Odds Against Tomorrow

Chapter Two

After leaving Novak’s hotel Earl wandered aimlessly through the crowded streets for an hour or so, bored by his loneliness and irritated by the noise of the city, but reluctant to return to the empty apartment. Lorraine wouldn’t be home for a couple of hours yet, and he was in no mood to sit around by himself and watch television. She might even be later tonight, he thought; now that he had some news for a change she’d probably get tied up for an extra hour or so. She ran the fountain and lunch counter in a large chain drugstore, and there were always details to keep her from getting away at anywhere near her normal quitting time. He understood this, of course; she had explained to him often enough. But it still irritated him. Particularly on a night when he had some news...

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.

He glanced at the sign on the mirror: PLEASE TELL US YOUR TROUBLES. WE’RE MAKING A LIST FOR THE CHAPLAIN. Earl smiled faintly but he felt depressed and weary; for some reason his mood of confident good humor had evaporated. What ever happened to the list, he wondered. It had kicked around in his things for quite a while, and then it must have got lost or thrown away.

The soldier boy and one of his friends were playing a wrestling game, he saw from the corner of his eye. They stood facing each other expectantly, hands swinging loosely at their sides. The other two men had taken their drinks from the bar and stepped out of their way.

“Now throw a punch at my head,” the young soldier said, smiling easily, his weight balanced on the balls of his feet. “Go ahead, let one fly.”

The man facing him was smiling, too; he was inches taller than the soldier and thirty pounds heavier, a cheerful-looking man with big, bony hands hanging down from the sleeves of a well-worn suede jacket. “You’re sure you got this stuff down pat now,” he said. “I don’t want to clout you by mistake.”

“Don’t worry about that,” the soldier said. “We spent weeks on this in camp. It doesn’t make any difference how big a guy is, really. It’s just a question of leverage. Go ahead and swing. I’ll show you how it works.”

“With either hand?” the big man said.

“It doesn’t make any difference,” the soldier said, crouching slightly, and letting his arms swing out from his body. “Go ahead, Jerry.”

“Okay,” the man said doubtfully.

Earl had turned on his stool to watch them, a hand toying with the shot glass and a skeptical smile touching his lips.

The big man set himself and threw a clumsy, looping right at the soldier’s head, but it didn’t land; the soldier blocked it with his forearm, then twisted the man’s arm quickly and forced him down to his knees. “You see?” he said, panting a little and holding the man on the floor. “See how it works?”

“That’s damned good,” one of the other men said, and the soldier flushed with pleasure. “Well, it’s just leverage, like I told you.” He released his grip, and the big man got to his feet, grinning and rubbing his arm.

“That’s quite a trick,” he said. “And it’s worth a drink any day.”

Earl finished his second drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “That stuff is nothing but a lot of crap,” he said, smiling at the soldier. “Believe me, I know.” He hadn’t meant to say anything at all, but a frustrating and angry loneliness had forced him to speak; and now his words hung awkwardly in the silence, and the soldier, after a puzzled look at his friends, stared down the bar at him with a tense little frown on his face.

“You know a lot about it, eh?” he said. “Maybe you’d like to show me how much you know.”

“Now let’s just drink our drinks,” the bartender said gently.

“Well, where does he get off at?” the soldier said. “Where does he get off saying it’s a lot of crap?”

Earl managed a smile. He had just wanted to be part of the conversation, but it had all gone wrong. “I didn’t mean any offense, kid,” he said. “But that tricky stuff gets you thinking only about defense. You let the other guy lead. But you get a platoon thinking that way and they’re in trouble. Know what I mean?”

The soldier laughed a little. “Do you?” he said.

“Sure, sure,” Earl said quickly, eager for the chance to explain himself and set things right. “It’s a defensive thing, that’s what I mean. You lay back waiting to get hit. The payoff goes to the attack, get me?”

“So let’s drink up,” the bartender said. “Down the hatch, everybody.”

“You’re talking about something else,” the soldier said, still staring at Earl. “Pentagon stuff, the big strategy. Me, I’m just a corporal.”

“Well, maybe I sounded like a wise guy,” Earl said. “That wasn’t what I meant, kid.”

“If you think this judo is phony, I can teach you otherwise,” the soldier said. He was pushing it a little now, cocky and tough, savoring the respectful silence of his friends. “Come on down here a second,” he said. “Come on, I won’t hurt you.”

“No, I got to get going,” Earl said, trying to laugh it off.

“Hell, don’t be in a hurry.” The soldier grinned and held out his arms. “Come to Papa. Papa won’t spank.”

Earl’s mood changed; he stared at the youngster for a few seconds, feeling a bitter, confusing anger ripping through him. Why didn’t they teach these guys something before turning them loose, he thought. Here was something else the Army should know about. Young punks with two weeks of judo acting tough in barrooms. Getting the idea they were killers because they could show off a trick hold to their friends. Parlor commandos... “Listen, kid,” he said, standing and walking down the bar slowly. “Just listen, will you? I can tell you something for your own good if you’ll listen. The punch your buddy threw wouldn’t knock the hat off an eighty-year-old grandmother. Don’t you realize that?”

“Well, you throw one,” the soldier said; but some of the hardness left his face. He saw the power in the way Earl moved and he saw something in Earl’s eyes that made his throat go dry and tight.

“Now relax, you guys,” the bartender said. “What’s the sense of getting yourselves all stirred up?”

“Let him throw one,” the soldier said, swinging his arms out from his body and going down in a little crouch. “Go ahead, let him!”

A good kid, Earl thought; he didn’t scare worth a damn. He felt suddenly warm and protective toward him; this one would be okay, he thought. He was worth teaching... Grinning tightly, he said, “When you fight for real, you don’t play by the Book — always remember that.”

He dropped his left shoulder and snapped a hook at the boy’s head. But he stopped the punch instantly, as the soldier moved to block it. For an instant Earl checked himself, seeing the sudden fear and comprehension in the boy’s face. He was wide open and he knew it, suckered out of position by the feint. Earl didn’t mean to hit him; a token tap would have proved his point. But the confusing anger shook him suddenly, and he pulled the trigger on the punch, snapping it into the boy’s unguarded stomach with the power of a mule kick behind it.

The soldier went down, gasping in pain, his feet kicking spasmodically, his mouth opening and closing as he gulped for air.

“For Christ’s sake,” one of the men said hoarsely.

“He’s not hurt,” Earl said, wetting his lips. “He’s just out of wind.” His hands hung limply at his sides, and a hot shame ran through him; the three men were staring at him as if he were something dirty. “Look, he’s all right,” he said, as the soldier worked himself up to a sitting position. “Here, I’ll give you a hand, kid. Just walk a little, that’ll help.”

But the man in the suede jacket pushed him away. “Never mind, you helped him enough.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt him.”

“Okay, okay,” the man said. “Why don’t you go back and finish your drink?”

“I was just showing him something for his own good.”

“Go finish your drink. Forget it.”

The three men helped the boy into a booth. He put his head on his arms, and cried in a low, strangling voice, “Tell him not to go away, hear? Tell him, will you? I’ll be okay in a second. I’ll fix him.”

“Sure,” one of his friends said, rubbing his shoulders gently with the palm of his hand. “He caught you with a low one. Don’t you worry, kid.”

Earl walked slowly back to his stool, his whole body burning with shame. Why had he done it? Why had he hit him like that? He picked up his change with fingers that trembled helplessly, and then got into his old black overcoat. “I was just trying to show him something,” he said to the bartender.

Mac looked at him steadily. “You showed him,” he said.

“I just wanted to show him, that’s all. It’s something he should know, damn it.”

“Sure,” Mac nodded slowly. “He’s nineteen years old. A big hero on his furlough. You showed him all right, Earl.”

“Well, for Christ’s sake,” Earl said helplessly. “Tell him — tell him I’m sorry. Okay? Tell him, will you?”

“Sure, Earl. I’ll tell him.”

Outside Earl walked quickly through the darkness, the wind bitterly cold against his hot cheeks. Halfway down the block he stopped and looked back at the warm red neon sign that hung above the tavern. He stared at it for a few seconds, his arms limp at his sides, and then he rubbed the back of his hand roughly over his mouth and started for home.