The teacher nodded and said, “Oh, I certainly will.”
And he left.
Surcher, checking hts list, noted that Mr. Crispwell, Commercial Studies department, was next. He gave a sigh, checked his watch, and the phone rang. It was Folio. The State Attorney-General’s Office was on the other line and wanted to talk to him. He thought it might be the Attorney-General himself. Surcher more than sighed. Oh, oh, he said, to himself. This was it. From now on, he could look forward to quite a lot of this. He would have a fight on his hands, to keep control of things. If he wanted to, that is, And he did.
“Put him on,” Surcher said, bracing himself, and staring hard at the list. . . .
What Tiger did after the eventual departure of Sandy Seymour, that classy sweetheart of a honey maid, what he did, after that, and some lunch, and a phone call from Looby Loo, that true blue, was revise his list. He inserted a few stars, and half-stars, and even quarter-stars, here and there, appropriately, in his judgment, which was fair. In short, he brought it up to date. Finally, and sadly, and very reluctantly, he drew a line through the name of that late and sincerely lamented gem among gems, Yvonne Mellish, that victim of a most tragic fate. And that just about brought everything up to date. He stared at the list. His mood was funereal. There was no doubt. Two of the most divine and sublime—gone forever, and ever, and forever and ever—from his list. From life. He couldn’t come to terms with this, no matter how hard he tried. All he could do was stare at the list, forlornly. How many more? Would there be more? Just exactly what was Sawyersville coming to? What was the score? He had been bom and brought up here, lived all his life here, he thought he had known the score. At this rate, he knew, as any rapid calculation would prove, his list would be decimated within the year. This year. He felt blue. Even though the superb lusciousness of Sandy’s kisses, among other things, still lingered vividly and warmly in him, he was blue definitely. It wouldn’t do. What a mess. Definitely. Who in his right mind could deny that? No one. He knew. Tiger, staring hard at that list, that shrinking list, could think of no one, utterly. He sighed. He knew if he sat there long enough, he would have cried. It didn’t matter, why shouldn't he cry? He had plenty to cry about. Again he sighed, and also checked his watch, thinking of that appointment at three o’clock. He looked forward to it. It had been some little while. When had he seen her last? He would check. She was a mighty fine girl. Of course, Barbara had a unique advantage in life, in a way, it couldn’t be denied. Her father, the Reverend Timothy Brook, was the head man at
Tiger’s own church, no less. He mused about her, for as things were there was definitely a vacancy for the position of Captain of the Cheerleaders, not to mention Assistant Captain, of course, and although Barbara was only a Junior, in Ponce’s class, as a matter of fact, it seemed possible she might qualify for the job, one of the jobs, that is to say. She was on the squad. In addition to her church connections and interests. For Tiger was well aware of her interests. How long had she been on the squad? What was her seniority rating? They would take that into account, among other factors. No doubt. Tiger mused. She often spoke to him about Religion and the Religious life, for it couldn’t be denied, she was a quasi-fanatical, not surprisingly, all in all. The Right Way to Paradise. Again and again, she hit that theme. In fact, that was how she always began her sessions. And Tiger couldn’t agree more. There was only one paradise, he was aware, and one way to get there, he was only too well aware. They hit it off. They hit it off well together. Tiger was feeling better. Three o’clock couldn’t come soon enough for him. He thought about Surcher. What would he be getting up to now? Who could tell? He was aware that the scope of the investigation could at this point well involve the entrance on the scene of other levels of Law Enforcement. In short, Surcher, like Poldaski before him, could be out in the cold. Would he take it? Fight it? It was a test. His mettle. How would it turn out? Tiger wondered. He awaited the answer. Would they call mystics in? A seer or two? What about LSD? Wait and see. A possibility. Certainly it wasn’t a matter for the CIA. They had other things on their hands. But the FBI—? Possibly. Possibly one of their unique experts on such matters would be asked to render advice and assistance, however, unofficially. He wished him the best of luck, not at all envying his task. What a task. Tiger pondered, entering deeper waters. Though America, his only, and beloved, country, was, of course, the best place in the world to live in, he didn’t know a person in the world who didn’t know it, it had to be said it had this problem, of crime, that is. Definitely. Most particularly distressing to Tiger in particular, and personally, was its high incidence among youngsters, juveniles, that is. In short, Juvenile Delinquency. He knew it was a problem which cut across and into every stratum of American life, from the President on down, theoretically, if not literally, of course. Certainly, its inroads were wide. And grave. It could of course only be solved, he well knew, or at least ameliorated, to take a more realistic view, through the intense and concentrated cooperative efforts of all concerned, all segments and levels of society, that is. All Adults, in short. Especially and certainly responsible adults in responsible positions and most especially of all—parents. For there was the key. The core. Patriotism had its role to play. Certainly, a sojourn in Vietnam, if nothing else, could do wonders for a wayward kid. Religion had its place. He was back to Barbara again. Though sometimes Tiger had to ponder the question, awkward as it was, she would be the first to admit, why was it that the country which had the highest percentage of churchgoers, of bonaįide members, no less, in the entire civilized world, had also the highest crime rate? It baffled him. What was the connection? Could there be? And how could there be? Tiger was in the deepest waters. Perhaps life was the answer. Repressed, tight-lipped societies, for example European, and, for a more specific example, Britain, would appear on the face of it, to take statistics as evidence, at any rate, to have a much lower crime rate, or incidence of the scourge, on all levels. Was this so? Truly so? If so, why so? What did it add up to? What conclusions could it lead to? Notoriously, despite from time to time the show and surface of things, the British these days were practically an agnostic culture. Certainly, a thoroughly tiottchurchgoing culture. Put it that way. That was the way. In short, religion was a joke there. He knew it. Who didn’t know it? Didn’t Barbara know it? Tiger pondered, shaking his head slowly, from side to side, holding the list, aware he was gazing at it. Bad. It was bad, bad. The older you got, especially after that thirty-five mark, that was the mark, the more the awareness of all the badness, and paradoxes, and baffling conditions, situations, and problems of this life, this world, this one and only human life, and world, pounded at you, from all quarters, giving you no quarter, hurting you, and finally—smothering you. Was that it? All of it? What about bewilderment? Resignation? Was that the end? Whose end? Tiger floundered. ... He w'ould have to talk to the parents at that proposed mass meeting, he knew. He wasn’t looking forward to it. But he would have to. Only he knew how to. He would have Proffer say a few words of course by way of introduction. Of course. Then he would speak. He would do his best. And Surcher. That would be a good idea, Tiger thought, having Surcher speak also. By all means, the school should be kept open. There should be no bowing, no knuckling under to intimidation, or adversity. Had Americans ever? Never. And they would never. Tiger was in a superpatriotic mood just now, he suddenly realized. He grinned to himself. It happened, sometimes. Uncle could always count on him, in a pinch, anytime, when the chips were down. Wasn’t he in the Reserves? Was he still? Tiger mused, from time to time he got letters from them, full of gobbledygook, he never read them, it was a lifetime affair, wasn’t it, however inactive you were. There was quite the little active Reserve Unit in Sawyersville, he knew. They looked pretty great out there too, in Fourth of July parades. Decoration Day. Great. What about Vietnam? Would they get the chance? Some of them were a little old. Old. Chic Angelli was a grandfather, wasn’t he? Sure he was. Grandfather Chic, he was. The business of the game would have to be carefully looked into. He knew. Tonight of course there couldn’t be any Practice. He didn’t think it would hurt them much. He looked forward to seeing Jim Green. To hear the scoop. Just how were those Staties? What was the scoop? He would have a long powwow with him, soon. There would be practice tomorrow, of course, if all went well. And he hoped it would. Tiger, now, feeling somewhat sad again, finally put the list back in its folder. Reverently, he put that back in the drawer. He got on the phone to see what could be worked out about the prospective game. Something could be worked out, he knew, once he started working on it. . . .