The Code of Buddyhood

By WILLIAM BERNHARDT

Bobby Beresford and Mark Szasz, the self-appointed "Knights Templar of the Code of Buddyhood," are undergraduates at the University of Oklahoma in 1979. There couldn't be a more unlikely pair of best friends. Bobby's cautious, social ineptitude and romantic fumblings offset Mark's flamboyant, devil-may-care attitude, his irrepressible pranks, and his prowess with shapely coeds. But the cardinal rule of the Code--"A buddy does not move in on another buddy's girl"--requires Bobby to watch quietly as Mark makes time with Annie, the woman of Bobby's dreams. Mark and Bobby's college exploits include crashing frat parties, arranging elaborate double dates (that, at least for Bobby, go disastrously and hilariously wrong), and shuttling a decomposing corpse across campus. But inevitably, the girl they both love becomes a wedge that divides the buddies not only during their college days, but well into the future...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Babylon Books
• Release date: Oct 23, 2017
• ISBN: 9780999342046

WILLIAM BERNHARDT

William Bernhardt (b. 1960), a former attorney, is a bestselling thriller author. Born in Oklahoma, he began writing as a child, submitting a poem about the Oklahoma Land Run to Highlights—and receiving his first rejection letter—when he was eleven years old. Twenty years later, he had his first success, with the publication of Primary Justice (1991), the first novel in the long-running Ben Kincaid series. The success of Primary Justice marked Bernhardt as a promising young talent, and he followed the book with seventeen more mysteries starring the idealistic defense attorney, including Murder One (2001) and Hate Crime (2004). Bernhardt’s other novels include Double Jeopardy (1995) and The Midnight Before Christmas (1998), a holiday-themed thriller. In 1999, Bernhardt founded Bernhardt Books (formerly HAWK Publishing Group) as a way to help boost the careers of struggling young writers. In addition to writing and publishing, Bernhardt teaches writing workshops around the country. He currently lives with his family in Oklahoma. 

Book preview

The Buddy System Begins

1979

One

It was a jungle out there – tall trees, twisting vines, bamboo, the smell of the earth, the call of exotic wildlife, and the oppressive, relentless heat. Bobby Beresford glanced over his shoulder and saw several young men his age in khaki fatigues, machine guns dangling from a strap across their shoulders. The armies of the night, patrolling the combat zone. Bobby tried to act naturally, to blend into the background. So far, no one suspected that he wasn’t supposed to be here, that he wasn’t who he seemed. At least, not as far as he could tell.

Two rickety wooden watchtowers, perhaps two stories tall, stood on opposite ends of the grassy plateau. Sentries paced back and forth between the towers. They were watching, ready. Bobby stayed on the opposite side of the plateau, careful to remain unobtrusive. They couldn’t place him if he didn’t give them a chance.

Bobby wiped his hand across his sweaty brow. Even now, long after sunset, it was intensely hot, stiflingly humid. I can’t believe this is happening, he thought. Especially here, now, with me. He had successfully infiltrated enemy lines and slipped inside without incident. But Bobby knew getting in was the easy part – staying in was the challenge. Keeping up the façade. The slightest mistake could betray him – an odd look, a foolish remark, an ill-chosen gesture. And the results of that betrayal could be tragic for all concerned. Especially him.

Bobby read the large white banner strung between the two watchtowers. MEKONG DELTA, it said, and beneath that, in smaller letters: HELL WEEK ’79. The front lawn of the Delta house was decorated with infantry pennants, barbed wire, and countless other combat icons. The band was dressed like a USO troupe and, in keeping with the theme, played only Sixties’ music, rock ‘n’ roll mostly, with the occasional social protest song performed with grins and a strong sense of irony. We shall overcome! the big guy to Bobby’s left shouted, as he hoisted a beer mug over his head and downed it in a single elongated chug.

The smell of beer was so thick Bobby could practically stick out his tongue and lap it up. The crowd jostled past him on both sides. The lawn was packed with college students, most of them in costume. The men favored khaki combat attire, while the women modeled domestic fashions of the Sixties: miniskirts, go-go boots, chain belts, headbands, and love beads. Many of the ersatz soldiers carried water guns that looked like the real thing.

Bobby surreptitiously checked himself out, trying to gauge how well he was blending in. Not very damn well, he realized. He was on the short side, on the thin side, on the pale side, with brown hair that hung like a mop around his head. He was wearing his usual faded blue jeans, small holes over both knees, and a black T-shirt commemorating a French cinema verite film festival. He had not known people would be in costume, not that he would have worn one even if he had. Bobby found the whole party concept thoroughly offensive. He wouldn’t have come here in a million years, if not for Mark.

He craned his neck and tried to locate his companion. No luck. Mark had abandoned him again. Why do I let him talk me into these things? Bobby asked himself for the kajillionth time. This is not why I came to OU. This is craziness, suicide. There must be easier ways to meet girls than crashing fraternity parties.

He sighed. Mark is either my best friend or my worst enemy, he thought. I forget which.

Drinks were being dispensed from a dozen different places – hurricanes, suicides, nukes – whatever you wanted, in tall, colorful glasses with little umbrellas. Everclear was discreetly dispensed under the table. Beer kegs were everywhere.

As Bobby walked toward the nearest beer line, a tall, leggy girl with an auburn ponytail bounced past him, giggling. She was wearing a peasant blouse and a short skirt, both in mod, garish colors. They made eye contact for a brief moment. She hesitated. Bobby started to speak, but he knew he would stutter, so he remained silent. After a moment she passed on through the crowd.

And so it goes. Another good point, Bobby thought – the kind of girl I’m looking for would not be at a fraternity party anyway. Especially not this one.

He frowned. Yeah, right. His ears were ringing, and his vision was beginning to blur. Too much loud music. And beer. Bobby really hated beer, but it seemed to be an essential element of successful social interaction. Beer and bucks, the zeitgeist of the Seventies.

Someone shouted in Bobby’s ear. You think they can tell we’re not Greek?

Bobby turned around. It was Mark. No, I don’t think they can tell. What, you think we’ve both got DORM NERD branded on our foreheads?

No, Mark replied. Just you.

Mark shuffled into the beer line and Bobby followed in his wake. At six feet, three inches, Mark was a good eight inches taller than Bobby. Mark was handsome and well-built, thick enough to avoid looking like a wimp, but not the least bit overweight. His hair was darker than Bobby’s, but still brown, and every strand was precisely positioned. Always.

Where did you go? Bobby asked, trying not to sound perturbed.

Mark grinned. Just making the rounds, my boy. Making the rounds.

These Greeks have some sense of humor, huh? The Vietnam War as a party theme. Unbelievable.

Awww, loosen up. This isn’t a meeting of the Young Democrats. Mark moved forward in the line. Besides, it’s an irresistible play on words. Mekong Delta. It’s a Delta house party. Get it?

I got it, Bobby murmured. If only I had thought of that, I could die happy.

Mark stepped up to the keg, grabbed a plastic cup, and pushed back the spigot. A burly young man with a Beta pin on his khakis stepped out of the sidelines and slapped Mark on the shoulder.

Greg Johnson, he said, thrusting his right hand forward. The smell of beer on his breath was impossible to overlook. Don’t believe we’ve met. Greg started to cover his mouth, but the belch came out before his hand arrived.

Mark took Greg’s hand and shook with equal vigor. Mark Szasz, he said, carefully pronouncing his surname: Sayz. And this is my best buddy, Bobby Beresford. He laughed. Try to say that three times fast.

Bobby smiled uneasily. Greg seemed to be scrutinizing them, trying to determine who they were and why they were here. Bobby would have favored an immediate exodus, but Mark, as usual, tried to bluff his way through.

Hey, Greg, Mark said amiably, didn’t we chew the fat at that party last week?

Greg shrugged his shoulders. You mean the Fijis’ Beach House Ballbuster?

Yeah. That’s the one.

Could be, Greg said. My memory of that night is shaky. I’m sure you understand. Those Fijis really know how to party. They had three different hose bags pulling trains! He winked conspiratorially. I hear they ledged two of ‘em. You know, total suicide cases.

He laughed heartily and downed half his beer. I got a little piece of that action myself. I know I shouldn’t kiss and tell, but what the hell? We’re all good ol’ boys here. So what house are you men with?

Bobby stared blankly at Mark. Mark stared back at Bobby.

What house?

Yeah. You have to be in one of the houses. Greg’s movements slowed. His eyes narrowed. Aren’t you?

Bobby froze. Sure, they could bluff the name of a frat house. But what if it was a house with which this bozo was intimately familiar? What if he wanted to quiz them about his buddies in that house? Bobby began scanning for the nearest escape hatch.

Oh, I see, Mark said. You want to know what we’re doing here. I just didn’t understand – too damn much beer, you know how it is. I’m here with Mary Lou.

Greg’s face relaxed. Is that right? Lucky man. She’s a damn fine woman. He slurped down the remainder of his beer and wandered off.

Bobby released his suspended breath, feeling his heart palpitating in his chest. "I am not enjoying this, Mark, he said, speaking directly into Mark’s ear. It’s too dangerous. There’s a couple hundred Greeks here who would love nothing better than to rearrange the faces of a couple of dormie party crashers. We should split."

Mark waved him away. You worry too much, Beresford. Besides, we came here to get laid. Have you been laid yet?

Hmmm. I’m not sure. Let me check. Bobby took a physical inventory. Nope. Not yet.

Well then. Mark folded his arms across his chest, apparently satisfied he had scored his point.

I don’t see why we need to risk bodily harm just to meet girls, Bobby said. I’ve been doing fine with the girls I’ve met in English lit classes.

Give me a break. English class is a good place to find chicks with sensitivity, zits, and myopia. If you want boobs and bucks, crash a frat party.

That’s ridiculous. Every pretty girl on campus is not in a sorority.

You weren’t listening, Mark replied. "I said boobs and bucks. I need a well-heeled heiress who can support me during the hungry years, before I make the big time in the music biz."

Ah. Bobby took a swallow of his beer, then winced. Mark said he would eventually get used to the taste. When? Well, that’s better than your plan to support yourself as a gigolo, anyway.

Bobby noticed a commotion about thirty feet away, on an embankment beside a pseudo-fortress where pseudo-prisoners of war were held captive till freed by a lascivious kiss – ten second minimum – from an amenable sorority girl. Several frat boys were standing on the embankment with their backs to the crowd.

They aren’t preparing to do what I think they’re preparing to do, are they, Mark? Bobby heard the unmistakable sound of zippers being unzipped, followed by a steady stream of fluid pattering against the earth.

Never mind, Bobby moaned. I think they’ve answered my question.

A group of girls standing beside Bobby covered their faces in exaggerated revulsion. One of them, a pleasant-looking blonde dressed like Nancy Sinatra, turned toward Bobby.

Oh! she said. Aren’t they just awful! She giggled.

Bobby stammered for a moment and stared at the ground. He took a deep breath. Come on, he told himself. You can do this. Oh, y-you know, he mumbled. All that…b-beer and all.

She smiled, revealing the braces on the bottom row of her teeth. Well, I guess they’re just good ol’ boys, she said.

Bobby’s head bobbed up and down. Y-Yeah, he said. I guess so….

There was an awkward pause. Bobby took another deep breath and tried to concentrate on pronouncing each word without a stutter. C-Can I get you…oh, a b-beer or something

Oh, no thanks. I get high on air, y’know?

Bobby nodded enthusiastically. R-Right. There’s an Emily D-Dickinson poem about that. Kind of.

Oh, she said. Really. Mmm.

There was another long pause. She began gazing from side to side. Well… she said, slapping her hands together. TTFN. She smiled and, after another moment of silence, walked away.

Mark slapped Bobby on the back, hard. "What is the matter with you? That was your big chance. She was interested!"

I didn’t know what to say.

"What to say? You should have smothered her face with wet hot kisses. That’s what you should have said. He rolled his eyes skyward. Emily Dickinson, for Christ’s sake! You’re a real case, Beresford. You didn’t even get her name!"

It takes me a while to get warmed up, okay? That was certainly true. Once he felt comfortable with a person, he didn’t tend to stutter, at least not as much.

If you don’t start warming up a little earlier, Bobby, you’ll still be a virgin when you’re collecting Social Security.

Bobby bit down on his lower lip. Let’s just mingle, okay?

*****

The sound of shrieking females commanded Bobby’s attention. He strolled toward a picnic table where six partygoers, three girls and three boys, obviously couples, were seated. They were all speaking at once with varying degrees of coherency; the brunette sitting closest to Bobby was the only one he could understand clearly.

Don’t do it, Bobo, the brunette said. You don’t have to prove anything to me.

Greg did it, Bobo answered with a grunt. He jerked his thumb toward the guy sitting beside him. Bobby recognized Greg as the same Greg he and Mark had bluffed earlier at the beer keg. Greg had some kind of unattractive mess all over his mouth. If Greg can do it, Bobo said, I can do it.

The brunette covered her eyes. I don’t believe this. I’ve had about all the male machismo posturing I can bear.

Don’t be such a goddamn whiner, Annie, Bobo muttered. He picked up an empty beer glass, wrapped his lips around the edge, and bit off a large chunk of the glass.

Bobby stared at him in amazement. He stepped forward for a closer look. Yes, Bobo was crunching the glass in his mouth, chewing it up. Bobby felt goose pimples creep across his skin. The sound of glass against teeth and tongue was a hundred times worse than fingernails across the chalkboard.

Greg noticed Bobby staring. You crunch it up with your teeth, not your tongue, he volunteered, presumably speaking from experience. Now that Greg was leaning forward into the light, Bobby could identify the gunk around his mouth: slivers of glass and spots of blood. Eventually, you’ll have tiny, easily digested morsels. Greg smiled, then burped loudly, then smiled again. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing the streaks of red.

The brunette – Annie, apparently – looked at them with undisguised disgust. You guys are so drunk you wouldn’t feel it if someone stuck a sword through your groin. She looked back at Bobo, who was still crunching away. Oh, Bobo, don’t be an idiot. Spit it out.

Through closed lips Bobo mumbled something that sounded roughly like Dontellmewattadowoman.

Annie sprang up from the table. That’s it. That is the end. The absolute end.

She turned and darted away, almost crashing into Bobby. Can you believe these assholes? she asked him.

Once she was directly in front of Bobby, he could see her more clearly. Her straight dark hair hung just above her shoulders. Her skin was a creamy white, except for a small birthmark in the center of her right cheek. She was not in costume; she was wearing a simple blue dress with a green lapel button that read: ERA – NOW. She was extremely attractive. She avoided the beauty parlor/styling mousse overkill of most of the girls at the party. She seemed…unaffected. Real.

Bobby suddenly realized she had been speaking to him while he conducted this minute scrutiny of her body. He hadn’t heard a word she’d said. He started to speak, but couldn’t decide what to say. He stammered, then laughed stupidly. Oh, God, he thought, I’m doing it again.

From somewhere behind him a voice answered her. I agree. Absolutely unbelievable. Assholes deluxe.

Of course, it was Mark.

You said it. I can’t believe I actually dated that jerk. She looked back at Bobby; then, when he didn’t respond, she turned back toward Mark. You’re not…with them, are you?

What? Mark asked. You mean, do I go around eating glass? Not hardly. He smiled. You don’t seem to be having a very good time.

I shouldn’t have come. I don’t think this is at all funny. Why are we poking fun at the Sixties? I wish more of these goons had the idealism and selflessness of students in the Sixties.

You sound like my friend here, Mark said, nodding toward Bobby.

Really. She focused again on Bobby. Do you understand what this song is about?

Bobby blinked, startled by the abrupt change of subject. He listened for a moment. The band was playing that Rickie Lee Jones song, Chuck E.’s in Love. He couldn’t make out the lyrics the lead singer was garbling.

It starts, ‘Why don’t he come p.l.p. with me…down at the meter no more?’’ Annie explained. What in the world is p.l.p.-ing?"

Somehow, Bobby had never contemplated this enigma. He couldn’t understand half the words in the song anyway. He shrugged silently.

Another unsolved mystery, Mark said, filling the gap. Someone should call Leonard Nimoy.

Annie laughed.

Make way! Make way! It’s the elephant march!

Bobby turned toward the shouting. The band segued out of Chuck E.’s in Love and into their own arrangement of Baby Elephant Walk. From somewhere behind the left watchtower, a chain of thirty or so frat men, hunched over as if to touch their toes, came ambling toward center stage. Each of them had one arm thrust back through his legs, grasping the hand of the guy behind him, and the other arm thrust forward, grasping the hand of the guy in front. They looked ridiculous. And extremely uncomfortable.

Mark shook his head. "Why would anyone do that?"

They’re pledges, Annie answered. This is Hell Week…as every Greek around here knows.

Oh. Yeah. We knew that. Didn’t we, Bobby?

Bobby nodded vigorously.

Annie looked again at Bobby. So, does this guy speak or what?

Bobby gave her a goofy, lopsided grin. Oh…yeah. S-Sure. I can speak. Uh-huh.

Mark rolled his eyes.

The procession of human elephants slowly lumbered past them. If you think this is weird, Annie said, you should see them doing the elephant march naked.

No!

Yes. Only in the privacy of the frat house, of course. For some strange reason, the Norman police seem to patrol our parties pretty heavily.

"Naked?" Bobby echoed. He was trying to get into the flow of the conversation.

They say it’s better that way. More to hold on to.

Mark and Bobby exchanged horrified glances. "No!" they said in unison.

Yup. Why do you think they call it the elephant walk?

Absolutely bizarre, Mark muttered. He took a step toward Annie. You look very familiar to me. Are you active in school politics?

And real world politics, she replied.

Thought so. I’ve seen your picture in the school paper. ERA and El Salvador and stuff like that.

She nodded, obviously pleased. I don’t recall seeing you guys at any parties before. You aren’t Greek, are you?

Mark and Bobby looked at one another, then at Annie, then at one another. Neither spoke.

Not that I care or anything, Annie continued. But it’s not that hard to tell. Especially since we all party together about three times a week. Fortunately, most everyone else at this party is so smashed, stoned, or bubble-headed they’ll probably never notice. But have you heard what they did to the last dormie they caught crashing a frat party?

No, Bobby said, whispering. What?

"They stripped him naked and chained him, yes, chained him, to the pillars on the front patio of the Pi Phi house. Like something out of a Hercules movie. Then they woke up all the Pi Phi girls. She shook her head. Poor guy was there half the night. There was quite a crowd by the time Norman P.D. finally showed up."

"I read about that in the Daily, Mark said. They claimed it was a hazing stunt."

Yeah, well, if you consider the torture and humiliation of someone who’s not even in the fraternity a hazing stunt, then, yeah, I guess it was a hazing stunt.

Mark fixed Annie with a deep gaze. How can you stand to be part of this? he asked quietly.

Me? I haven’t tortured anyone recently.

If you’re a part of the gang that does it, then you’re part of it.

Yeah, well, maybe.

Mark suddenly cut loose with a broad grin. Hey – we’re getting awfully serious here. Care to dance?

That would be nice.

Bobby watched as Mark led her toward the dance area, which was decorated with bamboo and low-hanging Oriental lanterns. Mark held her in an old-fashioned dance posture. Neither of them appeared to even consider the disco step everyone else was doing.

Damn! Bobby shoved his hands into his pockets. I had a perfectly good opportunity and, like always, I blew it. It just isn’t fair. She spoke to me first. And knowing Mark, he’ll probably be boffing her brains out before I see her again.

Bobby felt two hands suddenly clamp down on his shoulders. He jumped, then rolled forward with the impact. He whipped around and saw Bobo, bits of blood and beer caked on his chin, looking very unhappy.

Where’s Annie? he grunted. He seemed to be able to speak without moving his lips.

Bobby immediately realized this was not an invitation to casual conversation. A-Annie? he stammered. Hmmm. I-I think I saw her w-walk off with Greg.

Don’t give me that bullshit, Bobo said. Greg wouldn’t do that. He’s a good ol’ boy. He moved in closer to Bobby’s face. I saw her with your buddy. Who the hell are you, anyway?

Bobby felt the blood draining away from his face. What was it Annie had said? Chained to the pillars of a sorority house? All night long? Naked? He felt his knees trembling. Bobo was staring down at him as if he were a piece of Play-Doh that needed reshaping.

A cohort tapped Bobo on the shoulder and pointed to the dance floor. Over there.

Bobo saw Mark and Annie dancing, chatting, obviously enjoying themselves, locked in one another’s arms. His face began to flush red; his jaw clenched tightly shut. Without uttering another syllable, he grabbed Bobby’s right arm and twisted it behind his back.

"Owww! Bobby screamed. What the hell are you doing?"

Keeping Bobby’s arm pinned, Bobo shoved him toward the dance floor. Other partygoers saw them coming and got out of the way.

Bobby shouted at Mark, but Mark was engrossed in his witty banter and socially acceptable wiggling and didn’t see them until Bobby, Bobo, and his sizable support group had arrived.

Uh-oh, Mark said softly.

What’s the matter? Annie turned and saw Bobo twisting Bobby’s arm and brandishing his plastic submachine gun as if it were the real McCoy. Bobo, what the hell is going on?

Bobo’s lips spread across his face in a wide, unpleasant smirk. I just came lookin’ for my woman, honeylamb. He wrenched Bobby’s arm back a little tighter. Bobby grimaced in pain.

Let him go, Bobo. I mean now.

Bobo continued smirking. Well now, maybe I will and maybe I won’t. Who are these guys, anyway? I don’t recognize them.

Friends of mine, Annie said quickly. They’re my guests.

Not good enough. Bobo turned his attention to Mark. What house are you in, asshole?

Greg and several other frat brothers closed in behind Bobo. Bobby could feel their collective breath on his neck. This was evidently a question of monumental importance.

Mark cleared his throat. What would you say if I told you we were in the Beta house?

Bobo’s smile broadened. I’d say, I know the names, addresses, hometowns, majors – and faces – of all my Beta brothers. The frat crowd pressed closer. Try again.

I came with Mary Lou, he said.

Bobo’s smile faded. He was obviously crestfallen.

Greg, unfortunately, was not so drunk and had heard this line before. Mary Lou who? Hell, half the girls here are named Mary Lou.

Mark looked to Bobby for help.

Smith? Bobby suggested.

The grin returned to Bobo’s face. Strike three. He addressed his brethren. Fellows, I believe Tony has custody of the shackles—

At that instant Mark stepped forward and, before anyone knew what was happening, jammed the heel of his right foot down on Bobo’s toes. Bobo yelped, involuntarily releasing Bobby’s arm. While Bobo was still off balance, Bobby whirled around and shoved him. Bobo fell back onto the ground.

"Run!" Bobby yelled, as he bolted away from the frat lynch mob.

Mark grabbed Bobo’s gun and followed Bobby’s lead across the dance floor. Greg started after them, but Annie raised her foot and tripped him. He tumbled face first beside Bobo.

Bobby blazed a trail through the dance area, crashing into people, drinks, and decorations. Mark followed close behind. They came to the edge of the dance area and hopped over the bamboo railing. Bobby glanced back over his shoulder and saw at least eight or ten frat guys pushing their way toward them.

Mark slapped his shoulder and sped past, yelling, Come on! They bolted across the north lawn, past the picnic tables and beer kegs, and started to pass the watchtower. And then Mark stopped.

Bobby ground to a halt. He was panting in short, rapid gulps; his heart was pounding so hard he could barely speak. Are you crazy, man? Come on!

Just a second, Mark said. Watch this.

He held the fake gun by the nose and swung it like a baseball bat against the bottom leg of the bamboo tower. The tower shuddered a bit, then stabilized.

We don’t have time for this! Bobby insisted.

Patience, Mark mumbled, is a virtue. He took another hard swing and hit the tower again in the same place. The whole flimsy decorative construction trembled and swayed. The tower tottered forward several degrees, then returned to its original position.

Bobby looked over his shoulder. "They’re almost here!" he shouted. He was practically pleading.

One more time, Mark said.

He took another swing and, for good measure, kicked the weakened leg in the same spot. His foot broke clean through the entire support leg. The tower began to teeter forward. Mark gave it a little push, to nudge it in the desired direction.

The frat pursuit squad stopped dead in their tracks, realizing that the pursuers were suddenly the targets. "Retreeeeeat!" Bobo yelled. The entire pack pivoted and moved out of the way just in time to avoid the plummeting tower. It smashed against the earth with a resounding crash.

Goddamn dormies! Bobo shouted, shaking his fist in the air. It took us a week to build that! We’ll get you!

Bobby and Mark were already across the street and beyond, but they could hear Bobo perfectly. A cold shiver crept up Bobby’s spine. He tried to remember if he had used his real name at any time during the party. He didn’t think so, thank God. There were over twenty thousand students at OU. That should keep him reasonably anonymous. For at least a week or so.

They kept running east, out of the Greek network, back to the more familiar territory of dorms and class buildings on the main campus. When they reached the South Oval,