cut across the slope of the hillside, making their way through the rapidly melting snow. The others came down the paths, slipping and sliding on their treacherous, icy surfaces. A thick mist had begun to rise from the wet ground, making it even harder for people to see where they were going. One guy from King met a girl from Franklin at the place where the paths converged. When they started up Bennett’s Walk together the guy slipped and grabbed the girl. They almost went down together, but managed to keep their combined balance. We all applauded.
At my table we began a hold hand. Ronnie’s weaselly little friend Nick dealt me an incredible thirteen cards, maybe the best pat hand I’d ever gotten. It was a shoot-the-moon opportunity if ever I had one: six high hearts and no really low ones, the king and queen of spades, plus court-cards in the other two suits, as well. I had the seven of hearts, a borderline card, but you can catch people napping in a hold hand; no one expects you to shoot the moon in a situation where you can’t improve your original draw.
Lennie Doria played The Douche to start us off. Ronnie immediately played void, ridding himself of the ace of spades. He thought that was great. So did I; my two court spades were now both winners. The queen was thirteen points, but if I got all the hearts, I wouldn’t eat those points; Ronnie, Nick, and Lennie would.
I let Nick take the trick. We spilled three more tricks uneventfully — first Nick and then Lennie mined for diamonds — and then I took the ten of hearts mixed into a club trick.
‘Hearts have been broken and Riley eats the first one!’ Ronnie bugled gleefully. ‘You’re goin down, country boy!’
‘Maybe,’ I said. And maybe, I thought, Ronnie Malenfant would soon be smiling on the other side of his face. With a successful shoot, I could put the idiotic Nick Prouty over a hundred and cost Ronnie a game he’d been on his way to winning.
Three tricks later what I was doing became almost obvious. As I’d hoped, Ronnie’s smirk became the expression I most enjoyed seeing on his face — the disgruntled pout.
‘You can’t,’ he said. ‘I don’t believe it. Not in a hold hand. You ain’t got the fuckin horses.’
Yet he knew it was possible. It was in his voice.
‘Well, let’s see,’ I said, and played the ace of hearts. I was running in the open now, but why not? If the hearts were spread evenly, I could win the game right here. ‘Let’s just see what we — ‘
‘Look!’ Skip called from the table nearest the window. His voice held disbelief and a kind of awe. ‘Jesus Christ, it’s fuckin Stokely!’
Play stopped. We all swivelled in our chairs to look out the window at the darkening, dripping world below us. The quartet of boys in the corner stood up to see. The old wrought-iron lamps on Bennett’s Walk cast weak electric beams through the groundmist, making me think of London and Tyne Street and Jack the Ripper. From its place on the hill, Holyoke Commons looked more like an ocean liner than ever. Its shape wavered as rain streamed down the lounge windows.
‘Fuckin Rip-Rip, out in this crap — I don’t believe it,’ Ronnie breathed.
Stoke came rapidly down the path which led from the north entrance of Chamberlain to the place where all the asphalt paths joined in the lowest part of Bennett’s Run. He was wearing his old duffle coat, and it was clear he hadn’t just come from the dorm; the coat was soaked through. Even through the streaming glass we could see the peace sign on his back, as black as the words which were now partly covered by a square of yellow canvas (if it was still up).
His wild hair was soaked into submission.
Stoke never looked toward his KILLER PRESIDENT graffiti, just thumped on toward Bennett’s Walk. He was going faster than I’d ever seen him move, paying no heed to the driving rain, the rising mist, or the slop under his crutches. Did he want to fall? Was he daring the slushy crap to take him down? I don’t know. Maybe he was just too deep in his own thoughts to have any idea of how fast he was moving or how bad the conditions were. Either way, he wasn’t going to get far if he didn’t cool it.