Уильям Макгиверн - Odds Against Tomorrow

Novak looked at Earl. “Well, what’re you waiting for? Something wrong with the whisky?”

“No, the whisky’s all right,” Earl said, frowning thoughtfully at his glass. He turned it around for a few seconds in his big fingers, unaware of the uneasy little silence settling over the room.

“What’s eating you?” Burke said at last.

“I’m wondering about the glass, that’s all,” Earl said. “You sure it’s mine?”

“You got your hand on it, right? That’s my rule — if I got my hands on a glass, it’s mine.”

Earl looked speculatively at the glass. “You might have got ’em mixed up.”

“How the hell do I know? You didn’t have your initials on it, did you?”

“What’s wrong with you?” Novak said, watching Earl with narrowing eyes.

“Just this,” Earl said, casually. “I’ll work with Sambo if I have to, but I’m not about to drink out of the same glass with him.” There was no anger in his voice; he was simply stating a fact, articulating a principle that was too ingrained in him to require qualification or discussion. The pressure within him had eased; he was sure of his ground now, no longer racked by conflicting tensions. Shaking his head slowly, he let the glass fall from his hand. The liquor splashed on the beige carpeting, and the ice cubes rolled and bounced on the floor like a pair of oversized dice. “I don’t take chances in a case like this,” he said.

“Man, the odds are with you,” Ingram said, but no one was listening to him, or looking at him; Novak and Burke were watching Earl, their faces thoughtful and slightly uneasy.

“All right, you made your point,” Novak said. “Knock it off now.”

Ingram was grateful they didn’t look at him; his cheeks felt hot and feverish, stinging as if he’d been slapped across the face. He was nervous and afraid, but a reckless anger made him say, “Well, I’ll take four-to-one odds any time.” He sipped a little whisky, and then placed the glass carefully on the dresser. Smiling coolly at Earl he said, “Pappy would say I was foolish, though. Even with those odds. Don’t use a dipper after the poor white trash — that’s what he always told us.”

Saying that meant trouble, Ingram knew; it was like waving a red flag at a bull. He was on the balls of his feet, ready to move fast, ready for anything. But he didn’t know Earl Slater; he wasn’t prepared for the speed of his reflexes, the power in his body. One instant Slater stood six feet from him, relaxed and indolent, a thumb hooked over his belt, and a faint little smile on his lips; the next instant he was on Ingram like an animal, slamming him back against the wall with a spine-numbing crash.

“Don’t ever say that to me!” he shouted. He slapped Ingram savagely with his open hand then, and the impact of the blow was like a pistol shot in the room. “You hear me?” he cried, his voice trembling with a fury that swept away all his reason and control.

“Cut it out!” Novak shouted. “Both of you, goddamit.” He and Burke caught Earl’s arms, but it took all of their weight and strength to pull him away, to force him back across the room.

“You fool, you crazy fool,” Novak said in a hot, raging voice. “The color I care about is green. You hear that? Green!” He stared at Earl, his big chest rising and falling rapidly. “You want a part of this deal, you keep your hands and mouth to yourself. Otherwise, clear the hell out. I need Johnny, understand? You got that straight?”

Earl pulled his arm away from Burke, and straightened the collar of his coat. The instant of action had purged him of anger; he was able to smile at Novak. “There won’t be any more trouble.” He glanced at Ingram, the smile still playing about his lips. “That’s right, ain’t it, Sambo? We understand each other now, don’t we?”

Ingram touched his bruised lips gently. “I read you,” he said in a soft, empty voice.

Earl nodded at Novak. “See? There won’t be any more trouble. It’s like training a dog. You need a stick and a little time. That’s all.”

“I don’t want any more of this,” Novak said. “Pound that into your head.”

Earl shrugged as he turned toward the door. “It’s all over, don’t worry.”

Ingram stared at his back, still holding a hand against his stinging lips. Maybe it’s all over, he thought, and maybe it’s just starting. Just starting, big man...

In the middle of October the signs of a hard winter were evident throughout Hunting Valley, the broad natural depression sheltering the small village of Crossroads; stiff winds had swept away the brilliant fall leaves from maples and button-woods, and the trees stood now like rows of stark, gloomy sentinels alongside the hard expanses of farmland. The crops had been harvested, and the fields were bare and lonely; in the thin sunlight ice gleamed on the corn stubble, and brazen crows picked over the ground within easy gunshot of outbuildings and farmhouses.

Earl had seen all this as he drove down the valley into Crossroads, and it struck a cold, weakening blow at his spirits; for some reason he had been plunged into gloom by the dying season, by the sights of birds wheeling against dull gray skies and bright leaves spinning helplessly down to the inhospitable ground.

After checking into the hotel he went about unpacking with deliberate speed and care, trying to shake off his depression. He put his shirts and socks away, hung his overcoat in the closet and made a neat arrangement of his toilet articles in the mirrored medicine cabinet above the handbasin. After that he glanced around the room, unconsciously taking an inventory: bed, two chairs, clean white plaster on the walls and ceilings. This was a habit from the Army; he didn’t feel comfortable in a new place until he had come to some sort of a conclusion about it. The room impressed him favorably; it was neat and substantial. He could imagine a salesman working on his accounts here or relaxing on the bed after a long day’s drive. Anybody might put up here for the night, a businessman, a honeymooning couple or a plain tourist.

The permanent feel of the place comforted him and helped dispel his gloom. He strolled to the windows and stared down at the Crossroads bank, an old-fashioned, two-story brick building with barred windows and large, brass-handled doors. The room had been chosen for this view; Novak had reserved it by phone two weeks ago. The bank was just like Novak had said, he thought; a friendly old place you could take apart with a can opener.

The street below him was busy with traffic — panel trucks, station wagons and occasional sports cars darting along like squat bugs. He liked the look of Crossroads; the buildings on the main street were only two- or three-stories high, and most of them were done in red brick with white-trimmed windows and doorways. In a hardware store he saw a display of beautiful shotguns, stocks gleaming with designs worked in dull silver. The town had class, he thought; the people looked like money.

Tweed jackets, sports cars with muddy fenders, cashmere polo coats over breeches and riding boots. Everything easy and casual. At the intersection, a bunch of teen-agers were chattering on the sidewalk, laughing in the bright sunshine. The girls were pert and well-scrubbed in jeans and pony tails, and the boys were turned out in flannels and tweed jackets. There was a drugstore behind them, and Earl smiled faintly as he looked at it; that was where things would start tomorrow night. At a few minutes after eight... Then they followed the timetable, each man swinging into action on a split-second schedule.

Earl left his room and went down a flight of steps to a hallway with two exits; one opened on the lobby, the other led directly to the street. This fact was essential to their plan; it would be necessary to leave the hotel tomorrow night without going through the lobby.