Bunting looked toward the doorway — was someone standing there? One of the brothers on the search for delinquents?
"They're all too busy praying," Archie said, intercepting Bunting's glance. "You're always safe when someone's praying for the dead. Go on. Give me some specifics about that Laurie Gundarson."
So Bunting gave him specifics, a routine he'd learned observing Obie at the Vigil meetings, flipping open the pages of his notebook.
"Laurie Gundarson, straight A's, high honor roll, Honor Society, Debating Club, Drama Club."
Enough specifics. Looking up, he added, confidentially: "She's gone out with lots of guys, but I think she's one of those touch-me-not types." Bunting was improvising now, letting himself be carried away by his vision of Laurie Gundarson. "Stuck up, too. A teaser." Bunting had given her a big hello once at a dance, after a half hour of summoning up his courage, and she'd looked at him as if he was transparent. Made him feel like a pane of glass. "Under all that sweet stuff and the honor roll crap, she's a bitch."
"Stick to the facts," Archie said dryly.
"Hell, anybody can tell by just looking at her that she's a tease," Bunting said. "Stacked but acting like she doesn't know what she has, what it's all about. Poor Obie." He chortled. "She's probably driving him up a wall."
Archie took his attention away from Bunting. That described his action precisely. He didn't merely look away or become distracted. He had the ability to shut a door in people's faces, dismissing them immediately, indicating his boredom or disinterest or indifference by a slight movement of his head.
Bunting realized that Archie had shut him out, leaving him alone, exposed here on the school steps.
"We saw them the other night," Bunting said, needing to capture Archie's attention again. "Making out at the Chasm."
Interest flashed in Archie's eyes.
"How far did they go?"
Bunting shrugged. "I don't know. I recognized Obie's car — he hasn't washed it for like ten years. It's lousy with dirt. We got a quick glance. They were close, maybe kissing, arms around each other."
"That all?"
"Listen, for a tease like Laurie Gundarson, that's going a long way."
Long pause, Archie thinking, eyes far away.
"You want us to do something about Obie and the girl?" Bunting asked. Gently, tentatively.
"What would you do?" Archie asked.
"Whatever you want."
Archie chuckled, a sound as dry as rolling dice.
"An interesting offer," he said, looking at Bunting again, amused.
Bunting smiled. Was that a look of admiration on Archie's face? Approval? He wanted Archie to know that he was loyal, that there were no limits to what he would do for Archie and the Vigils.
The doorway behind them exploded with bodies. Trinity students never simply left a classroom or school building: they stampeded, jousting for position, using arms and elbows, knees and thighs, to best advantage. Guys now swarmed down the stairs, swiveling, braking to avoid Archie and Bunting. Bunting leaped aside, but Archie remained on the steps, calm, unruffled, letting the tide of bodies flow around him. "I'll see you later," Archie called to Bunting, mouthing the words so that the sophomore would understand the dismissal over the noise.
Archie watched Bunting fleeing into the mass of bodies, glad to be rid of him. Archie disliked his know-it-all attitude, his smirks and strutting walk, his eager display of willingness to carry out orders. Oh, Bunting was smart enough, but he lacked style. He was gross and obvious and superficial. Not subtle at all. Subtlety was an element Archie considered precious, the most important commodity of all for the Assigner. He had never bothered to tell Bunting that.
If Bunting had been a proper pupil, Archie would have been willing to share his secrets. To tell him, for instance, how to pick victims and about the secrets of passion. Find out a person's passion and you have him in the palm of your hand. Find out what a person loves or hates or fears, and you can play that person like a violin. Find someone who cares and what he cares about, and he is yours on a silver platter. So simple, so obvious. But some people never saw this. Particularly Bunting. Bunting also wanted to generate excitement by physical means — setting up fights, crowding people, looking for blood. He had once, for crissakes, suggested loosening a banister on the third-floor stairs so that a kid would go crashing through space. Stupid. Dangerous. Not worthy of Archie Costello. Not worthy of the Vigils. When physical combat entered the scene, trouble came with it. The chocolates, for instance, even though the violence had been controlled. Yet it could have been a disaster. He could have told Bunting to remember the chocolates. But hadn't. He gave no warnings to Bunting.
"How can you stand that little bastard?"
Carter spoke directly behind Archie. He had seen Archie and Bunting leaving the assembly hall before mass, not surprised at Archie's lack of respect, his lack of guilt. Knowing that Archie was invulnerable, he focused his anger on Bunting. Somebody should be angry about what had happened to Brother Eugene.
"Bunting serves a purpose," Archie replied, not turning, letting Carter do the approaching. Which he did, of course, sitting down beside Archie.
"Got a Hershey?" Archie inquired.
Carter shook his head impatiently. Some stooges always had Hershey bars in their pockets to keep Archie in supply. Thank God Archie didn't indulge in drugs.
"Bunting is such a bastard," Carter said, flexing his arms, opening and closing his fists. "He's another Janza, for crissake. A little smoother, maybe. Doesn't pick his nose or his ass. But another Janza, all right."
Archie didn't say anything and Carter brooded, resting his chin in his hands.
"I always wonder about guys like that, Archie. Guys like Bunting and Janza." He could have added: You too, Archie. But didn't. Hated himself for his cowardice but accepted it. "Know what gets me? They're bastards and it doesn't bother them. They enjoy it. They don't even think of themselves as bastards. They do lousy things and think it's great."
"You know what the secret is, Carter?" Archie asked in that superior tone of his.
"Tell me."
"This: Everybody likes the smell of his own shit," Archie said, looking away.
Carter frowned, looked about him at guys running for buses, cars roaring out of the parking lot with shrieking brakes and wheels, the frenzy of an improvised touch-football game on the lawn.
"That's the story of life, Carter, and why things happen the way they do." Pause. "You like the smell of yours, don't you?"
"Jesus, Archie. ." Carter began to protest but he didn't know what words to use, didn't know what to say to a thing like that. A few minutes ago he had bowed his head in prayer for the soul of Brother Eugene. Felt guilty for some reason, although he had had no part in the Room Nineteen assignment. Prayer hadn't helped. He had felt a void within himself, an emptiness, couldn't wait for the mass to end, for a chance to escape. Escape to what? To Archie Costello and his terrible words.
"Think about it, Carter," Archie said, rising to his feet, stretching, yawning, moving off. Without saying good-bye. Archie never said hello or good-bye.
Archie walked across the lawn, passing easily through, clusters of students, knowing they were all conscious of his presence and making way for him, stepping aside to allow him passage.