“You want us to start?” Skinhead asked.
“No, not yet,” Biff answered. “That’s one party I don’t want to start without me. Take him around back. I’ll be there in a minute.”
When 3-D and Skinhead pulled Marty only to the edge of the rear bumper, Biff whirled around and shouted at them. “This ain’t no peepshow! Get the hell outa sight while I…romance this lady.”
As they dragged Marty farther behind the car, Biff slammed the door and reached forward to kiss Lorraine. A moment later, all Marty could see and hear through the rear window was the struggling form of his mother accompanied by her muffled screams.
Inwardly, he cursed himself nearly as much as he cursed Biff and his friends. If it hadn’t been for Marty, Lorraine would be enjoying the dance instead of having to fight to avoid being raped.
There was also enough anger left over to direct at George. If that simpering chicken hadn’t reverted to form at the last moment—
But the time for recriminations was short. Dragging Marty bodily, 3-D and Skinhead noticed a Cadillac parked with its trunk open near the side of the school.
“Hey!” Skinhead suggested. “This guy’s more trouble than he’s worth. Let’s lock him in that trunk.”
“Good idea!” 3-D replied.
As he spoke, he reached down to grab Marty’s legs. It took the two young men nearly a minute to wrestle him to the side of the car, but finally they were able to push him into the trunk. Before he could start to scramble out, Skinhead slammed the lid shut.
The sound and jolt brought Bob Jordan back to earth with a bang. Seated behind the wheel of the Cadillac, the young black man was enjoying a marijuana cigarette while awaiting the rest of the band. As the drummer of the group, he had moved his gear out early while Marvin Berry did his familiar solo guitar closing. Halfway into the joint, he had grown sleepy and contented, so much so that he hadn’t heard the scuffling feet and voices until they were accompanied by the trunk lid slamming.
Leaping out of the car, he walked quickly over to the two white boys.
“Say, what you messin’ with my car for?” he demanded.
“Beat it, spook,” 3-D shot back. “This don’t concern you.”
“It sure does if you’re screwin’ around with my car trunk,” Jordan said in a firm, slightly raised voice. “And who you callin’ spook, peckerwood?”
Despite being outnumbered, he advanced toward 3-D and Skinhead, who took a step backwards. A moment later, Marvin Berry and the other three band members appeared from the back entrance of the gymnasium.
“What’s goin’ on?” Berry asked.
Skinhead and 3-D looked fearfully at the five black men.
“They called me spook,” Jordan said. “And I was about to ask them if they wanted a couple of new breathin’ holes in their faces.”
“Hey, I don’t want to mess with no reefer addicts,” Skinhead muttered.
“Reefer addicts, huh?” Berry said, taking a step toward them.
By that time, Skinhead and 3-D were ten feet away and running as fast as they could.
“Lemme out!”
The black men exchanged glances. The muffled voice and beating sounds were definitely coming from inside the Cadillac’s trunk.
“They musta dumped somebody in there,” Jordan said.
“Hey, Reginald, where’s your keys?” Marvin Berry asked, looking at one of the others.
Reginald checked his pockets, frowned, and shook his head.
“Can’t find ’em,” he said.
“They’re in here!” the faraway voice cried. “The keys are in here.”
Marvin Berry glared at Reginald. “Dammit, boy,” he yelled. “You did it again! That’s the third time you left them suckers in the trunk!”