The Spire (5 page)

On the second floor, Mark went from room to room, looking into each cramped living space. Most were empty; none held Steve. Instead, sticking his head into Jerry Feldman's room, Mark found Joe Betts, a fellow denizen of the football stadium, sipping from a whiskey bottle as he watched a video.

'Seen Steve'' Mark inquired.

'Nope,' Joe answered with indifference, riveted by the video.

Mark hesitated, mentally taking Joe's emotional temperature. Tall and rangy, Joe had been a decent enough flanker before dropping football altogether. Whereas Mark and Steve had strained to make the most of whatever ability they had, Joe's self-indulgence and aversion to training was so marked that Coach Fiske had given him a choice: work harder or leave. Joe had left. Now Joe looked a little soft, the outlines of his handsome face more indistinct, though his round glasses and swept-back hair still lent him an air of eastern prep school panache. That he had started in on whiskey was not a good sign. Otherwise contained and somewhat aloof, when drunk Joe could be mercurial and foul-tempered, prone to outbursts that ripened into fights. Mark sometimes wondered what psychic trip wires lurked inside Joe Betts; in three years of college, Mark had grasped that his own wounds were not unique, and that he often understood very little about the inner recesses of people he considered his friends. Drawn by Joe's fixation on the screen, Mark stepped inside.

The tape was a sex video. The naked female, a sturdy blonde, looked somehow familiar. 'Tonya Harding,' Joe said in a tone of satisfaction and contempt. 'Trailer trash turned Olympic skater. Seems like her career's gone downhill since her ex-husband hired that douche bag to kneecap Nancy Kerrigan.'

Mark eyed the screen. 'Downhill's one thing,' he observed. 'This is more like free fall.'

Joe shrugged, still watching the screen. 'Her husband videotaped it, then decided he was Steven Spielberg. You and I are the incidental beneficiaries.'

'She's all yours, man. I need to find Steve.'

Joe flushed, as though Mark had insulted him. '_I'd_ fuck her,' he said with unsettling vehemence. 'I'd fuck anything right now.'

Mark flashed on Joe's girlfriend, Laurie, an attractive but reticent blonde whose attachment to Joe, given his volatility, had always puzzled Mark. Mildly, he said, 'I thought you had that covered.'

Joe's eyes narrowed. 'Think harder.'

Mark sensed that he had touched a nerve. 'See you downstairs,' he said, and left.

On the door of the stairwell was posted a list of duties for freshmen'cleaning bathrooms and scrubbing floors'the aim of which, a hygienic DBE house, was largely aspirational. Opening the door, Mark found Steve Tillman seated on the steps, beer in hand. Above them, an anonymous whoop of laughter issued from the third floor.

Surprised, Mark asked, 'What the hell are you doing
here
''

'I love the view.' A shadow crossed Steve's open midwestern face. 'Nice game.'

This sounded sincere. But Mark understood Steve's clouded expression. Their trajectories had crossed: after Lionel Farr's challenge, Mark had finished high school with straight A's and, as though the scales had fallen from his eyes, had worked hard to continue the pattern at Caldwell. Once a better student than Mark, Steve'as Farr had guessed'found college academics more difficult. When his knee had gone, it seemed, so had Steve's sense of self; ever since, he had been mired in the C range, hoping for the career to which Mark had once aspired, that of high school coach. Now, aided by Farr, Mark was set on getting into Yale Law School, and it was Steve who had no vision of the future. Sometimes Mark imagined that they had traded places the night Farr first set Mark on his path, leaving Steve Tillman an afterthought.

Awkwardly, Mark said, 'Wish I'd thrown those touchdown passes to you. If I hadn't played with you in high school, I wouldn't have been out there today.'

Steve drained his beer. 'You ran with it, chief. Not your fault no one shredded your knee.' He stared at the cinder-block stairwell. 'Shouldn't you be at the party''

Mark shrugged. 'I'll get there. It hit me today that
my
career's ending, too, like I thought it would in high school. No more football, just life. I wanted to hang with you awhile.'

For a moment, Steve bit his lip, struggling with some unspoken feeling. Then he summoned a grin. 'Tell you what,' he said. 'You have a beer, and I'll have another beer, and together we can work up a few minutes of real sentiment.'

Mark looked into Steve's face. Beneath the short haircut, the same as in high school, was a face less bright, eyes less innocent. Sitting beside him, Mark answered, 'Maybe we can fill up a whole hour.'

So they sat as Steve killed most of the six-pack, reminiscing. At length, Steve placed a hand on Mark's shoulder. 'You're my best friend,' he confessed in a somewhat slurry voice. 'Maybe the best I'll ever have.'

'Keep drinking, pal. I get better.'

'Nope,' Steve said with sudden resolve. 'We could drink all night, and you'd never be a woman. Let's go downstairs and see what our future holds.'

I

N THE LIVING ROOM, M ARK PAUSED WITH S TEVE, TAKING IN the scene.

The night was building. Some couples had gathered in front of the stone fireplace engraved with the DBE insignia, drinking and watching the fire; others crowded together on the couches, their gestures animated by alcohol and adrenaline. On the front lawn Tim Fedak and Skip Ellis had rigged up a catapult with steel rods and surgical hose, and had begun launching water balloons at the SAE house, the rubbery spheroids traveling in an arc of impressive distance and velocity. 'Those fucking balloons will kill someone,' Steve opined. 'Unless the SAEs kill those guys first.'

Mark shrugged. 'Either way it's no great loss. Let's go find the party.'

Heading for the stairs to the basement, Mark spotted Carl Hall sliding through the front door. A slender young black man, Carl had wary eyes that constantly assessed his surroundings, making him seem older than he was. But even in high school, Carl had always struck Mark as a guy who would not live to see old age; his vocation'drug dealer'and a certain slippery quality suggested to Mark that someday one of his commercial calculations, skewed by self-interest, would prove fatal. Nodding toward Carl, Mark inquired of Steve, 'You ask him here''

'Nope. Only his sister.' Steve frowned. 'He shouldn't be at this party. If Scotty invited him, it's a bad move.'

The disapproving reference to Jackie Scott, a basketball star who was the only black fraternity brother, evoked Mark's sympathy: Scotty lived in a twilight zone, perched uncomfortably between his white peer group and his connections to Wayne's black community, the nearest thing to the neighborhood from which he had come. 'No matter,' Mark answered. 'No one's getting busted tonight. 'Zero tolerance' means 'Don't snort coke in Clark Durbin's driveway.' '

Steve gave a delayed but knowing laugh. In all the time they'd been there, the college had never enforced its drug and alcohol policy'draconian in theory'preferring ignorance to raids and spot inspections. Whatever surprises happened at the party, they would not involve the campus cops. As Carl Hall slipped into the basement, the two friends followed.

The room was dark, the lights dimmed so low that Mark could see only shadowy forms. Tom Petty's 'Don't Back Down' blasted from the sound system'sooner or later, Mark could expect to hear the Smashing Pumpkins, the Gin Blossoms, Green Day, the Beastie Boys, and, inevitably, Kurt Cobain fronting Nirvana. A few of the shadows were dancing; others were drinking from paper cups full of beer or liquor; a guy and girl were sharing a joint next to an anonymous couple making out in a corner of the room. 'Right on schedule,' Steve murmured.

Glancing around, Mark spotted a form he thought was Carl Hall facing the chubby outline of a guy who must be one of his customers. Instinctively, Mark felt less sanguine than he had sounded to Steve. By coming, Carl had crossed a line, undefined but real, introducing an element of unpredictability into an already combustible environment.

'Mark,' Shawn Hale's voice called out. 'Hey, man.'

Someone started clapping. Before Mark knew it, Shawn, Charlie Ware, and Jim Neeley had picked him up, one leg on Charlie's shoulder, the other on Shawn's, and were carrying him through the crush of bodies, yelling 'Ice Man . . . Ice Man . . . Ice Man' in a tribute to his coolheadedness against Ohio Lutheran. Some at the party cheered; others took no notice. Pleased but embarrassed, Mark jerked Shawn by the hair. 'Put me down,' he shouted above the din, 'before you three clowns drop me.'

Shawn said something to the others. Abruptly, they tossed Mark to the floor. Stumbling forward, he found himself facing Angela Hall.

Carl's twin sister was alone, her eyes half slits, dancing with no one. It was strange, Mark thought'though they had gone to high school together, then college, until three weeks ago his only impression of Angela had been that she was shy. But until three weeks ago, when Steve had asked Mark to come along, he had never been to the Alibi Club.

THE CLUB WAS in the black section of Wayne, on the corner of a randomly zoned street that included a small grocery, a beauty shop, a shabby apartment building, and wooden houses and duplexes in various states of repair. Though near the border of Colored Town'as Wayne's older whites often called it'the street was a few blocks from fraternity row, marking an uneasy intersection of cultures where underage college kids sought out the Alibi Club for drinks and the drugs they could buy from Carl Hall, the son of the club's owner.

A neatly maintained red-brick structure, the club had a blinking neon sign that beckoned customers at night, its reflection flashing in the windows on the second floor, where the proprietress lived with her family. Though its primary clientele was black, the shadowy convergence of race and class served the community as well as the college: since high school, Steve Tillman, like other whites, had come here for what he could not get elsewhere. Though this was unspoken, the police treated the Alibi Club as they did the campus: short of murder, they left it alone.

What rules the club had'its own'were strictly enforced by a three-hundred-pound black man named Hugo. On the evening Steve first took Mark there, Hugo was at the door, his broad, impassive face revealing nothing as he nodded them inside.

The room was dark and smoky. An old jukebox blared soul music; black working-class men hunched at the bar; black couples sat at tables; a pair of white college kids huddled in one corner, drinking what looked like screwdrivers and keeping to themselves. When Steve went to the end of the bar, Mark took the stool beside him, noting the incongruity of two young white faces in the mirror fronted by rows of liquor bottles. Then he saw Angela Hall serving drinks at the other end.

She held herself tall, suggesting pride and a certain distance. As far as he could remember, they had never spoken. He knew only that her father was dead'much like Mark, she had fended for herself. They had both been in one of Farr's philosophy classes; she had impressed Mark as smart and conscientious, though on occasion, exposed by Farr's sharp questions, she seemed to have fallen behind.

Now Mark took in how pretty she was. Spotting Steve, she gave him a smile that, while fleeting, seemed friendly enough. Casually, Steve waved.

The brief interaction made Mark curious. 'Thought you didn't like black folks.'

'Times change.' Gazing at Angela, Steve added softly, 'Who wouldn't like that''

Angela came up to them. 'Hey,' she said to Steve.

'Hey, yourself. How's life''

Angela laughed ruefully. 'What life' I go to class, I tend Mom's bar, I go upstairs to the flat I got born in and crack the books until my eyes close. Not exactly
Melrose Place
'which, by the way, I don't have time to watch.'

'Life's tough,' Steve allowed. 'Maybe I should take you away from all this.'

Her smile was at once flirtatious and amused. 'Like to a movie, you mean' I'll be waiting by the phone.' She glanced at Mark. 'So what do you guys want''

'Two beers,' Steve answered. 'Is Carl around''

Displeasure seemed to surface in her eyes, and then they fixed on the door. With quiet distaste, she said, 'Speak of the devil.'

Mark turned. Gliding through the door, Carl stopped to look around. He summoned an expression of mild surprise at the sight of Steve Tillman, then came over to the bar. Ignoring his sister, he asked Steve, 'Passing the time with Princess Angela''

There was an edge in his voice, though Mark could not tell whether it was for Angela or Steve. 'Yup,' Steve said evenly. 'Waiting for you to show up. You guessed right again last Sunday'your goddamn Pittsburgh Steelers beat the spread.'

Her face closing, Angela turned away. She surely recognized, as Mark did, the charade through which Carl sold pot and powder cocaine to his Caldwell clientele. They gave him money in advance, paying off a fictitious 'bet'; a day or so later they found a bag behind some musty tome in a corner of the public library, or beneath the rear seat of an unlocked car. But at the Alibi Club Carl was, at worst, a bookie.

Steve passed him a wad of bills. 'Got a second'' he asked.

Carl glanced mistrustfully at Mark. 'Let's grab a table.'

Steve put a hand on Mark's shoulder, excusing himself. Mark nodded his understanding: in Carl's mind, Mark was a potential witness, a needless risk to a business built on subterfuge and discretion. When Angela brought back two beers, Mark was sitting alone. The dislike she clearly felt for her twin brother had left her silent.

Awkwardly, Mark said, 'I'm Mark Darrow, by the way.'

Angela laughed at this. 'The whole damn campus knows who you are. Even the people you never talk to'in college
or
in high school.'

Embarrassed, Mark said, 'So let's talk now.'

Angela put her hands on her hips, a mocking gesture. 'Concerning what''

'How about what you're studying so hard for. Seems like you've got a plan besides running Mom's bar.'

She paused to look at him, and then her expression became serious. 'My plan'if you really want to know'is to put this whole period of my life in the rearview mirror. Right along with Wayne, Ohio.'