Odds Against Tomorrow

Chapter Six

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.

Earl stepped out onto the sidewalk and entered the restaurant beside the hotel, taking a seat at the counter and ordering ham and eggs and coffee from a buxom pink-cheeked waitress. It was a quarter to, ten, and there were only two other customers in the restaurant; a truck driver working hungrily at breakfast, and a middle-aged man looking through a newspaper and sipping a cup of coffee. Burke would be along soon, Earl thought, checking his watch. He was stopping at a motel about a mile away, and after this morning’s contact would keep out of Crossroads. The colored man, Ingram, wasn’t due until tomorrow afternoon.

It was ten o’clock when Burke shouldered his way through the door, hands jammed in the pockets of his overcoat, and his big face whipped to the color of raw beef by the stinging wind. He took the stool beside Earl and pushed his hat up on his forehead. “Some weather, eh?” he said. “At six this morning I wouldn’t have bet against snow.”

“I guess it’s coming all right,” Earl said.

“You can say that again.” Burke grinned at the big, pink-cheeked waitress. “How about something substantial? Bacon and eggs, with some hashed browns on the side, okay?”

When she walked back to the kitchen Burke glanced at Earl. “I like this weather,” he said. There was a smell of whisky about him, mingling with the fragrance of a sweet after-shave lotion. “It’s good weather to work in. Makes you want to tackle anything.”

“Yeah, that’s right,” Earl said.

They sat in silence until the other two customers buttoned up their coats and went out into the street. The restaurant was warm and comfortable, a haven against the cold, with the aroma of coffee and sugared buns mixing pleasantly in the air. From where Earl and Burke sat they had a view of the bank building and half a block of Crossroad’s main street.

“Pretty little town,” Burke said again.

The waitress brought his breakfast, and he sighed expansively and picked up a knife and fork. “That looks great,” he said.

“You want more coffee?” the waitress said to Earl.

“No, this is fine.”

“I’ll be back in the kitchen if you need anything else.”

“Sure.”

Burke buttered a piece of toast and stirred it around in egg yolk. “Yes, it’s a pretty little town,” he said.

“What did you want to see me about?”

“Oh.” Burke glanced toward the kitchen, then turned to Earl. “Novak stopped in the bank yesterday — a final check. And there’s been a change. They’ve got a Red Cross drive on, and the collecting table is in front of the gate that leads back to where the bank officers have their desks. You get the picture? You got to go around that table.”

“You made a trip just to tell me that?”

“A little thing out of place might upset you. You know what I mean? You’re expecting it to look one way, and bang! — it’s different. That could rattle a guy.”

“I’ll try to keep calm,” Earl said dryly. “Judas priest, I think Novak’s the guy getting rattled.”

“He just coppers all the bets. Don’t you worry about him.” Burke glanced out the window and something made him smile. “If you want to worry, worry about that guy. He’s the competition.”

In front of the entrance to the bank stood a tall, middle-aged man in a slate-gray police uniform and black leather puttees. The forty-five at his hip was buckled to a glossy Sam Browne belt, and despite the freezing weather his raw, big-knuckled hands were bare; leather gauntlets were tucked under the diagonal strap of the Sam Browne, neatly in place beside a book of traffic tickets, and a leather-encased pen- and-pencil set. He wore a trooper’s hat with a black chin strap, the wide brim shadowing his long angular face.

He was pretty big, Earl thought; better than six feet, with wide shoulders pushing at the seams of his whipcord jacket. Now as he turned to glance down the street, Earl saw deep-set serious eyes and a solid width of hard jaw line. He didn’t look smart, Earl thought; there was nothing quick or alert in his face, only a kind of stubborn watchfulness. The hair at his temples was streaked with gray, and his skin was brown and coarse, like leather that had been seasoned and toughened by exposure to all kinds of weather.

“There he is,” Burke said. “The law.”

“Well, so what?” The solid authority in the sheriff’s manner irritated and angered him. Staring up and down with his hands on his hips, like somebody’s tough old man... “He’s just a hick-town cop,” Earl said.

“Maybe,” Burke said, but his eyes narrowed as he watched the sheriff strolling down the block. “I’ll bet not a cat or dog dies in this town that he doesn’t know about it. He looks like a hunter, and that’s what makes a smart cop.”

“I hunted a lot,” Earl said. “It didn’t make me smart.”

“Did you like hunting?”

“It was something to do, that’s all.”

“Well, that’s not enough. This guy loves to hunt. Watch him.”

They saw the sheriff pause under the marquee of the movie theater, and then stroll into the lobby, bending over a bit, his eyes scanning the tiled flooring.

“What’s he looking for?” Earl said.

“Cigarettes, probably.”

Earl grinned. “Don’t they pay him enough to buy his own?”

“There’s a law in this state against smoking in movie theaters,” Burke said patiently. “If he finds butts, he’ll know somebody’s breaking the law.”

“Isn’t that brilliant,” Earl said.

“You’re missing the point. Tonight he’ll probably have a talk with the manager. He’ll stop trouble before it starts. That’s smart.” Burke sighed and looked down at the backs of his wide, puffy hands. “I was a cop for quite a while, you know. Almost eight years.”

“Did you like it?”

“I liked the gun and badge. That’s why kids want to be cops, I guess.” Burke glanced at Earl, a sheepish little smile on his lips. “You know something? I used to hang around gin-mills when I was off duty just hoping trouble would start. You know, punks getting fresh with a waitress or drunks noisy and looking for a fight.” He sighed again, but the little smile lingered on his lips. “I loved to watch their faces when I’d pull my coat back and let ’em see the gun.”

“If you liked being a cop, why didn’t you stick with it?”

“I liked good clothes and good liquor, too,” Burke said dryly. “I could get a new suit just by doing a guy a favor. It was easy.” He shrugged his soft shoulders. “The lieutenant gave me a break the first time I got caught. Next time he didn’t.” Burke wadded up his greasy paper napkin and dropped it on the plate. “That’s the whole story.”

“Well, here comes your hero again,” Earl said, looking out the window.

The sheriff was crossing the street at an angle, covering the ground with long efficient strides, but his manner was deliberate and there was no suggestion of haste or urgency in his movements.

Burke touched Earl’s elbow. “Now watch this,” he said.

The window framed the scene — the traffic, the bank building, and the tall sheriff angling swiftly across the street.

“Watch what?” Earl said.

“The kids at the corner,” Burke said.

Earl saw three teen-aged boys lounging at the intersection, fresh-faced youngsters in jeans and black leather jackets. They were grinning expectantly, staring at a young woman who was strolling casually toward them along the sidewalk. She hadn’t noticed them; she was minding her own business, occasionally pausing at shop windows, an attractive young woman in tweeds and brown leather loafers. She was quite obviously pregnant; this was what had caught the youngsters’ interest. One of them rubbed his stomach significantly; and his two companions began to laugh.

“Smart little punks,” Earl said. He didn’t like this sort of thing; it made him feel cheap. Burke put a hand on his arm as he started to rise. “Never mind,” he said, “you don’t want to get yourself noticed. You’re too late anyway.”

The sheriff had come up beside the young woman, smiling down at her and touching the brim of his hat in a soft salute. She grinned and said something to him, still unaware of the teen-agers staring speculatively at her from the corner.

The sheriff shortened his stride to hers, and they strolled past the boys, chatting easily until they came to the stop light. There the sheriff said good-by and smiled after her as she crossed the street and entered the next block. Only when she was out of sight did he turn and stare at the three boys, his big raw hands resting on his hips.

It was apparent that he didn’t need to say anything; the boys avoided his eyes, looking foolishly up and down the street. Finally, in concert, they turned and hurried off, their heels clicking out a quick and nervous rhythm on the sidewalk.

“Why didn’t he do something?” Earl said.

“He did,” Burke said, getting to his feet. “He stopped trouble. Nothing big, just something that might have embarrassed the woman and got the kids in a jam. A little neighborhood hassle, some bad feeling all round. That’s what he stopped. That’s how he earns his dough.” He took a few toothpicks from a porcelain cup on the counter. “Don’t worry about him, kid. He won’t get in our way.”

“Hell, who’s worried?” Earl said. He still felt a cold antagonism toward the big cop; there was something familiar about him, he thought, although he knew he’d never seen him before in his life.

“You take care of the check,” Burke said. “I’ll pay you back tomorrow night.” He grinned and patted Earl on the shoulder. “I’m expecting some dough by then...”

Ten minutes later Earl drove out of Crossroads on the main highway, making a careful note of all intersections and landmarks. He was an expert at this kind of thing; his directional instincts were uncannily accurate and he had an excellent memory for terrain. In the Army he had been able to lead his platoon for miles without straying more than a degree or two off course. He was like a good bird dog, with a compass inside him to keep his nose to the scent.

Earl spent two hours following the network of narrow dirt roads that twisted through the rolling farmlands around the village of Crossroads. To the general information he had received from Novak, he added details for his private intelligence; detours, bypasses, short cuts and dead ends — he pinpointed and measured them, storing them away for possible future use. Twice he drove back to Crossroads and started out fresh from the corner of the bank building, plotting alternative escape routes to fit any conceivable emergency. He even checked the alleys of the village, knowing he would need them if they were trapped by a traffic jam or roadblock.

The work filled him with importance; it seemed a solid and serious thing to be doing.

At two o’clock he stopped for gas at a station on the main highway a few miles from Crossroads. He told the boy to fill it up and got out to look at the weather. The sun had gone under the clouds, and the sky was dark and heavy in the west. A thin cold rain had begun to fall, and a wind stirred the bare trees. But now the gloom of the countryside didn’t depress him. The black fields and the great V-shaped flocks of geese pointing high and south against the gray skies — for some reason they seemed to make his own loneliness significant and bearable.

The gas attendant whistled and said, “Boy, this is a real sleeper. She don’t look like much, but she’ll go, I bet.”

Earl turned and saw that the boy had raised the hood and was staring admiringly at the engine. “I told you I just wanted gas,” Earl said, his anger putting a bite to the words. “Put that damned hood down. I’m in a hurry.”

“Well, sure, I didn’t know—” The boy was in his late teens, open-faced and confident, but the anger in Earl’s voice brought a flush to his cheeks. “I was just going to check the oil and water. It’s part of our regular service.”

“Never mind the regular service,” Earl said. He realized that he was behaving stupidly, marking the incident in the boy’s memory. It was a small thing but it could be serious; Novak had told him expressly not to gas up near Crossroads. “Sorry I snapped at you,” he said, trying to smile. “But I’m in a hurry.”

“I should have asked you, I guess. But she’s a beautiful job.” The boy’s smile came back. “High-compression head, special carburetors — I’ll bet she travels.”

“I’m on the road a lot,” Earl said. He took his change and tipped the boy a quarter. “Saving time means saving money.”

The boy grinned and patted the hood. “I’ll bet she’ll take those foreign sports jobs without much trouble.”

“She can move all right,” Earl said. He waved good-by to the boy and started back for Crossroads. It wasn’t too serious, he thought. Lots of salesmen drove stepped-up cars. And his explanation had been quick and neat. Saving time means saving money. That would make sense to the kid. That wouldn’t give him anything to gossip about...

Earl drew up alongside the bank in Crossroads and checked his watch. Two thirty, but he wasn’t hungry. He decided to drive over the escape route before stopping for lunch. Pulling out slowly from the curb he tried to imagine how it would be tomorrow night; dark to start with, the colored man and Burke in the seat behind him, and the car plowing away under full power. He drove down the tree-lined side street and turned left at the second intersection. After a half-dozen blocks he came to a slum area, rows of shabby houses with muddy front yards and colored people moving along the sidewalks. Another half mile and he was out in the country, traveling on a hard-surface road that ran between meadows and stands of poplar trees. This was where he would use all the power he could ram out of the souped-up car — on this six-mile stretch. Earl touched the accelerator and the speedometer needle swung smoothly to fifty, then to sixty and on toward seventy, the engine whining softly with the tremendous surge of power. Earl laughed as the cold rain stung his face through the open window, and he sensed the black trees whipping past him.

Tomorrow night he would barrel along here at almost twice this speed, with every second he could save adding a precious margin of safety to their escape. This was part of Novak’s plan; the powerful car and the straight, hard getaway road, a combination that would hurl them beyond any roadblocks that could be thrown up by the state cops.

Earl slowed down when he came to a big, rain-blackened barn on the right of the road. Here Novak would be waiting for them in the sedan. Changing cars would just take a few seconds. The station wagon would go into the empty barn, rammed inside an old corn crib; it might not be discovered for days. They would roll off in the sedan, the colored man at the wheel in a chauffeur’s jacket and visored cap, Earl and Burke wearing overcoats and fedoras that Novak had bought in Philadelphia. They would hit the main highway about two minutes after leaving the bank in Crossroads. In another few minutes they would be gone for good, rolling smoothly toward Baltimore, miles outside the roadblock area.

Earl drove on past the barn and turned into a road that led away from the highway, twisting deeper into the back country. He relaxed and lighted a cigarette, enjoying the smooth power of the car under his instinctively efficient hands. After a while he came to raw country, neglected and run-down; the pasturage there was overgrown with heavy-headed thistle, and the fence posts hung rotten and useless on rusted strands of barbed wire.

Earl stopped and climbed out onto the muddy road, staring around with a faint smile on his face. He liked the rough, abandoned look of this area; there was work to be done here, good hard work. A heavy silence settled around him, broken only by the rain and the occasional lonely cry of birds in a stand of trees rising like black smudge on the horizon. He pulled his muffler tight about his throat, and strolled down the road, enjoying the fresh, damp air on his face. It was getting dark, he realized, and it was just a little after three. Only a few silver patches gleamed in the gray sky, and the birds sounded as if they were settling down for the night.

But he didn’t mind the cold and lonely approach of evening; he was in a relaxed and cheerful frame of mind. He was thinking about Lorraine. It occurred to him that their trouble was living in the city, cooped up in a little box with nothing to look at but lots of other little boxes. Depending on dozens of strangers for their food and drink and clothing. Grocers, delivery boys, plumbers — people you were helpless without.

At the top of a rise, he stared over a meadow that rolled away from him like a sea, hazy and insubstantial under soft, pearl-colored layers of fog. There was a stone house in the meadow, almost hidden by big black maples and oaks. Except for a wisp of smoke curling out the chimney, the place looked deserted; there were no dogs around, and the doors of the old barn swayed crookedly in the gusting wind.

Earl lighted a cigarette and flipped the match into the water runneling coldly in the ditch beside the road. Then he stood quietly and looked at the house. He felt his splintered thoughts merging into a confident, unified idea; after this job he and Lorraine could clear out of the city and find an old place with some good land around it. He would go into farming. Somewhere he had read that the government passed out all sorts of books and pamphlets on soil erosion and crop rotation, things like that. He could learn the whole deal, he thought. Why not? He was no dummy. He could use an ax, and he was handy with tools. And Lorraine’s know-how about food would come in handy. She could put up enough fruit and vegetables from a garden to last them through the winter.

They’d live alone, free as the air, with no demands on them from anybody. They could spend their evenings with a drink or two in front of a wood fire, laughing at the snow and wind blowing by their windows. No more worrying about Mr. Poole and the drugstore. No worries at all.

As he walked back to the car an old hound dog scrambled under the fence and trotted along inquisitively at his heels. Earl stopped and patted the big, knobby head, grinning at his wagging tail and excited, squirming body. All alone out here, he thought. Probably covered twenty miles today, chasing after rabbits and squirrels like a fool. The dog followed him eagerly to the car, and Earl remembered he had half a bologna sandwich in the glove compartment. He laughed and said, “Got something for you, boy,” and the dog’s tail swung to the excitement in his voice. He fed the dog, and then shook the big, knobby head with his two hands. “Pretty good, eh? Good as a rabbit if you’re hungry.”

They would have dogs in the country, he thought. Bird dogs, smart and hard-working, not house pets under Lorraine’s feet all the time. “So long,” he said, giving the dog’s head a last rough shake. “Better get home now and get your supper.”

But the dog didn’t want him to go; he crowded against Earl’s legs and tried to climb into the car when he opened the door. Finally Earl picked up a lump of dirt and raised his arm threateningly. “Beat it! Beat it!” he shouted, and the dog backed away from him, his tail dragging between his legs. He wheeled and trotted off, occasionally looking warily and mournfully over his shoulder at Earl. No spirit, Earl thought, watching the dog slink away along the muddy road. Somebody must have beat it out of him or tied him up and starved him; that would do it. That really broke a dog for good.

Earl brushed the crumbs of the sandwich from his hands and got into the car. He felt irritable for some reason; probably just hungry, he thought.

Half an hour later he was back in Crossroads. He went into the restaurant beside his hotel and ordered coffee and a roast beef sandwich. The place was warm and comfortable with the bright overhead lights pressing against the rainy gloom beyond the plate-glass windows.

The same pink-cheeked waitress was on duty. She smiled at his damp overcoat and said, “You got wet, didn’t you?”

“I couldn’t help it,” he said.

“The coffee will fix you up. How do you like your roast beef? Rare?”

“That’s it. Rare.”

Earl lighted a cigarette and glanced out the rain-streaked window at the bank. The lights were on and he saw a woman working in the teller’s cage that faced the front doors. It would be like that tomorrow night, he thought. Tellers and clerks tidying up their accounts for the weekend. Not worrying about anything but a missing dime here and there.

Earl was interested in a detached way at the condition of his nerves. He had been afraid the waiting would be the worst part of the job; with time hanging on his hands he usually became restless and impatient. But he felt just fine, relaxed and easy, savoring the hot coffee and the warm, peaceful quiet of the restaurant. Tomorrow he’d stick close to the hotel room, keeping an eye on the bank and waiting for the colored man to show up. Then the waiting would be over.

He heard the door open behind him and felt a draft of cold air on his neck. Turning he saw the tall sheriff standing just inside the door, shaking water from his broad-brimmed hat. The sheriff’s hair was short and black, shot with silver at the temples, and his gray, whipcord jacket smelled cleanly of the cold and rain. As he walked to the counter, Earl felt the impact of the man. There was a solid, ingrained assurance about him, an effortless confidence that Earl had seen in certain officers; authority was a habit with those men, a self-endowed right which they exercised without the slightest doubt or fear. They didn’t expect to be obeyed; they knew they would be...

The waitress smiled and said, “Hi, Sheriff. Where did all this rain come from?” She poured a cup of coffee. “Would you like pie or something?”

“No, just the coffee, Millie.”

The waitress chattered on about the weather while the sheriff sipped the hot coffee. There was no suggestion of indifference in his silence but he gave Earl the impression that small talk was not one of his enthusiasms.

Earl watched him from the corner of his eyes. The sheriff sat steady as a rock, elbows on the counter, the coffee cup hidden in his two big hands, listening to the waitress’ theories about the weather with an expression of polite attention on his long face. The sharp overhead light glinted on the black piping at the sleeves of his jacket, and splintered on the butt plate of the forty-five at his hip. He was bigger than Earl had thought, solid and tall, with a powerful-looking body and hands that seemed made for any kind of work or trouble. The local hawkshaw, Earl thought, with a pointless bitterness, not talking, full of two-bit secrets. Turning slightly, he studied the sheriff’s unrevealing profile, seeing the way the brown skin stretched across his face like the leather on a well-worn shield. He felt confused and irritable as he stared at the sheriff; he doesn’t scare me, he thought, trying to rekindle his previous hard confidence. Not one damned bit...

The fact that the man didn’t even glance at him was exasperating; and he felt a strange, illogical need to force himself on his attention. He could nod or say hello, he thought. That wouldn’t kill him... But in spite of this feeling he also had a perverse notion that the sheriff was aware of him after all, and was drawing certain silent conclusions about him.

Maybe he had noticed him driving in and out of Crossroads today, tooling around without any apparent purpose. Or maybe, he had seen Burke sitting with him this morning, the two of them eying the bank...

He wondered what to do; it wouldn’t be smart to attract the sheriff’s attention, but it could be just as stupid to sit here and let him go on speculating about him. The problem tightened his nerves. Why hadn’t Novak thought of this? Brains were his department. But underneath Earl’s confusion and worry was a half-understood need to be something in the sheriff’s eyes. The man’s stolid indifference bothered him more than anything else.

Earl caught the waitress’ eye and said, “Let me have another coffee, okay?”

When she refilled his cup, he smiled and said, “This is pretty country around here.”

“Well, it is when the weather’s nice.”

“I was out looking at farm land, and I got soaked. You can’t get a real idea of property from a car.”

“You’re interested in farming?”

Earl laughed and said, “Well, I don’t know. But I came into a little cash lately, and I figured I should put it into something solid. I’m tired of the big-city life, anyway.”

“I don’t blame you. I go over to Philly shopping sometimes, but a few hours of it is enough for me.”

“That’s how I feel.” Earl was smiling at her but watching the sheriff from the corner of his eye — this would put an end to his speculations, he thought. “So I thought I’d make a switch. You can always get into the city for a while if you want to.”

“What kind of farming are you going to try?”

“Well, stock maybe. Sheep or steers. Maybe a dairy herd, if I can find just what I want.”

“You should talk to Dan Worthington; he’s the biggest real-estate man around here.”

“I’ll do that — but first I like to get my own idea about things.”

“That seems a good idea. Most people jump into things too fast, if you ask me.”

Earl was glad she had said that; it would give the sheriff the picture of a solid and thoughtful guy. Nobody’s fool.

The sheriff put a dime on the counter and got to his feet. “So long, Millie,” he said. Without glancing at Earl he adjusted the chin strap of his hat and left the restaurant.

Earl looked after him, the cigarette halfway to his lips. “He’s the big deal around here, eh?” he said.

The waitress smiled and shook her head. “Nobody ever thinks of Sheriff Burns that way. He’s just—” She paused and shrugged, a little confused by the anger in Earl’s eyes. “Well, anybody in trouble thinks of him first, put it that way.”

“A nice guy, eh?”

The warmth in her voice irritated him. Staring out at the bright yellow lights of the bank, he began to drum his fingers restlessly on the counter. He was suddenly glad they were going to hang the job on this sheriff’s placid little town.