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Barry Thompson, a senior, whose fingernail usually found a home in one of his nostrils, looked and me and laughed. “Can't believe your grades, Stafford. It's almost impossible to flunk out of this school. You're going to be the first pledge ever to do it.”

I didn't answer as Adams interrupted Thompson. “Some of you guys haven't made reservations for the Spring Formal in Palm Springs. For the guys who get kicked out, don't worry, you'll get your deposit back.”

_____

1:00
P.M

We were sitting on the living room rug eating Godmother sandwiches and drinking Cokes at the Venice Battered Women's Shelter on Rose near Lincoln.

“We got a traitor here,” Adams told us grimly, staring at us one-at-a-time.

Nobody said a word.

“What do you guys think of Castle's father?” Adams suddenly blurted out.

“Good guy,” Froggy said. “Remember when he took us all to a Laker game when he was visiting here around Thanksgiving?”

“Yeah,” most of the other guys piped up, agreeing with Froggy.

“Castle's father did more than that,” Adams said. “Each month, along with Castle's fraternity dues, he sends another check for a grand for the House Building Fund.”

The room was silent; everybody was waiting for Adams' bombshell. He kept staring intently at each of us, no doubt trying to sense a reaction. Still nobody said a word. Everybody stopped eating, sitting there motionless.

“Rickshaw Boy,” Adams continued slowly, “you think it's a good idea to send flowers to Mr. Castle in the hospital from the fraternity?”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding, “that's the right thing to do.”

“I thought so too,” Adams answered. “Batman, you know what hospital he's in?”

“No.”

“Holmes. How do we find out where he is?”

“Call his house and ask his wife. I'm sure you have everybody's home number.”

Adams' face was bland. He wasn't revealing a thing beneath his hairless scalp.

“I did that,” he finally said. He smiled and looked around at each of us again. “Guess what happened?”

We were silent.

“A man answered the phone. I identified myself and asked what hospital Mr. Castle was in. And guess what happened? The man said he was Mr. Castle, Stanley's father.”

Adams' eyes narrowed and he clenched his teeth. I never saw him so angry before. At least ten seconds of uncomfortable silence passed while Adams' face turned a shade redder.

“Mr. Castle said he wasn't in the hospital,” Adams said conversationally, “and that he never had a heart attack AND DIDN'T KNOW JACK SHIT ABOUT ANY TELEGRAM THAT SAID HE DID!”

A bunch of us, including me, laughed. Adams' face was now
bright pink. Obviously he didn't think anything was funny but we kept laughing anyway.

He got a little calmer but still testy as he continued. “Mr. Castle must've thought I was crazy. Then he asked about his asshole kid. When I told him that he wasn't here and didn't know where he was, he told me to call his sister-in-law who lives in Simi Valley near the Ronald Reagan Library and gave me her phone number. I couldn't hang up fast enough.”

Our laughter continued.

“You call the number he gave you?” Grossberg asked.

“Fuck no.”

“Why?”

“Because the guy who sent the telegram is going to call Castle. Whoever sent it better admit it now and nothing is going to happen to him for sending it. But if nobody admits it—and when—we find out who sent it, they're out of here for good. Along with Castle.”

Adams barely finished the sentence before Dung blurted out, “I sent it.”

Everybody looked surprised. Hard to believe it was Dung, that little weasel.

“Why'd you do it?” Adams demanded.

“Because he signed a contract with me that his sister Eileen would go to the Spring Formal with me in Palm Springs and fuck me all weekend.”

Naturally everybody laughed at Dung's stupidity. Nobody could be that dumb.

“Here's proof,” he said defensively, reaching into his back pocket. He pulled out a sheet of white paper with scratchy handwriting and passed it around. It was good for a few more laughs.

“Maybe you can both be on
Judge Judy
if Castle doesn't honor it,” Adams snapped.

“When did you send it?” Vysell demanded.

“Yesterday. Castle got the idea from Stafford's telegram.”

Adams was even madder now. “If he's not here before we leave this afternoon, both you and him are kicked out of the
pledge class.”

Dung looked shocked. “No, please,” he whimpered, standing up quickly. “I'll call him right now.”

“Excuse me,” I said to Adams, “but I got some things to do to make last night's deal happen.”

“Fine. Do whatever you have to do.”

“Can Grossberg drive me? Got to talk to him alone. My truck is at the house.”

“Yeah.”

I stood up and walked toward the dining room. “Be there in a few minutes,” I said to Grossberg. “I've got a personal phone call to make first.”

_____

I called the Rolex number and must've gotten patched-in to Red Square again since I could barely understand what Leon Trotsky was saying.

I identified myself twice and then asked three times, “Anybody bring in my watch for repair?”

Trotsky sounded like he farted into the phone. About half a minute later his harsh voice came back on the line. “No,” he grunted before the line went dead.

_____

“That was great what you told those Deans last night,” Grossberg said, weaving his way through light traffic down Washington Boulevard in his silver Honda heading toward the beach.

“Thanks. Besides, I found out who one of the Jews is who planned to blackball me.”

“Who is it?”

“Jeremy Hasse.”

Grossberg smiled. “How'd you know?”

“When I told everybody that Buckskin told Jackie D that Hitler knew what to do with people like her, Hasse called Buckskin an anti-Semite son-of-a-bitch.”

“Good thinking. You're right. Now you want to know who
the other Jew is?”

“Yeah.”

“Jason Brimmer.”

I was really surprised. “No shit?”

“Yeah, why?”

“He's a good guy.”

“You know what, Stafford?” he asked pulling into a parking place in front of the Montgomery Administration Building.

“What?”

“You remind me of the guy on the late-night TV re-runs.”

“Who?”

“Archie Bunker.”

_____

“Get the hell out!” Chesterfield screamed, leaping up so fast from his big chair that he almost knocked it over.

I was silent and stood there innocently.

His normally pasty complexion instantly turned bright pink. “What do you want?” he sputtered, still standing. His breathing was fast and irregular. Faxing him those kiddy porn photos obviously freaked him out.

I glided across his desk a photocopy of the card the Santa Monica Police Detective gave me listing the date and file number of my robbery report. His eyes flickered at the first line: SANTA MONICA POLICE DEPARTMENT.

It seemed like Chesterfield read it half a dozen times with silent, moving lips before he spoke. “What the hell is this?” he finally asked in a flat voice, his eyes flaming with anger.

I shrugged my shoulders. “I got robbed. Reported it to the cops.”

“You saying I robbed you? Of what?”

“My Rolex. I described the robber to the cops as a guy about your size, wearing tire-tread shoes and stinking of Old Spice.”

“Everybody here knows I run a charity in Mexico that makes shoes from worn-out tires! And millions of people wear Old Spice! Now get out you bastard! You already got an F in my class. Now you want me to report you to the police?”

“For what?” I asked, sounding bored.

“Threatening a member of the faculty!”

“Then I'll tell the cops that you offered to sell me kiddy porn. That you gave me the sample I faxed you.”

Man, now I had his immediate attention! His previously pink complexion suddenly drained of color completely. His lips quivered. “What-what do you want?” he stammered.

“Change my F to an A. Give me my watch back and fuck the term paper.”

“Why should I?”

“My lawyer has the originals of the ones I faxed you. He sent them to a fingerprint expert, an ex-FBI guy, who said he got a bunch of prints that he could match if he had a suspect.”

He flinched. His eyes were black pinpoints; his jaw was clenched and he grinded his teeth. His lips were moving slightly but at first no words, just spit, came out. Finally he sputtered, “I don't know what you're talking about.”

Without answering, I stood up and shrugged my shoulders innocently.

“Wait.” He quickly wrote something with a black, felt-tip pen on the palm of his right hand and then raised it, facing me like the Nazi salute. The underlined words said FUCK YOU.

3:35
P.M
.

“U
NLESS YOU GUYS FUCK UP
J
ANUS' REAL ESTATE DEAL TONIGHT
,
he's going to make ten grand,” Adams said to us between sips of beer from his can of Bud in the Shelter's dining room.

“What're you talking about?” Grossberg asked. “What do you want us to do?”

“I told you. Somehow fuck him up.”

“How?”

“You guys figure it out.”

“What if he blackballs us?”

Adams smiled, and nodded his chin at me. “His hard-on only points to Stafford. Anyway, his blackball is no good if it's only based on you guys shafting his business deal tonight since I gave you permission to do it.”

After a few dumb suggestions from the other guys, I piped up. “I got an idea.” I quickly outlined it to everybody who seemed to like it too.

Adams had a grin on his face while he shook his head slowly. “How do you think of this shit?”

I tensed before looking directly into Lyman's slanted eyes. “Making up shit must run in the family.”

_____

Rainey was in the bathroom and I was alone, using a roller to paint another chipped, uneven wall in one of the large upstairs bedrooms when a skinny Mexican girl with orange hair came in.

I looked up and gasped. Most of her face was black and blue. “You lose a race with a train to the crossing?”

She shook her head. “My old man did it.”

“Why?”

“It was my fault. I should've kept the kid quiet.”

“What're you talking about?”

“Rosario stuck the baby's hand in hot water to get her to shut up. I called 911. He beat me until the cops came.”

“Where's the baby now?”

“County.”

“Where's wonderful Rosario?”

“Jail. I'm trying to bail him out.”

“Stay away from the guy. He's a fucking animal.”

“But you don't know him,” the dumb bitch answered.

I had enough of this stupid conversation. If I wanted to hear any more shit I'd watch Oprah. I left the room and went downstairs.

_____

We were gathered around Adams in the living room. Unfortunately Castle and Dung showed up before we left.

“Sorry, guys,” was the full extent of Castle's smirking apology.

“Listen up, you guys,” Adams said, grinning sadistically, “here's the plan for tonight.”

He improved on my idea a little, making it even better.

_____

“Wear a coat over the outfit,” I warned Jackie D. “And don't put on the mask until we're at his house. And remember to bring the
whip. Get ready as soon as you can.”

“Don't forget the booze,” she needlessly reminded me.

_____

We were hiding behind some thick bushes on the side of the dark mountain road, ready to grab Janus when he got out of his car to move the branches that we used to block his path on the highway.

In the distance, a faint light slowly got brighter and brighter until about a couple of miles away the broad single light turned into two separate narrow beams of light.

Seconds later, as Janus' car approached the branches blocking his car, he pulled to the side of the dark, deserted road and stopped. As soon as he got out, Rawlings and Rainey immediately tackled him from behind before the rest of us jumped in, pinning him to the ground.

“Sheriff's Department!” Janus screamed frantically. “I'm a fucking Sheriff!”

Janus was so hysterical that it didn't appear that he recognized any of us until last night's sweetheart—Jackie D—walked over towards him, wearing the full dominatrix outfit, mask and all.

Grossberg reached under Janus' suit coat and pulled the gun out of the holster.

“You fuckers are all blackballed!” Janus screeched when Grossberg threw the gun down the mountainside. Janus' eyes got huge and he kept shaking his head like he was trying to clear away a bad dream. He totally panicked. “Please let me go! Just to close the deal! Then I'll meet you guys back here! I swear to God, I will!”

I got Janus' car keys out of the ignition and went to the trunk and opened it.

“Get in,” Rawlings snarled at Janus, shoving his head and chest down toward the trunk.

Janus slowly climbed inside the trunk seconds before Rawlings slammed the lid shut, banging Janus' head on the inside trunk lid. It was like a scene out of
Goodfellas
.

_____

Our caravan raced onward down the winding road toward Janus' real estate house. G-Spot was driving Janus' Olds, perfectly imitating Bones' truck driving a few nights ago; excessively speeding, braking, and jerking whenever possible, giving Janus the ride of his life.