. I’m not a member of the Student Council.” Christ, if only the guys were here to see him. “I don’t even make the Honor Roll …”

Suddenly, Leon wasn’t sweating anymore. The beads of perspiration still danced on his forehead but he had become stiff and cold. Archie could feel the coldness—more than cold, an icy hate coming across the desk like a deadly ray from some bleak and lethal planet. Have I gone too far, he wondered. I’ve got this guy for algebra, my weakest subject.

“You know what I mean,” Leon said, his voice like a door slamming.

Their eyes met, held. A showdown now? At this moment? Would that be the smart thing to
do? Archie believed in always doing the smart thing. Not the thing you ached to do, not the impulsive act, but the thing that would pay off later. That’s why he was The Assigner. That’s why The Vigils depended on him. Hell, The Vigils
were
the school. And he, Archie Costello, was The Vigils. That’s why Leon had called him here, that’s why Leon was practically begging for his help. Archie suddenly had a terrific craving for a Hershey.

“I know what you mean,” Archie said, postponing the showdown. Leon could be like money in the bank, for future use.

“You’ll help, then?”

“I’ll check with them,” Archie said, letting
them
hang in the air.

And it hung.

Leon didn’t pick it up.

Neither did Archie.

They looked at each other for a long moment.

“The Vigils will help,” Archie said, unable to contain himself any longer. He had never been able to use those words—The Vigils—aloud to a teacher, had had to deny the existence of the organization for so long that it was beautiful to use them, to see the surprise on Leon’s pale perspiring face.

Then he pushed back his chair and left the office without waiting for the teacher’s dismissal.

“YOUR NAME IS GOUBERT?”

“Yes.”

“They call you The Goober?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

Archie was disgusted with himself even as he said it.
Yes, what?
like a scene from out of an old World War Two movie. But the kid Goubert stammered and then said, “Yes,
sir
.” Like a raw recruit.

“Know why you’re here, Goober?”

The Goober hesitated. Despite his height, he was easily six-one, he reminded Archie of a child, someone who didn’t belong here, as if he’d been caught sneaking into an Adults Only movie. He was too skinny, of course. And he had the look of a loser. Vigil bait.

“Yes, sir,” The Goober finally said.

Archie was always puzzled about whatever there was inside of him that enjoyed these performances—toying with kids, leading them on,
humiliating them, finally. He’d earned the job of Assigner because of his quick mind, his swift intelligence, his fertile imagination, his ability to see two moves ahead as if life were a giant checker or chess game. But something more than that, something nobody could find words to describe. Archie knew what it was and recognized it, although it eluded a definition. One night while watching an old Marx Brothers movie on the Late Show, he was held entranced by a scene where the brothers were searching for a missing painting. Groucho said, “We’ll search every room in the house.” Chico asked, “But what if it ain’t in the house?” Groucho replied, “Then we’ll search the house next door.” “What if there ain’t no house next door?” And Groucho, “Then we’ll build one.” And they immediately started to draw up plans for building the house. That’s what Archie did—built the house nobody could anticipate a need for, except himself, a house that was invisible to everyone else.

“If you know, then tell me why you’re here, Goober,” Archie said now, his voice gentle. He always treated them with tenderness, as if a bond existed between them.

Someone snickered. Archie stiffened, shot a look at Carter, a withering look that said, tell them to cut the crap. Carter snapped his fingers, which sounded in the quiet storage room like the banging of a gavel. The Vigils were grouped as
usual in a circle around Archie and the kid receiving the assignment. The small room behind the gym was windowless with only one door leading to the gymnasium itself: a perfect spot for Vigil meetings—private, the solitary entrance easily guarded, and dim, lit by a single bulb dangling from the ceiling, a 40-watt bulb that bestowed only a feeble light on the proceedings. The silence was deafening after the snap of Carter’s fingers. Nobody fooled around with Carter. Carter was the president of The Vigils because the president was always a football player—the muscle someone like Archie needed. But everyone knew that the head of The Vigils was The Assigner, Archie Costello, who was always one step ahead of them all.

The Goober looked frightened. He was one of those kids who always wanted to please everybody. The guy who never got the girl but worshipped her in secret while the big shot hero rode off in the sunset with her in the end.

“Tell me,” Archie said, “why you’re here.” He allowed a bit of impatience to appear in his voice.

“For … an assignment.”

“Do you realize that there’s nothing personal in the assignment?”

The Goober nodded.

“That this is tradition here at Trinity?”

“Yes.”

“And that you must pledge silence?”

“Yes,” The Goober said, swallowing, his Adam’s apple doing a dance in that long thin neck.

Silence.

Archie let it gather. He could feel a heightening of interest in the room. It always happened this way when an assignment was about to be given. He knew what they were thinking—what’s Archie come up with this time? Sometimes Archie resented them. The members of The Vigils did nothing but enforce the rules. Carter was muscle and Obie an errand boy. Archie alone was always under pressure, devising the assignments, working them out. As if he was some kind of machine. Press a button: out comes an assignment. What did they know about the agonies of it all? The nights he tossed and turned? The times he felt used up, empty? And yet he couldn’t deny that he exulted in moments like this, the guys leaning forward in anticipation, the mystery that surrounded them all, the kid Goober white-faced and frightened, the place so quiet you could almost hear your own heartbeat. And all eyes on him: Archie.