Уильям Макгиверн - Odds Against Tomorrow

He slammed the door after him when he left, and the crash of it echoed and reverberated up and down the drafty stairways of the old house. Lorraine stood in the middle of the room with her hands pressed tightly across her mouth, staring with wide, frightened eyes at the closed door. Finally she let her arms fall to her sides. After a while she went slowly into the kitchen and put one pork chop into the smoking skillet.

Shortly after nine the following morning, John Ingram sauntered into the lobby of Novak’s hotel. He was a small and slender man in his middle thirties, neatly turned out in a pearl-gray overcoat, glossy black shoes and a light-gray, snap-brim fedora which he wore slanted at a debonair angle across his forehead. There was a dancer’s rhythm in his light, sure footsteps and in the easy, balanced movements of his body. He walked as if he were listening to the strains of a military band, head back, shoulders straight and his hard leather heels clicking out a neat tempo against the tiled floor of the hotel lobby.

Ingram was a Negro; his eyes were dark brown, alert but somewhat cautious and his skin was the color of well-creamed coffee. There was a foxy look about his small face, and a neat mustache added to the suggestion of dapper, big-city sharpness; but the over-all projection of his personality was neither shrewd nor arrogant; he seemed merry rather than clever, as if he were dressed for a masquerade party and realized his costume was an outrageous contradiction of his true station in life.

He walked briskly across the lobby and entered an empty elevator. The operator, a colored man, glanced curiously at him but said nothing. When a stout, middle-aged white woman stepped in, Ingram moved to the rear of the car and removed his hat with a punctilious flourish.

The woman pretended to ignore the gesture. She stared through Ingram and said “Seven, please” to the operator in a cool, detached voice.

Ingram, smiling broadly and obsequiously, said, “I’d lak to go to flo’ ten, if you please, boy.” His manner was a parody of shuffling conciliation; a defensive chuckle rippled the butter-smooth surface of his voice and the inflection of the sentence rose and fell in an apologetic croon.

The operator glanced sharply at him, a warning glint in his eyes. “What’s that? Ten?”

“Thass right. Ol’ ten.” Ingram bobbed his head, smiling unctuously at the white woman. “Ol’ big dick, thass how the gambling men call it. Ol’ big dick.” He laughed shrilly, slapping his hat against his thigh.

The woman stared stonily at a spot of flaking paint on the door of the car. She seemed ill at ease; spots of color had risen in her cheeks, and her lips compressed in a thin, exasperated line. When the door opened at the seventh floor she stepped out quickly, the swing of her wide hips suggesting an emotional reaction dead center between confusion and indignation.

The operator closed the door and looked around at Ingram, making no move to start the car. “Now who do you know on the tenth floor?” he asked quietly.

“Friends of my father’s,” Ingram said, giving him a slow, mysterious wink. “Old golfing buddies. Pappy was quite a character. Belonged to all the good clubs. Shell-Share-The-Road Club, William’s-After-Shave Club—” Ingram laughed softly. “He was practically a charter member. So elevate us, man, elevate us.”

The operator grinned at Ingram, then laughed indulgently and threw over the starting lever. “You’re quite a character, too, I guess. But you watch yourself around here. That woman was minding her own business. This isn’t a place to be acting like a cane-field darky and making folks embarrassed.”

When the car stopped at the tenth floor, Ingram patted him on the shoulder and said, “Don’t flout the law, man! Integrate!”

In the empty corridor Ingram started briskly for Novak’s room, but after a half-dozen strides he slowed down in an effort to get his nerves in shape; his air of alert confidence was evaporating, burning away in the corrosive fear that ran through his body. He took a handkerchief from his breast pocket, and dabbed at the blisters of sweat that had broken out on his forehead. Just relax, he thought, rather desperately; laugh and talk, play it by ear. See how much he knows...

Straightening his shoulders he replaced the handkerchief in his pocket and adjusted the points carefully against his good blue suit. As he approached Novak’s door he fashioned a discreet and self-effacing smile for his lips; this was armor of a sort, a conciliating politeness that usually protected him against slights or condescensions. The pose was also a weapon; he could exaggerate it if necessary, broadening the smile and accentuating the obsequious head-bobbings, until his manner became a derisive burlesque of terrified humility. This upset white people, for some reason; it usually prodded them into foolish and pretentious reactions, making them unwitting partners to his sardonic charade. There was some satisfaction in that; not much, but some.

With his hat in hand, he rapped softly on Novak’s door. When he heard footsteps inside the room the fear began to go through him in cold little shocks. Easy, easy, he thought, fixing the smile on his lips.

Novak’s greeting told him nothing at all. They shook hands, and Novak led him inside and introduced him to a big, red-faced man named Burke, who looked as if he might have been a heavyweight fighter who had gone soft on drink. Burke said, “Nice to know you, Johnny,” and put out a big, meaty hand.

Ingram felt some of his tension easing; things seemed to be all right, nice and casual. “Sit down, and make yourself comfortable,” Novak said, lighting a cigar. He wore a white silk sports shirt and the heavy black hair on his chest showed like a smudge under the transparent material. “How’re things going?”

“Just fine, Mr. Novak.” Ingram sat on the edge of a chair, smiling carefully. Burke picked up his hat and said, “Well, I’m going down for the papers. See you around, Johnny.”

Ingram stood quickly. “I hope so, Mr. Burke.”

“So do I,” Burke said, with a little grin at Novak.

When the door closed behind him, Novak sat on the edge of the bed and leaned back a bit, locking his hands around one of his knees, and working the cigar over to the corner of his mouth. He stared at Ingram for a few seconds in his silence, with no expression at all on his dark, broad face.

“Well, you know why I’m here,” Ingram said, making a helpless little movement of his hands. “Might as well get down to business, eh, Mr. Novak?”

“You want money. Six thousand dollars’ worth of it. That’s a lot, Johnny.”

“But you know I’m good for it. I’ll give you any kind of interest you want, Mr. Novak.” Ingram took the handkerchief from his pocket and patted his damp chin and forehead. “You know I’m good for it. I can’t go to regular loan outfits, that’s the trouble. They don’t consider a gambler as being steadily employed.”

“But I’m not in the loan business, Johnny.”

“Yes, sir, I know that.” Ingram smiled quickly. “But we’ve known each other a good spell, and you know I’m good for it. You name the terms, anything you say will be fine. Twenty per cent, thirty, I don’t care.” His voice was becoming shrill, he realized; rising like a frightened girl’s. With an effort he got himself under control. “Well, how about it, Mr. Novak? Can you help me out?”

“What do you need the money for?”

“A pile of debts and bills two big Indians couldn’t shake hands over,” Ingram said. The lie came out easily, accompanied by the embarrassed little chuckle; the foolish, improvident darky, that was the best approach to use, he had decided. “I never could keep taxes and checkbooks and things like that straight. And after my mother died, I had a lot of bad debts. Folks are hounding me a little, and I’d like to get ’em off my back. You know I’m good for it, Mr. Novak. And I got a lot of things you could take as part security. A camera, a good hi-fi set, and—”