“Even now.”
“Do you go to bed late at night?”
She smiled, Ponce felt on fire. How had that one come out? He clamped down hard, nothing more would he say, He loved her smile, he wanted to fall, head first, into that smile—
“You aren’t the murderer—are you, Ponce?” She asked, murmuring very low. It staggered him.
“O-of—Of course—N-Not.” He said.
“I know you’re not.”
“I couldn’t murder a flea.”
“I know, Ponce.”
“I was only teasing you, Ponce.”
He knew she was. Though what a thing it was. She was teasing him out of his mind, she was. How much more could he take? How long could they stand there? Would he finish up his days there? Ponce, wild for her, wondered what to do. He thought of Miss Smith. Betty £mith. Within, he sighed her name. That wonderful, muffed opportunity. He should have known what to do. Who wouldn’t have— outside of him? Now, here, it was clear to him, a second opportunity was rapping hard at the door—miraculously enough. How could it be? Twice? in a row? Ponce pondered hard, over that one. How could it happen—to him? Time passed.
“D-Do you think—you have the book?” He asked, at last.
“You sweet boy—”
He saw what was happening and was sure he was in a dream. He would wake up any minute, wet with the dream. She was putting her arms around his throbbing form. She was—pulling him gently to her. Ponce hit a spin. Wildly, he spun. She caressed his head, and laid it on her breast. Ponce shook like a locomotive. He felt her hands caressing his head. She was murmuring, over and over to him, “You sweet boy—”
Ponce felt the sweet, soft breasts under his head. Was there anything so soft, so sweet in all the world?
He started to sob, suddenly. She kept on murmuring. He sobbed softly, uncontrollably. The tears cascaded from him. She held him like a son, caressing him, murmuring. . . .
They were deep in the stacks.
Marie, in a double-action furor on the Guidance/Counseling floor, let out a scream that could have shattered two or three chandeliers, even four. She thrashed her legs in the air, begging for more, and more, as she and Tiger soared and soared . . . clearing the summit of Mount Mighty Roar. . . .
The Chief was sore, mighty sore. He had come within an ace of discovering the body himself, which he knew in his bones would be around somewhere. If he'd only had ten, fifteen minutes more! He could have moved in, told Surcher and his gang the score. Now, he was only sore. Surcher had curtly relegated him once again to traffic duties, which had now assumed monumental proportions, of course. Staties were all over the place. He had heard there was talk about closing the school. He had seen John Slater and a few others on the School Board show up. Other major cfomos had showed up. Were they powwowing in there? About what? The Chief wondered. Would they close the damn school? What for? What good would that do? He pondered on that, thinking about going in and telling them a thing or two. He could tell them too. They had turned the jig loose. Well—o.k.—o.k.—maybe they had nothing on him, he wasn’t the one—But what about the other jigaboos? How талу of them? Eleven? Seven? How many were there? Anyhow, how come Surchef and his bright boys weren’t working on them? Poldaski, burning now, trying to unsnarl his end of the traffic, exchanging verbal fire from time to time with the friggin' Staties milling around him, here and there, vowed he would find the fiend. He would show all of them, for they hadn’t a goddamn clue. He knew. This was his lay of the land, and he knew—if anyone did. He would turn the tables on all of them. And then Surcher could suck hotchies—all day long, gong-dong. He had his plans. And how he did. He looked forward to it He knew he could do it. Surcher was going to find nobody. But nobody, He knew. Not unless the guy decided to walk himself into handcuffs. . . . That he knew.
“Chief—how ’bout moving your goddamn car out of there?” one young Trooper shouted at him. Poldaski hadn’t seen him around before. And where the frig had he come from?
He bellowed out at him, "Don't worry about that car,
Pretty Maids AII in a Row 305 budi Look at that goddamn Plymouth there! Move It, ВоуГ
The Statie looked around, the Chief kept on bellowing at him. It was a torrent of abuse.
“MOTHER FUCKS!”
He ended up. . . .
56
In the Teachers’ Conference Room, around that large and fairly shiny table there, sat Surcher, Proffer, School Board Members, the Area Super, a few others, and Tiger. They were tussling with the knotty problem of closure vs. nonclosure, for the time being, at any rate. From time to time Tiger checked his watch, for it was all a matter of time, and if he showed up too late no explanations would do, he knew. Such were young maids. Well he knew. Whatever the circumstances, it wouldn’t do. Sandy especially, that angel in blue. So he hoped this powwow wouldn’t go on that much longer. It was all a hell of an affair. Once again he had been forced to cancel practice. Now, here they were seriously discussing whether or not to close' the school. A major blunder if ever there could be one. Tiger, like Surcher, and Bowlby, the Area Super, was against it. It was some of the School Board bozos and Proffer, apparently, probably sucking up as usual, who wanted to close down. One thing great has been accomplished: Mummer was finished, they had decided on that— unanimously. He wouldn’t be allowed in the school after today, though he would be paid until the end of the term. Fair enough. That might just give the jerk time to find work. Good luck to him, Tiger mused. Would he try G.A.R.? He grinned, picturing that. Right now, Surcher was patiently and calmly explaining why there should be no closure. How else could they corner the nut? He told them the only way was to keep the school open, regardless of risk, and of course there was a certain risk, no denying it. There was just no other way that he knew of. As for the parents, he thought most of them would understand and cooperate, once they know the facts. Tiger nodded, and spoke along the same lines, leaning, to a certain extent, on his reputation, the respect they had for him, and the awe they held him in. Of course he utilized all the effective techniques of interpersonal communication at his command, internalized over the arduous years of experience in the field. For it was his field, every day. Surcher talked some more also, when he had finished. Finally, and to Tiger’s great relief, they swung the right way, starting with John Slater, the best one of the bunch, without a doubt. Tiger knew. Proffer was no problem, once he saw how things were going. Tiger, and Surcher too, he knew, breathed sighs of relief, within. There was more chitchat of course. They decided to invite all the parents to the school for a mass meeting in the auditorium, so they could talk to them and get their fullest cooperation, which was essential, possibly and probably vital, of course. Finally, they broke up. Tiger checked his watch again.
“What about the game, Tiger?” John Slater asked him.
“Yeh—” Tiger said, noting the Board Members begin' ning to mill about him, “We’ll have to work on that.”
“Hell, cancel the whole thing.” Jack Hitchner said, “You won’t stand a chance—two, three Practices maybe shot to hell—”
Tiger eyed him, knowing what a football expert he thought he was, though of all of them, he knew, he was the dumbest jerk.
“We’ll work on it," he told the dope. That satisfied him, whatever Tiger finally did.
“Why don’t they have a double funeral?” Hitchner now said.
Tiger took that in. What could he say? He said nothing. He checked his watch. Hitchner had actually connected. They were talking about it. Tiger heard forlornly. Surcher was talking to him.
“Well, you’ve got your boy back,” he said, giving that little grin.