“Marko got into a scuffle with Ben Ritchie in the hall yesterday,” Jan says carefully. “He called Ben’s girlfriend a slut.”

“Not smart,” Bill Sims murmurs.

Marko Bakic is six-foot-two and lean as a sapling; Ben Ritchie is five-foot-six and built like a cast-iron stove, just like his father, who played football with Drew and me more than twenty years ago.

Jan says, “Ben shoved Marko into the wall and told him to apologize. Marko told Ben to kiss his ass.”

“So what happened?” asks Sims, his eyes shining. This is a lot more interesting than routine school board business.

Clearly put off by the juvenile relish in Bill’s face, Jan says, “Ben put Marko in a choke hold and mashed his head against the floor until he apologized. Ben embarrassed Marko in front of a lot of people.”

“Sounds like our Croatian hippie got what he deserved.”

“Be that as it may,” Jan says icily, “after Ben let Marko up, Marko told Ben he was going to kill him. Two other students heard it.”

“Macho bullshit,” says Sims. “Bakic trying to save face.”

“Was it?” asks Jan. “When Ben asked Marko how he was going to do that, Marko said he had a gun in his car.”

Sims sighs heavily. “Did he? Have a gun, I mean.”

“No one knows. I didn’t hear about this until after school. Frankly, I think the students were too afraid to tell me about it.”

“Afraid of what you’d do?”

“No. Afraid of Marko. Several students say he does carry a gun sometimes. But no one would admit to seeing it on school property.”