Уильям Макгиверн: Odds Against Tomorrow

She was good at her job, Earl knew. And it was a big one. The counter served a couple of thousand meals a day, along with the hour-by-hour Coke and coffee trade. The profit margin was small, and she had to watch everything like a hawk to keep the operation in the black. She always brought home figures and reports; the big thing, she’d explained several times, was to watch wholesale food prices and then put items on the menu that would return an extra penny or two in seasonal profits. That was the big trick. But there was more to her job than that; she also supervised six waitresses, a short-order cook, a couple of sandwich men and the girls on the cash register. She was quite a girl, he thought. Smarter than lots of men.

Finally he grew weary of his pointless drifting and turned off the avenue into a street that would take him back to his own neighborhood. He and Lorraine had a three-room furnished apartment in an old brownstone house. Lorraine had done the place to a turn, painting and waxing the floors, putting in her own furniture, and even rewiring some of the connections and replacing the fixtures in the bathroom. Earl had felt she was wasting her money, squandering it on something she didn’t own; they’d clear out, he had told her, and the owners would have the benefit of her hard work and cash. But he had to admit she’d done a nice job; with the high ceilings and tall, old-fashioned windows, the place had a nice peaceful feeling to it.

At the entrance, he hesitated glancing at his watch — seven thirty. She wouldn’t be home for another hour or so anyway, he thought, frowning at the dark windows of their apartment.

The wind was colder now and he could hear it twisting with a clawing sound through the black trees along the block. He pulled the collar of his coat up about his neck and shifted his weight from one foot to another, wondering what to do with himself until Lorraine got home. He didn’t think about Novak’s offer; he had unconsciously put that from his mind. It could wait. This was a trick of his with decisions; simply let them wait.

He started walking toward the red neon sign of the little tavern at the corner. Lorraine didn’t like him to hang around there, but what the hell, he thought. It was a warm and friendly place and the regular customers were nice guys. Lorraine didn’t mind a drink or two but she didn’t like the idea of his sitting around bars in the daytime. She was right, of course; a guy his age should outgrow this sort of thing.

But there were times when a man needed a hangout, a place he could get away from things and feel at home. Like a noncoms club, he thought. Where you knew everybody and had your own chair and butt can. He felt expectant and cheerful as he hung his long overcoat on the post of a wooden booth, and took one of the stools at the bar. The bartender, a big, balding man named Mac, said “How goes it?” and “What’ll it be?” with the same inflection and Earl asked him for a beer with a shot of rye on the side.

The barroom was warm and noisy, and the bright overhead lights were softened by layers of blue tobacco smoke drifting through the air. There were wooden booths along one wall, and an area in the rear with dart games and a couple of tables. Mac, the bartender, stood with his back to a wide mirror, which was flanked by orderly arrangements of whisky bottles standing on shiny aluminum shelves. Earl looked at himself in the mirror, studying his hard even features and the shadows drawn under his eyes by the lights above his head.

He felt warm and cheerful, with the beaded whisky glinting in the shot glass, and his cigarettes and change neatly arranged on the brown wooden bar. There were a number of cardboard signs pasted to the mirror, and he read them carefully, a little grin softening the hard line of his mouth. They were pretty damned good. CREDIT IS DEAD — KILLED BY BAD DEBT. You can say that again, he thought. And there was a new one that almost made him laugh out loud. It read: PLEASE TELL US YOUR TROUBLES. WE’RE MAKING A LIST FOR THE CHAPLAIN. That was all right, he decided, raising the shot glass to his lips. He hesitated an instant, the ritualistic pause of the straight-shot drinker, then emptied the cold liquor into his mouth with a quick flip of his fingers. He let out his breath slowly and pleasurably, feeling the heat of the whisky spreading out from his stomach and filling him with the promise of adventure and excitement. A sip of cold beer intensified the sensation and set up a dry, prickling demand in his throat.

“Do that again, eh, Mac?” he said, pushing the glass toward him with one finger. “Another nip, eh?”

“Sure thing,” Mac said, taking the bottle of rye down from a shelf. He poured the drink, collected for it, and replaced the bottle. “Getting colder, I think,” he said, glancing at the plate-glass window.

“You know, I was thinking that, too,” Earl said. “I noticed it myself.”

The men at the other end of the bar called for a round, and Mac went down to take their orders. Earl made a little circle on the bar with his shot glass, wondering how it was with some guys about names. Mac, for instance, he thought. Mac knew his name was Earl, but he never said, “Sure thing, Earl” or “What’ll it be, Earl?” It was funny. It was probably because Mac knew him. As simple as that. No need to say “Sure thing, Earl” because they knew each other pretty well.

He glanced down toward the end of the bar, and caught the eye of a man he’d seen in here before.

“How’s it going?” he said, raising his glass with a tentative little grin. “Long time no see, eh?”

“That’s right,” the man said.

“I’ve been pretty busy,” Earl said, turning sideways on his stool. “But this afternoon seemed like a good time to hoist a few. You had the same idea, I guess.”

“Yeah, that’s right.” The man nodded at him, smiling a bit blankly and then turned back to his friends.

One of them was a soldier, Earl saw, a stocky man with short-cropped blond hair and a healthy cheerful face. He had taken off his blouse and pulled down his tie, and Earl could see that he was the sort you’d want in a platoon, a sturdy, powerhouse of a youngster, with no sneakiness in his clear eyes and wide face. Looked like a krauthead, he thought; a good weapons man. Probably knew how to handle tools. Fix any damn thing that went on the blink. Wouldn’t sit around wailing for a headquarters technician to come out and put things right.

The other three men were paying a lot of attention to him, buying the drinks and laughing at everything he said. Probably a nephew or a kid brother, he thought; in on furlough to show off his corporal’s stripes.

Earl turned back to the bar and toyed with his second drink. The trouble with the Army, he thought, was that guys were just trained for one job. That was okay under ordinary circumstances, but in combat you couldn’t wait for an HQ man. You had to be your own mechanic, your own map-maker, your own supply sergeant.

One night long ago a good idea had struck him; he had decided to write a memorandum to his old commanding officer and list all the things he had found wrong with the Army. Not just a gripe sheet but serious recommendations that might save a kid’s life, in combat. His old CO would see that they got up to where they could do some good — that had been Earl’s idea. He had worked all night on it, he remembered, sitting in a little furnished room and covering page after page with things he wanted his old CO to know about; if men with experience didn’t speak up, he had thought, how could you expect things to get any better? But after a long time he began to realize that he was missing the point; he knew what he wanted to say but he couldn’t put it down right. It turned into a gripe list after all; a bunch of bitches for the chaplain.