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.
Chapter Five
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.
"Goober."
"Yes, yes sir." Swallow.
"Know what a screwdriver is?"
"Yes."
"Can you put your hands on one?"
"Yes, yes sir. My father. He has a tool chest."
"Fine. Know what they use screwdrivers for, Goober?"
"Yes."
"What for?"
"To screw things… I mean, to put screws into things."
Someone laughed. And Archie let it pass. A relief to the tension.
"And also, Goober," Archie said, "a screwdriver takes screws out of things. Right?"
"Yes, sir."
"A screwdriver, then, can loosen as well as tighten, right?"
"Right," The Goober said, nodding his head, eager, his attention fastened on the thought of the screwdriver, almost as if he were hypnotized, and Archie was carried on marvelous waves of power and glory, leading The Goober toward the ultimate destination, feeding him the information little by little, the best part of the lousy job. Not really lousy, though. Great; in fact. Beautiful, in fact. Worth all the sweat.
"Now, do you know where Brother Eugene's homeroom is located?"
The anticipation in the air was almost visible at this moment, blazing, electric.
"Yes. Room nineteen. Second floor."
"Right!" Archie said, as if giving The Goober an A for recitation. "Next Thursday afternoon, you'll make arrangements to be free. Afternoon, evening, all night, if necessary."
The Goober stood there, spellbound.