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That was a popular bet. Most of the actives and me took him up on it.

Then suddenly Dung spoke up. He looked around the room slowly before his eyes stopped at Bookie. “Can I bet too?”

Bookie smiled broadly. “Sure. How much and on who?”

“A hundred bucks says I drink it.”

More money was passed to Bookie who had to write down the bets again.

“You betting on yourself too?” Bookie sneered at G-Spot.

Without answering and with his chin down almost touching the front of his shirt, G-Spot shook his head.

“The clock is ticking,” Christianson reminded everybody. “Only half a minute left.”

“Here goes,” Dung called out. He tipped his head back and without choking, chug-a-lugged the entire bottle that was fifty percent piss!

Christianson looked at G-Spot. “Your time's up. You drinking
yours or not?”

G-Spot flinched while his right hand jerked toward the Modelo bottle. He slowly grabbed the neck of the bottle upright and tilted his neck back, just like Dung did. Seconds of awkward silence passed before G-Spot's eyes showed a glazed, maniac's look in them. Suddenly he stood up straight and slammed the bottom of the bottle down on the table, spilling a little. Then he gripped the thick end of the bottle, and while holding on to it, in an overhand motion, he flung the contents out of the bottle across the table at the actives! Tiny bits of shit stuck everywhere! Then he threw the now-empty bottle through the dining room window, crashing the glass in a billion tiny splinters before he took off upstairs.

“Fuck all you guys!” he screamed from the landing. “I'm telling O'Neill everything first thing in the morning!”

Thursday, January 23
10:15
A.M
.

T
HE PHOTOGRAPHS, ALL IN BRIGHT, LIVING COLOR
,
showed Jackie D's pussy in over half the shots. And my pledge pin on her bra was the second main attraction. There was even a close-up of Zacky Hoochel smoking a roach using an alligator clip. So many guys were holding beer cans that some of the shots looked like Budweiser ads. Buckskin really hit the jackpot. Fucking-A. These pictures would close down the joint for sure.

Standing at the photo counter, I put the photos in the envelope that I backdated to yesterday and pulled out the negatives.

“Two more sets, please,” I said to the chunky, young clerk with dead eyes and enough pimples to thrill a dermatologist.

“About forty-five minutes or so,” he grunted.

Since there was a bookstore a few stores away I went there to check other books on the Jews now that I knew which actives they were. Hopefully I could find something so they wouldn't still blackball me.

I started looking at the books on the shelves when I spotted something in the third Holocaust picture book I leafed through.
It was almost the same picture in each book; the one that showed the bars of gold stacked in the Nazi vaults. I knew right then I had the final solution!

When I got back to the drugstore, this silent guy with the dark, layered haircut must've saved his energy for the job since the film was ready again as promised. I checked it. Each set was complete with prints and negatives.

On the way back to the house I stopped at a private mailbox place on Neilson Way in Santa Monica and rented a box for three months. I slipped one set of photos inside, kept my other set in my back pocket and drove over to the house to give Christianson the first copy I made.

_____

“Watch this,” Christianson said with an edge to his voice in the dining room while giving me a harsh look.

Standing over an end table looking down at a large, Star-Kist tuna can that we used for an ashtray, he lit each print one-at-a-time, watching the ashes drop into the tuna can. His smile continued as each strip of negatives went up in flames too. The burning film stunk up the room even though Christianson tried to fan the smoke away with his open palm. Then he burned the envelope.

“Case closed,” he said, boring his eyes into mine like an exclamation mark.

_____

Standing alone in the dining room, I looked over at the grade chart. My two D's and the one F stood out like Siamese Twins at a Beautiful Baby Contest. I had to do something about the grades but I didn't know what. Right then a bunch of guys headed inside following Adams who held another stack of mail.

I felt like a guy on death row, hopelessly awaiting immediate execution.

“Grade time,” Adams called out cheerfully, stopping in front of the grade chart. He had a red marking pen in his other hand. “First things first,” he said smiling, as he placed a big circle with
a diagonal line through it over G-Spot's name. “Good riddance to that fag,” he snorted. His voice suddenly picked up enthusiasm. “Now it's grade time, everybody.”

As usual, after each name he called out, he placed either a B or C on the chart. Except for Lyman's grade. The fucker got another A, giving him a perfect 4.0 average for his twelve units.

Finally Adams came to my name. But it wasn't a grade on the postcard.

“Stafford's got an ad for a porn ocean cruise to Mexico!”

Everybody cheered like hell.

“Where'd you find out about it?” Bones asked anxiously.

“Ad in the
Reader's Digest
.”

Immediately after the last guy read the postcard, Adams called out like a cheerleader, “Stafford. Here's your last grade. You got a D in English!”

Fuck! Three D's and an F!

“A magnificent point-zero-seven-five grade point average!” Lyman screamed with five million dollars worth of delight. Then the bastard repeated it loud and slow as hell. “Point-zero-seven-five!”

And to make things worse, Adams, who I used to like until now, used his pen to write in big red numbers on the chart after my name: .075.

Laughter drowned out whatever-the-fuck he said after that.

“Grades are still ‘unofficial' until the Registrar mails them out tomorrow,” I mumbled lamely.

It was little satisfaction that Batman and Vysell looked glum about my grade problem too.

“What the hell you going to do?” Batman asked, shaking his head a little.

“Yeah,” Vysell mumbled. “We don't want to lose you.”

“From what Janus said last night about so many actives blackballing me, maybe I'll never get voted in anyway. But that still doesn't mean that I might not get a 2.0 average despite everything.”

“So what?” Batman asked. “What good is a 2.0 if you're kicked out?”

“No good for me but at least I'll leave each of you guys with some money to remember me by.”

“What're you talking about?” Vysell asked, looking as puzzled as Batman.

“Don't say anything,” I muttered, motioning Grossberg over to us. “Grossberg,” I whispered quickly. “Get Bookie to give you the longest odds possible that I'll get a 2.0 average.”

He looked at me like I was insane. “You got no chance.”

“Just ask him,” I insisted.

He sighed. “OK.” He turned around and spotted Bookie, calling out his name.

“Yeah?”

“What are the odds on Stafford getting a 2.0?”

Everybody laughed.

“100-1,” Bookie snickered. “Minimum bet's a hundred bucks though.”

“So a hundred buck bet can win ten grand? Is that right?”

“Yeah.”

“I'll put it up,” I whispered to Grossberg. “You keep the money if you win.”

He looked at me suspiciously. “What do you want out of it?”

“For you to make sure the two Jews don't blackball me.”

He shook his head and tried to say something but he was absolutely speechless. Only babble came out of his mouth. “How can I guarantee that?” he finally asked.

“You can't. But will you try hard?”

“Yeah. Sure. But it's impossible for you to get a 2.0 now so I'll never have to try to convince them of anything.”

“So then you got nothing to lose.”

Grossberg hesitated for a few seconds. “I'll bet a hundred on Stafford,” he yelled out.

All eyes immediately focused on Bookie. “So I got to put up ten grand. Right?”

“Yeah.”

“And Batman and Vysell are going to split the hundred for another bet,” I announced.

Bookie's arrogance instantly faded. “What's going on here?”

“You chickenshitting out on a bet?” Stovepipe snarled. “After all the money you won from us and everybody else on campus. Everybody knows Stafford's never going to be an active but that's not the point. On this bet, you set the odds and you set the terms. And they took you up on it. Now you're chickenshitting out.”

Bookie's cocky attitude returned fast. “OK. Both bets are on.”

“On one condition,” I demanded. “That Christianson holds the money.”

“Wait a minute,” Christianson interrupted. “I'm not going to be responsible for that much money. What if somebody robs me or I lose it?”

“You won't be responsible,” I said.

He looked at Bookie. “OK with you?”

Bookie nodded. “Yeah, I guess.”

“When's the money going to be put up?” Christianson asked.

Bookie grabbed the small, flat, gunmetal-color key that was hanging on a silver chain around his neck. “I'll go to my safe deposit box right now and get the money.” He paused for a few seconds. “But what if I don't have the whole twenty grand in cash?”

“You own more than that in all the home theatre equipment in your apartment,” Batman said. “Put that up besides the money if you're short.”

“I paid twelve-five for it last month.”

“You putting it up or not?” Christianson asked.

Bookie sighed. “Yeah. I guess so since there's no risk of losing.”

I looked at Christianson. I reached into my pants pocket, removed some twenties that I had left from the ATM this morning and handed him ten. “Here's the money for both bets.”

“Now I got a condition,” Grossberg said quickly. “That if I win you won't blackball me or Stafford or Vysell or Batman for spite.”

“Fair enough,” Bookie answered. He smiled wickedly. “Now I got a condition.” He looked at me. “You got a grandmother?”

“No.”

“What about you, Grossberg?”

“Yeah. I got two.”

“How old are they?”

“Old. Sixty or seventy.”

“That's OK. Here's my condition: besides getting the money, if you win I'll go down on both of them.”

12:30
P.M
.

“T
HIS IS
K
URT
S
TAFFORD
,” I
SAID TO
D
IRTY
H
ARRIET
who answered the phone herself. “You're investigating me for rape.” I started to say something else when she interrupted me.

“I know who you are,” she answered sourly. “And you got a lawyer, don't you?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, then, I can't talk to you without the lawyer present.”

“Any law against just listening? Don't say anything. I just want to give you some information.”

“Only thing I'll say is that this afternoon I'm taking the entire case file to the DA to see what she wants to do with it.”

“If I fire my lawyer will you talk to me then?”

“Yeah,” she answered cheerfully. “Sure.”

Before I could say another word she hung up on me.

Hurriedly I called Nuppi. Secretaries must've become obsolete since he answered his own phone too.

“Any news about the hair and blood and that other test they took from me?”

“Oh yeah. I've been meaning to call you. They all came back negative. Nothing connects you.”

“Good. So they got to drop the case?”

“No. Not exactly. They still think that you did it.”

“They're full of shit.”

“I agree. But here's some good news,” he continued, suddenly picking up enthusiasm. “Remember I told you that I had a policeman client who worked at the same station as this lady cop?”

“Yeah.”

“Anyway, a while ago when I asked him, he said he'd snoop around a little and tell me if he heard anything.”

“Did he?”

“Yeah. The victim said the rapist shaved her pussy first.”

Shit! Lyman again! He just hurled another javelin right through my body!

“You postpone my Probation Violation hearing?”

“Yeah. Warrant's being held until February something. I don't have my calendar in front of me.”

“Good. But this is why I'm calling you now. I need you to go to the police station with me immediately. I want to make a statement. I can't wait any longer. This Sunday is the Swearing-In Ceremony at the fraternity. If I'm not cleared before then, I'm kicked out no matter what. I can't wait any longer. The detective bitch is taking the case to the DA this afternoon.”

“How do you know?”

“I just called her but she hung up on me.”

“What do you want to tell her?”

I told him.

“Sorry. Too busy to go now. Anyway it won't work.”

“Mr. Nuppi. It's almost 12:40. I'm leaving now to go to the police station. If you're there with me by one, I'll hand you another grand. If you're not, I'm firing you. Then I won't have a lawyer and she'll talk to me without you.”

“OK, OK, I'll be there,” he said quickly. “But don't tell her what I just told you. Pretend you didn't know it was shaved.”

_____

Nuppi went into action as soon as the three of us were seated in the tiny interrogation room. “Remember the guy named Watson, whose real name is Harold Walsh? The guy who stupidly confessed to statutory rape?”