Уильям Макгиверн - Odds Against Tomorrow

The key chain caught his eye; it was swinging slowly, glinting in the soft dashboard light. A star was attached to the ring. Ingram touched it with a finger, and tiny reflections danced on the five shining points. A Silver Star, he thought. He’d seen a couple in England during the war. You didn’t get them for keeping mess halls clean. This was a medal you earned the hard way.

It was Earl’s probably. And he’d given it to his girl to use as a charm for her key ring. The big hero... Why didn’t he have this end of the job? He was the tough man who slapped people around if they looked sideways at him. Why wasn’t he here now? Instead of sipping whisky with his girl waiting on him... The big hero flat on his back while I got the job to do, he thought bitterly. He flicked the Silver Star disdainfully with the tip of his finger. Okay, hero, he thought, opening the door of the car. Okay...

He rang the bell and waited for someone to answer it, shifting his weight slowly from one foot to the other, his hand tight and cold on the butt of the gun. A light flashed behind the old-fashioned transom above the door, and a floor board creaked in the hallway of the house.

The door opened and a slim man with graying hair looked out at Ingram. “Yes?” he said, tightening the belt of his bathrobe. The wind blew his hair about in disorder, and there was a sleepy, irritable note in his voice. “What is it?”

“My friend got hurt,” Ingram said, speaking rapidly and nervously. “He needs a doctor.”

“Where is he?”

“On the highway, Doc. We had a flat and he was jacking up the car. Something slipped and caught his hand.”

“You mean he’s pinned under the car?”

“No, but he’s hurt bad.”

“Why didn’t you bring him with you?”

“Well—” Ingram’s hand fluttered pointlessly. “I didn’t want to move him.”

“I see. Come on in.” The doctor led Ingram into an office off the hallway and snapped on overhead lights.

It was a small, warm reception room, with a few chairs, a table with magazines on it and a neat row of hunting prints on one wall. A door opened into a smaller office where Ingram saw a desk, and glass-walled cabinets of dressings and surgical instruments.

“Where is your friend?” the doctor said, putting on a pair of horn-rimmed glasses.

“On the highway, like I told you.”

“Yes, yes,” the doctor said irritably. With glasses his thin features became sharp and formidable. “Whereabouts on the highway?”

“Well, about four miles from here, I guess.”

“Which direction? North or South?”

“South,” Ingram said quickly.

“That’s about at the Texaco station,” the doctor said. “Why didn’t you call me from there?”

“Well, I didn’t notice it, I guess. I was pretty excited.”

“I see,” the doctor said, nodding slowly. “Well, I’ll have to put some clothes on. I won’t be long. Sit down and make yourself comfortable.”

As he opened the door to the hallway a board creaked above their heads, and a woman’s voice called softly and anxiously: “Walt? Who is it, Walt? Do you have to go out?”

“Yes, dear. You go on back to bed now.”

“Has there been an accident somewhere?”

Ingram saw the perspiration shining on the doctor’s forehead, saw the tension in his face. The man was no poker player; he was suspicious and he couldn’t hide it. Ingram stepped in front of him and closed the door. In the same motion he brought the gun up from his pocket.

“Take it easy,” he said sharply. “Stay nice and quiet.”

The doctor stared at the muzzle of the gun, breathing slowly and deeply. “Put that away,” he said. “You’re making a big mistake.”

“Tell your wife there’s been an accident. Tell her so it sounds all right, Doc. I mean it.” Ingram pulled open the door and nodded toward the hallway. “Tell her.”

“Walt?” The woman’s voice sounded clearly now; she had come to the top of the stairs, Ingram realized. “Who’s down there with you?”

Staring at the gun the doctor said, “There’s been an accident over on the federal highway. They need me right away.”

“Well, bundle up good, Walt. It’s turning a lot colder.”

“Yes, dear. You get back to bed now.”

“Do you want me to make a cup of coffee?”

“No, there isn’t time. Good night, dear.”

The doctor swallowed with an effort as footsteps sounded above their heads.

Ingram closed the door of the office. “My friend’s got a bullet in him,” he said. “You’re going to take it out. You won’t get hurt if you do just what I tell you. So start moving.”

The doctor stared at Ingram for a moment, his mouth hardening into a stubborn line. “Just like that, eh? Well, supposing I tell you to go to hell. You use that gun and you’ll wake up the whole town. Don’t you realize that?”

“I don’t know, Doc. I’m too scared to think straight. That’s honest. You tell me to go to hell, and I might start running. I don’t know.”

“I’m not going with you.”

“I’ll bring you back safe. I promise, Doc.”

“There’s no room for bargaining. It’s a flat ‘no.’ You can shoot or clear out.”

Ingram resisted a crazy impulse to laugh. The man with a gun called the turns; it was practically an American institution. Everybody knew that. The gunman didn’t wheedle or whine for people to do what he wanted; he just waved his gun and they jumped. Ingram wondered fleetingly how many gunmen had watched this myth explode in their faces.

“All right, Doc, turn around.”

“What for? Don’t you have the guts to slug me from the front?”

“I’ve got to shoot you, Doc. So turn around. Otherwise you’ll get it in the stomach. I got to do that. You see that.” Ingram spoke quietly, but the weary conviction in his voice brought a startled look to the doctor’s face.

“Now wait a minute,” he said quickly. “Shooting me won’t do you any good.”

Ingram realized that he was prepared to pull the trigger, and the knowledge made him feel cold and sick all over. The gun did call the turn, he knew then; it dominated the man who held it as well as the man it was pointed at.

“Don’t shoot,” the doctor said, all his hard confidence dissolving. “I’ll come with you.”

“That’s fine,” Ingram said, letting out his breath slowly.

“Tell me what you can about your friend’s condition. When was he shot, and where did the bullet hit him?”

“The bullet’s in his shoulder. It happened four, maybe five hours ago.”

“Around eight o’clock.” The doctor stared at Ingram with a sudden tense understanding. “The bank at Crossroads?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, your friend’s got a.38 from a Police Special in him,” the doctor said. He was very pale. “Did the wound bleed much?”

“I didn’t look at it. But he seems weak, kind of delirious.”

“That’s shock, of course.” The doctor looked uncertainly at the glass-walled cabinets of the small, inner office. “I don’t have plasma, but I can take along saline and dextrose solutions. He’ll need it. And what else?” He checked the items on his fingers, speaking in a soft, hurried voice. “Novocain, penicillin, tetanus antitoxin — and let’s see — Demerol of course, and secunesine to calm him down. I’ve got all of that. How long will it take us to get to him?”

“It’s quite a ways.”

“I see,” the doctor said, after a little pause. “Well, I’ll pack up what I need...”

After stocking a bag with drugs and instruments, he glanced down at his robe. “I can’t go like this,” he said. “My clothes are upstairs.”

“Don’t you have an overcoat down here?”