Yearbook (19 page)

“Bull!” Jenkins grumbled.”Everyone’s been in a fight.”

“Not me!” said the little fellow.

“Okay, you pansies!” Corky announced. “Enough chitchat. Chug-a-lug!”

The bowling alley was filled with a young crowd from the local high school. There were college students home for the holidays. Townies milled about.

A jukebox in the bar blasted out, on a doughnut 45 disc, “Oh I got a girl named Rama-Lama, Lama-Lama Ding Dong.”

The boys followed Corky, walking briskly until he spotted the two couples from the souped-up Fairlane. Stopping at the adjoining lane, he claimed it, announcing they’d park there.

Calvin and Jenkins set out to scout equipment. Corky, Troendle and Guy sat in the curved wooden booth around the huge scorepad.

“Let them play,” Corky said. “We’ll drink!”

“Bet’cha!” Troendle agreed.

Corky signaled the waitress over and ordered a couple of beers. She asked to see ID s. Troendle proudly waved his falsified draft card in her face. Corky flashed a page of his wallet, a detective displaying his badge.

“What about you?” the waitress asked of Guy.

“Bring him a Shirley Temple,” said Corky.

The waitress left. Calvin and Jenkins returned with bowling balls and rented shoes.

Corky caught the attention of the girl with the chewing gum and curlers in the next booth. When he winked at her, she played at being shy and coquettish and looked away.

Her date stood, bowling ball in hands, itchy and agitated.

“He’s getting mad,” Guy whispered to Corky.

“Christ, I should hope so!” Corky said.

“Aren’t you scared?” Guy asked out of the corner of his mouth.

“What’s there to be scared about? There are two of them and four or five of us.”

The husky fellow threw a fast ball down the lane. Halfway, it dropped into the gutter.

“Nice shot!” Corky waved to him.

The big bowler seethed with anger. Veins in his neck throbbed. Ignoring Corky, he waited nervously for his ball to return, pulling at greasy clumps of dark hair atop his head.

Corky turned to the girl in curlers. “Tell me. Is he always this friendly?”

The girl didn’t answer. Just giggled and chewed.

The waitress delivered two beers and a ginger ale with a cherry in it and demanded a dollar-five for the round. Guy quickly handed her his new ten-dollar bill.

The husky fellow was set to bowl again. As he lined up in position, Corky snapped a bill from the change in Guy’s hand and held it up, calling, “Five bucks says you can’t knock one of em down!”

Whirling around, the husky fellow grunted with great loathing, “You’re on, loud-mouth!”

Then he turned and sent his ball rampaging down the lane. It crashed like thunder smack into the head pin, and one after the other they all toppled over. Beaming, the big boy turned to Corky to collect.

“You owe me five bucks, hotshot!” Corky told him.

“Wadda ya mean?” the fellow protested. “
You
owe
me!
I got a strike!”

“So what? The bet was to knock
one
of them down. You hit all ten! Where s my money?”

Breathing heavily, the husky fellow panted in place, deciding what to do next. Then with a snap of his fingers he told his friend and the two girls, “I’ll be right back!” Still puffing, he hurried away.

Corky called to the girl behind the scorepad, “Take five points off his score forbad sportsmanship!”

The girl in curlers popped a fresh stick of gum in her mouth and smiled.

Corky summoned his comrades into an impromptu huddle. “Fatty just went for reinforcements, so let’s be awake. I think we’ve hit pay dirt.”

“ How can you tell?” Guy asked.

“Just be on your toes, kid. It could happen very fast.”

Guy was on his toes. And everything else.

Two minutes later the husky fellow returned from the bar. With him were two large boys in black leather motorcycle jackets and greasy D. A. hair styles. One meaner looking than the other.

Guy took a hesitant peek at all that hostile overweight and wondered why the hell he wasn’t third row center at the Avalon.

Corky sized up the four prospective brawlers. When he looked to Chuck Troendle, he got back an easy shrug. No problem.

Calvin’s eyes were squinting at their enemy. When Corky caught his attention, Calvin nodded affirmatively. No problem.

Jenkins, the more conservative of the gang, balanced open hands up and down like a scale. Fifty-fifty. Maybe yes, maybe no.

And Guy was convinced any one of those beasts could take on his entire entourage for breakfast and still be hungry.

Corky turned to Guy. “This is it, kid. How ya doing?”

“Fine!” Guy answered in the shrillest soprano pitch yet of his mid-pubescent period.

“Okay. Here’s what I want you to do. We might get in less trouble afterward if they start a fight with you. You’re the perfect underdog, kid. Anyone ever tell you?”

“You kidding? It’s the story of my life!”

“Okay. I want you to wait a few minutes. When you’re ready, wander over there and strike up a conversation.”

“What if they strike me first?”

“I’ll be right behind you.” Corky placed an affectionate hand on

Guy’s shoulder, and Guy figured what the hell, it was worth forfeiting his life for the comaraderie and attention of the moment.

“Talk to them about anything, kid. You’re good at that. Just be sure you somehow eventually get one of them to take a poke at you. That way whatever comes after, they started it.”

“Swell.” Guy tried sounding enthusiastic instead of petrified.

“Okay, kid. Whenever you’re ready. Make me proud ofyou. “

Proud? Was he kidding? There was nothing in the whole world Guy wanted more than for Corky to be proud of him.

Turning around, thinking about what to say, how to approach, Guy sized up the four overripe hefties and his stomach turned to Jell-O. “Can I go to the bathroom first?”

“Good idea!” Corky told him, figuring the kid had planned it as strategy. “Better that way. Less obvious that we sent you over. Go on, and when you come back, don’t come here. Head straight to them.”

Pointing a thumb in the air, Guy smiled and raced off.

Corky turned to Chuck Troendle. “What do ya think?”

“Here’s how it shapes up. Calvin and Jenkins will take the two new arrivals. I’ll do the friend and you get Big Greasy since you started with him in the first place.”

Corky approved. “Let’s have one more beer. We gotta wait till the kid comes back anyway. I told him to start it off and we’d back him up. Tell Jenkins and Calvin to watch out for two things.”

“Shoot.”

“First, the kid. I don’t want him hurt. He can’t handle it.”

“Second?”

“Second and most important …” Corky grinned … “whatever else happens, don’t let anyone near my face. Anything but the face!”

“Okay, Gorgeous George. Whatever you say!”

“I sure wish I had time for the cutie in the curlers, though. Can’t tell you how hot she is for me.” Corky winked at the gum chewer even as he spoke about her.

Though she looked away, she also let him know she was at least entertained, if not downright interested.

“Forget it, C-man. We haven’t time. “

“Why not?”

“Because war clouds are rising.”

“I don’t know. Bet I could have her and be back in time for the fight.”

“Bullshit!” Troendle stated flatly.

“Don’t tempt me!” Corky warned.

“Bullshit is bullshit!” Troendle took a sip of beer.

“All right, asshole. Put up. How much you wanna bet I can get her out of here, score and get back before the shit hits the fan?”

“Anything you want, big shot! Name it!”

“All right!” Corky smiled to his prey in the next booth. She secretly snuck him a soft wink, encouraging the bet. “Ten bucks says I can do it!”

“You’re on!” Troendle slapped Corky’s hand and shook it, consummating the wager.

Corky stood up. Calvin and Jenkins looked at him, bewildered. Where was he going?

“You guys relax. I’ll be back in plenty of time.”

Calvin shrugged and bowled his heavy black ball.

Corky walked over to the adjoining booth. He knelt down to the girl in curlers and with his piercing green eyes and full smile, whispered, “Follow me in a minute, will ya? I’ll be in the parking lot. I’ve got something important to show you!”

Before she could respond, he placed a gentle finger over her lips, stood up and, looking at her beefy friend, now boiling mad, said calmly, “Nice seeing you, Grease-ball. Have a good game!”

And then he walked out of the Bowl-A-Rama.

TWENTY-SIX
 

GUY WAS IN the men’s room puking his guts out. It was a case of too much beer and not enough balls. Down on one knee, with his head over the bowl, his complexion was yellow, his stomach churned, his mind reeled. He was not a well person.

No time to be sick! he lectured himself, finishing his wretched business. Standing, he wobbled to the sink, slurped cold water and splashed it on his face. His stomach calmed and a hint of real color returned to his cheeks.

Nothing like a night out with the boys, he thought.

It was freezing in the parking lot. Shivering in his team jacket, Corky rubbed his hands together. He could see his breath.

Where the hell was she? What if she didn’t show? Ten bucks and a lot of ego down the drain.

The girl in curlers watched her husky date bowling. This was her second time out with him. He was nice enough company, but what about the guy flirting with her? Naw! It would be wrong to follow him to the parking lot. After all, she was no cheap pickup.

Still, she certainly was curious to know what it was he wanted to show her. What the hell, she decided. Can’t hurt to find out.

She stood up and casually threw an enormous bag over her shoulder. Chewing hard she yawned, “I’m gonna comb out my hair. Be right back.”

“I’ll go with you, Velma,” her girl friend volunteered.

“No/” snapped Velma. “I mean … one of us should stay with the fellas. I’ll only be a minute.” Without waiting for a response, Velma left.

Assuming a threatening boxer’s stance, Guy stared into the bathroom mirror, determined he was not in top condition, and dropped to the floor for a dozen push-ups. Get those biceps pumped to capacity.

As he strained, the door swung open. Two men—truck drivers, he guessed—walked in and stopped cold at the sight of this kid on the floor of the men’s room dipping up and down.

Feeling ridiculous, Guy jumped up and did a quick shadow box, jabbing fists forward, the ole one-two. “Just tuning up,” he told the astonished men. “Golden Gloves finals tomorrow morning, you know!” Still jabbing, he danced out of the men’s room.

Velma walked over to Corky in the cold. “All right. Tell me fast. What’s so important you got to show me?”

“Come ‘ere!” Taking her by the sleeve, Corky led her around the corner into a cul-de-sac alleyway where it was far less cold.

“Where we going?” she whined, having to be dragged along like a stubborn puppy.

Kicking a garbage can out of the way, Corky grabbed her and backed her up, straight against the brick wall.

“What is it?”

Putting his hand on her chin, he said softly, “It’s you.”

“Listen!”—she pushed his hand away—”if you want to ask me out, fine. But you’ll have to call first, like everybody else.”

He tried kissing her mouth.

She wiggled away. “Stop! I’m in the phone book. You can’t just meet someone and expect—”

She was interrupted when Corky’s hand gripped the back of her neck. She tried pulling away.

“Don’t move!” he instructed, forcibly enough to scare and excite her. Again he brought his lips to her mouth and pressed the length of his body against her.

After sighing softly, she chastised herself. What the hell are you doing? This is crazy! You’ve got to stop him. Soon.

Trembling but determined, Guy walked toward the O.K. Corral. As he approached the lane in question, he looked over at the home team. His stomach knotted again when he saw that Corky was nowhere around. Maybe it’s part of the plan, he prayed.

Corky s hands were under Velma’s bra, kneading each of her large breasts.

“We’ve got to stop. I have to get back,” she said halfheartedly into his mouth.

Corky sucked on her neck, whispering, “Got to. Got to have you. I knew soon as I saw you. You drive me crazy.”

A chill rushed down Velma’s front.

“Here!” He took her hand and put it on his fly. “Feel that? It’s so hot for you it could go off right now.”

She tentatively squeezed the hardness in his pants.

“That’s all because of you, baby. All because of you!”

“Please stop. Please. We can’t. It’s cold.”

Corky unzipped his fly.

“Hi!” said a cheerful Guy to the husky bowler. “I’m your neighbor from the next booth.

The big boy looked down at him. “What of it?”

“Well, I’ve gotten the feeling there have been some misunderstandings around here. So f d like to buy you a Coke. Let’s have no hard feelings.”

“I don’t want a Coke,” the humorless fellow grumbled.

“Seven-Up?”

“Nothing.”

“Well then …” Guy sighed, slapped his sides and shook his face in an imitation Jimmy Durante. “I guess dat’s dat!” Long pause. “Been downing pins long?”

“Wha’?”

“ How long you been bowling?”

The fellow shrugged. “ Bout five years. “

“Oh, a beginner?” Guy laughed.

The bowler didn’t.

“Your turn, Pepper!” the other boy called.

“That your name? Pepper?” Guy struggled to make conversation.

“I gotta go.” Pepper went to pick up his ball.

Guy followed. “Mind if I watch?”

“Yeah, I mind. Go watch your own stupid friends.”

Think fast! “Uhm … I’d rather not. You see … I work for a television program. ‘Monday Night Bowling’?”

“Oh?” The husky bowler was suddenly interested. “I seen that.”

“Yeah? Well, I’m sort of a local scout for them. They’re always looking for new talent. I liked your style right from the start. That’s why I wanted to watch.”

“No shit?” The big boy smiled for the first time. “Hey!”—he turned to his companions—”this guy says he scouts for a TV show. Likes the way I bowl.”