Odds Against Tomorrow

Chapter Five

Earl’s mood was one of relaxed and uncomplicated contentment as he stepped into the elevator; the pressure within him seemed to have been dissipated by his decision to accept Novak’s offer. Now he was sustained by a solid and unfamiliar sense of importance; he knew he was on the inside of something big and that put a lift in his stride. You made your breaks, he thought, as the elevator began to rise.

He wasn’t worried about failure, because he didn’t have the imagination to picture disaster in vivid and personal terms; it was this lack that made him a good soldier. The whole thing might go wrong, of course; there was always that chance. That much he understood; but he couldn’t conjure up the colors and textures and details of failure — sirens, for instance, or the smash of bullets into his body or the potential horror of waiting to die in a gas chamber or electric chair.

He didn’t think of these things. Unconsciously he had shifted the responsibility for what he was about to do onto Novak’s shoulders. Novak was running things. It was a little like the Army, he thought comfortably; you did what you were told, even if the orders were stupid and dangerous. That didn’t matter; if things went wrong it wasn’t your fault.

Last night after leaving Lorraine he had called Novak. Then he had strolled through the quiet streets for several hours, his anger at Lorraine fading away as he savored the peace that had come with his decision.

Lorraine was all right, he was thinking, as he went down the corridor to Novak’s room. A good kid; nervous and clinging, but what woman wasn’t if she liked a guy? When this was over he’d take her away and they’d settle down somewhere and enjoy life. He had told her that this morning; she had needed cheering up and he had done everything he could do to get her into a better mood. Everything, he thought, grinning a little.

Novak opened the door and said, “Come on in. You know Burke. This is Johnny Ingram. Johnny, Earl Slater.”

Earl stepped into the room, giving Burke a smile, but when he turned and put out his hand to the other man a little shock of confusion and hostility went through him; the man was colored; a sharply dressed colored man with a drink and a cigarette in his hand. Ear] let his arm fall slowly to his side. “What’s this?” he said, feeling puzzled; was it some kind of a joke, he wondered.

But Novak wasn’t treating it as a joke; he sat on the edge of the bed and said casually, “Johnny’s in this deal, Tex. He’s the guy who makes my plan work. You understand?” He glanced up then, and his voice sharpened as he saw the confusion and anger in Earl’s face. “You understand?”

“Yeah, sure,” Earl said slowly, watching the Negro with bright, blank eyes.

“Okay, take a seat. We’re ready to get down to business.”

“Drink, Tex?” Burke said, nodding at the bottle on the dresser.

“Yeah, give me a little something,” Earl said. “I got a kind of funny taste in my mouth.”

Burke poured whisky over ice and handed the glass to Earl. Then he freshened his own drink and sat down on the window sill. Ingram crossed his legs carefully, his glass resting on his knee and an expression of sly amusement on his small foxy features. He chuckled amiably and said, “I’ll bet you got a dark brown taste in your mouth, Mr. Slater. That’s the worst kind, that’s the truth.”

Earl realized he was being baited, but Ingram’s conciliating smile threaded his anger with a frustrating confusion. He felt hot and prickly all over, as he tried to sort out his feelings. “Yeah,” he said at last, “yeah, that’s right. You’re pretty smart, I guess.” But the words struck him as foolish and pointless.

“Well, thank you,” Ingram said, bobbing his head.

“Sit down, Earl,” Novak said. “Might as well be comfortable.”

There was only one seat left in the room, an overstuffed armchair beside Ingram. Earl looked at it for an instant, then smiled faintly and said, “I guess I’ll stand.”

He leaned against the door, and pushed his hat back on his head.

“Okay,” Novak said quietly. “The bank we’re taking is in a sleepy little town in southeastern Pennsylvania. It’s called Crossroads. Maybe you’ve never heard of it. But after this job, you’ll know it like the palm of your hand.”

As he described the features of the town, and the roads and highways leading into it, Earl drew on his cigarette and watched the Negro from the corner of his eye. The sense of relaxed well-being he had enjoyed was gone; now his chest was tight with pressure and a relentless little pain was throbbing in the middle of his forehead. Why had they brought a colored guy into it, he thought, with a heavy anger.

“About the split,” Novak said, “I’m laying out dough for this job. I’ll take that out first. Afterwards we split what’s left four ways — right down to the penny.”

“Maybe you’d better explain to them about the expenses,” Burke said.

“I was coming to that.” Novak took a sheet of paper from his back pocket, and studied it for a moment or so. “It’s all itemized; you guys can go over it if you want to. First, there’s two cars. One’s a station wagon you’ll use on the job. It’s nothing to look at but the engine is souped-up and she’ll go like a bat. The other car is an ordinary black sedan we’ll use for the getaway.”

“We switch cars after the job,” Burke said. “That throws off anybody tailing us.” He sipped his drink and grinned. “The whole deal is smooth as oil.”

“Both cars have phony plates and phony papers,” Novak went on. “The cops will trace them back to a couple of guys named Joe. The papers and plates came a little high, but they’re worth it. Now there’s a few other items. A waiter’s outfit for Ingram here, and chauffeur’s jacket and cap. And some other stuff for him that I’ll come to later on. The tariff is around sixty-five hundred bucks. I take that out of the loot before we split it up. Is that clear?”

“Sure,” Earl said. “Afterward even-steven. Everybody equal.”

“That’s right,” Novak said, nodding slowly. “Let me tell you something; most jobs go wrong after the hard work is done. Brink’s is an example. That Merchants Bank job in Detroit last summer is another. Beautiful jobs, planned by experts. Everything smooth as silk.” Novak stared around the room. “But all these experts are in jail today. You know why? Because they shaded somebody on the payoff. That’s where the trouble starts. You got a sorehead who can always blow a whistle on you. He took the same risks as everybody else, but he didn’t get the same kind of payoff. When he’s broke and has a few drinks, it all boils over and he talks. That’s how the experts get their big smart tails kicked into jail. But it won’t happen to us. Everybody in this deal is up the same frigging creek if something goes wrong — so everybody is going to get the same share of the loot.” Novak stood and put his empty glass on the dresser. “I’ve spent time and dough looking for this particular bank, and I don’t want any trouble — now or later. In the next three weeks I’m going to make robots out of you. Every step you take is on a split-second timetable. I’ve done the thinking; all you guys have to do is follow orders. Now here’s how it starts...”

Ingram lighted another cigarette as Novak began to explain the details of the job, outlining each man’s particular role and responsibility. Ingram was preserving his look of poised interest with a physical effort; it took all his control just to sit quietly and listen to Novak’s hard, efficient voice. The Texan’s cold, contemptuous smile made it impossible for him to concentrate on what Novak was saying; the words simply broke into meaningless fragments in his mind.

Ingram was no stranger to hatred; he was a realistic man and he had heard and seen enough in life to convince him that hatred was as tangible a thing as the hard city sidewalks under his feet. But he had lived in the North all his life, in the colored neighborhoods of large cities, and he had kept out of trouble by sticking with his own people and minding his own business. He had no patience with Negroes who made an issue out of being served in white restaurants and bars; why get stared at or pushed around over a sandwich or a glass of beer? That was his feeling.

In his own neighborhood he felt safe and secure, a man of some standing; people listened to him with respect. Even with white persons he got along all right; he knew lots of cops, bondsmen and bookmakers, and within a business framework, they treated him decently. He chatted with them about sports and politics in bonding offices and police stations, but he never pushed against the boundaries of these associations. If their talk turned to social or personal matters, he effaced himself effortlessly, his manner becoming one of courteous disinterest. It was an unadmitted truce, he knew; they avoided certain words and topics when he was present, and he reciprocated by keeping out of their conversations when he knew his comments wouldn’t be welcome.

The arrangement suited him fine; he had no complaints. He was a big toad in a small black puddle, and that’s where he was going to stay. He had no need to make a splash in the big white puddle. But in spite of these tolerances and adjustments, a fear lurked within him that was as ineradicable as a child’s fear of darkness or strangers.

Occasionally while riding in a subway or strolling in a crowded street, he would realize that someone was staring at him; the knowledge always caused an uneasy stir in him, made him feel nervous and vulnerable. Usually he would try not to look around; he would try to forget about it, fixing his eyes on something neutral, the ads in the subway or the displays in a shop window. But finally, alerted and uneasy, he would make a cautious examination of the people near him, knowing with dread that he would find someone staring at him with revulsion and hatred. It could be a man or woman, old or young, even a child; but the look was usually the same, a mixture of disgust and contempt and anger.

That was how the Texan was looking at him, and it made Ingram feel frightened and helpless. But worst of all it made him feel guilty and ashamed of himself, as if he deserved to be looked at that way. That was what cut like a whip...

Once he hadn’t been too bothered by such things; other colored people scorned them, laughed about them, and he had taken confidence in their collective derision. “Let ’em look, let ’em stare — ain’t they never seen anything brown before? No never?” Joke about it...

But then something happened which added an ominous significance to those occasional glances of disgust or hatred. His mother had become ill while visiting her sister in Mobile, Alabama, and he had gone to bring her back home. He was just out of the Army at the time, but he left his sharp clothes up North and took care to walk softly and mind his own business. Somewhat to his surprise he was treated with an almost ritualistic civility by Southern people; there was a gap between them, marked and unbridgeable, but in all permissible contacts he was aware of courtesy and even tact.

It was on the train coming back North that the incident occurred. They had made an unscheduled stop in the town of Anniston. No one knew why, but rumors flitted about, and a contagion of excitement began to spread through the day coaches. A doctor was needed; something had happened up in one of the sleepers. People stirred and lighted cigarettes, their matches flaring like beacons in the darkness. Outside yellow lamps gleamed on the small wooden station. Rain was falling and the streets were like gold in the soft illumination.

News filtered into their car; a white woman had become hysterical, and a doctor was needed to administer a sedative. Once in a silence they heard her sobbing. Ingram huddled down inside his coat and tried to go back to sleep. Across the aisle his mother snored peacefully, her gold-rimmed spectacles glinting in the half darkness, her big soft body filling like a balloon with her easy breathing. She was resting easily but he couldn’t; the other people in the car were chattering and moving about restively, and he couldn’t isolate himself from these distractions.

Finally he went out to the vestibule and there, in a flurry of nervous talk with one of the colored bus boys, he got an account of what happened — the woman claimed that she had been molested by her Pullman porter. He had tried to open the curtains of her berth — or something. She was too hysterical to supply any details. The porter was a regular on the run, the bus boy had known him for years, and he insisted the woman was crazy. Probably imagined the whole thing.

They talked in low voices, strangely furtive with each other, and then Ingram had gone back to his seat and pulled his collar up about his face, making himself a shapeless, inconspicuous bundle in the darkness.

But a little later he became aware that a crowd of men was gathering under the station shed. They stood watching the train, talking in low voices, their faces long and pale in the yellow light. Occasionally a match would flare at the top of a cigarette, and Ingram could see the flash of alert, speculative eyes.

It was an orderly, almost passive group; but Ingram sensed an urgency about them, a heavy and significant intensity. They pressed together in a cohesive knot, bound together by a silent understanding and purpose.

Someone snapped on the lights in the car, and the men saw Ingram in the window. One of them pointed at him, and the rest drifted closer, staring up at him with eyes that were beginning to brighten with excitement.

It was excitement and curiosity at first; Ingram felt like a freak or an animal in a cage. But their emotion changed quickly to something else, to something oddly joyous and fierce. One of the men shouted at him, and another laughed and bared his teeth in the darkness. Ringed by their bright, menacing eyes, Ingram felt the hatred of the group like the heat from a blast furnace.

Someone shook his shoulder. He turned quickly and looked up into the big meaty face of a man in a policeman’s uniform. The officer said quietly, “Better get in one of the toilets, boy. And lock the door after you. You understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Ingram said.

“You’ll be all right,” the officer said. “Don’t worry. But it upsets them looking at you. Better not to rile ’em.” The man’s voice was casual and soft, almost friendly; he was not berating Ingram, he was simply stating a fact. It upsets them looking at you...

“Yes, sir, I understand,” Ingram said. “Thank you, sir.” Like something scalded he went down the aisle to the cold little toilet at the end of the car. Crouching in there on the seat, with the acrid stench from the rusty pipes in his nostrils, Ingram felt no sense of anger or outrage; instead he felt small and mean. That’s what the men saw, he thought.

Finally, like an answer to a prayer, the car jerked and the train began to roll...

Ingram never found out what happened to the porter. He watched the papers for a week or two, but he never saw anything about the incident. They’d probably put the man on another run, he had decided; that would be the best thing to do.

Novak slapped his hands together briskly, and the sound made Ingram sit up so abruptly that he almost spilled what was left of his drink.

“Well, that’s it,” Novak said, looking at them with a hard, pleased smile. “Three weeks from Friday. That’s D day. We’ll spend the next three weeks drilling on the timetable, the getaway, everything.”

Burke collected the glasses and began making a second round of drinks. “We need a little something to celebrate the deal.”

Ingram stood up, his hands cold and shaky; he wanted to get away from here, away from the look on the Texan’s face. “I’d better run along, Mr. Novak. I got some plans to make.”

“I’ll get in touch with you tomorrow, then. And I’ll get in touch with Tenzell today.”

“That’s fine, Mr. Novak.”

“Hell, what’s the hurry?” Burke said, passing drinks to Earl and Novak. “One for luck, eh?”

Novak smiled at his glass. “Here’s to happy days. With maybe fifty thousand bucks in our wallets the future can be mighty bright.”

Earl stared at his drink, a little frown shadowing his eyes. He hadn’t followed Novak’s explanation; his attempt to concentrate had been frustrated by the pressure building inside him. There was no target or direction for his feeling; he was caught up hopelessly and impotently between confusion and anger. It was always that way, he thought, still frowning at his glass. Nothing was ever easy and clear for him.

Burke said, “Here’s luck,” and drank deeply, letting the liquor flow down his throat in a smooth rush.

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...