Odds Against Tomorrow

Chapter Thirteen

When Ingram returned to the living room of the farmhouse, he was shivering uncontrollably, his legs plastered with mud and slime to the knees. He pulled on his clothes quickly, then crouched beside the meager heap of charred wood in the fireplace.

“You put it away okay?” Earl asked without looking at him.

Ingram nodded, too exhausted to speak; his bare flesh had been whipped by the wind, and the cold had driven into him like frozen needles. “Nobody will find it,” he muttered at last. The words came awkwardly through his stiff lips. “If they do they’ll need a crane to get it out.”

“So we’re stuck here now,” Earl said, but he knew his anger was illogical; the car was no good to them. But now they were completely helpless. “Couldn’t you park it on the side of the pit?”

“I wasn’t worrying about the car,” Ingram said. “I was trying to keep from freezing.”

The old man laughed softly. “I told you it was a bad night. Didn’t I tell you that?”

“You’re quite a weatherman,” Ingram said. “You hear rain on the roof and you know it’s raining. You ought to go on the radio.”

“Don’t talk to me that way,” the old man said shrilly. “You hear me?”

“Sure I hear you,” Ingram said with heavy sarcasm. “You wouldn’t need a radio. You could just open the window and scream the news. Right from your filthy bed.”

“Don’t talk to me that way.”

“Both of you shut up, for Christ’s sake,” Earl said.

“Tell him to speak respectfully to me. I won’t have a nigger talking down to me in my own home.” The old man’s hands were trembling with impotent fury. “Tell him, you hear?”

Crazybone came hurrying into the room, an expression of furtive dismay on her tiny wrinkled face. “What you shouting for, Pop? Dinner’s on the way. Oatmeal, you hear? It sticks to your ribs all night long.”

The old man lay back on the pillows, turning his face away from Ingram and Earl. “You got anything to go with it?” he asked her.

“You bet your boots,” she cried in a crowing, triumphant voice. “I got a jar of home-made apricot preserves.”

Earl felt his stomach turn; a spasm of nausea racked him, and the wound in his shoulder began to pound with turbulent pain. “We got to do something,” he said to Ingram. “We got to make plans.”

Ingram shrugged. “Go ahead. Make plans.”

Crazybone glanced at them with a puzzled smile, as if she had never seen them before. Then she skipped clumsily from the room, singing a wordless song in a high, sweet voice.

“We need money and another car,” Earl said, pressing both hands against his roiling stomach.

Ingram smiled bitterly. “We tried to get some money tonight, remember?”

“You have any friends, Sambo?”

“Sure I got friends. They’d love to have me drop in on them. Can’t you imagine how happy they’d be? I got three brothers, too. You think I should try them maybe?”

“We got to do something. Listen to me.” Earl felt a rush of excitement go through him; Lorraine would help. She would stick. “I got a friend in Philly,” he said, edging forward on the sofa. “She’s got a car, and she can get hold of money.” He glanced at his watch. It wasn’t much after nine. Lorraine would still be at the store. “She’ll help us, Sambo.”

“You’re dreaming.” Ingram shook his head slowly. “You can’t travel. Even if you could the cops would grab us the minute we showed our face. We’re hot stuff.”

“I’m hot, but you’re not,” Earl cried; the words slipped out of him in the excitement generated of hope — but it didn’t matter. “I heard a broadcast while you were putting the car away. They’re just looking for me. Nobody saw you. You hear me? You’re free as the air.”

Ingram looked thoughtfully at him. “And you weren’t going to tell me about it, eh?

“I just told you, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, sure. When you thought about the car in Philly, and how nice it would be for me to get it.”

“Don’t take my word for it.” Earl struggled to his feet and walked unsteadily across to the old man’s bed. “Tell him what you heard,” he said. “Tell him the police just want me. Tell him the truth.”

The old man’s eyes were bright with malice. “I ain’t doing any favors for neither of you. Him sassing me, and you standing by. That’s a fine way to treat a man.”

“Tell him what you heard!” Earl shouted. “Tell him, goddam you.”

“It’s the truth.” The old man’s voice trembled with senile fear and indignation. He glared at Ingram. “They didn’t say anything on the radio about you. It’s just him they’re after.”

“Now you believe it, I guess.” Earl limped up and down the cold, hard floor, trying to control his excitement and bring his thoughts into orderly focus. “There’s a belt highway of some kind that crosses the main road and goes into Philly. I saw it this morning.” He came to the bed and shook the old man’s shoulder. “Isn’t that right, Pop? What’s the name of it?”

“The Unionville Pike. It’s two miles from here.”

“And it’s got a bus line, right?”

“They go in every half hour nights. Takes in factory hands.”

“Sambo, we’re going to lick this deal,” Earl said in a savage, exulting voice. “We’re going to lick it, hear? I’ll write you a note. If she’s not at the store, she’ll be home. She’ll give you her car, Sambo. And money. Where’s some paper and a pencil?” He limped to the mantelpiece and picked up one of the old, yellowing newspapers. “Now a pencil.” He saw a cardboard box full of buttons, bits of string and dusty spools of thread. Emptying it he laughed triumphantly: there was a stubby pencil in the bottom of the box. He shook the paper open and found a page of advertising with wide margins surrounding the copy. “This is perfect,” he said, carefully tearing out a square of paper. Moistening the pencil, he sat down and began to write slowly and laboriously, his lips moving in a rhythm with the point of the pencil.

“Now here’s the deal, Sambo,” he said, frowning at the message. “The Unionville Pike is northwest of here. I’ll tell you every turn to make. You catch the ten-o’clock bus. You’ll be in Philly by ten twenty or twenty-five. I wrote the address of the store down, and the address of our apartment. Go to the store first.” He paused to underline a word in the note. “She’s got black hair and she wears it long. You’ll recognize her, don’t worry. She runs the joint. You give her this note. Understand? She’ll carry the ball from there.”

Ingram was watching him with a faint smile. “You got it all figured out, eh?”

“It’s our only chance, Sambo.”

“Then we’re in sad shape,” Ingram said. “I’m not leaving here.” He knew what it would be like outside; his imagination had been working as Earl made his plans. The rain and the wind, with maybe lightning searing the darkness and bringing the whole night world into a fearful brightness... And people staring at him, cops eying him while they swung their nightsticks in slow, speculative arcs.

“You don’t trust me, is that it?” Earl said.

“You watch out for yourself. I’ll watch out for me.”

“Listen to me, Sambo. Use your head. Why should I send you out to get caught?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know! You don’t know!” Earl mocked him bitterly. “Well, I’ll tell you something since you’re so goddam dumb. Without that car you’re going to die. Get that into your woolly head. Burke is dead. We’re facing a murder rap. Maybe you didn’t know that, either?”

“I didn’t have nothing to do with it. I got forced into this job.”

“Do you want to die? Is that it, Sambo?”

“I didn’t shoot Burke,” Ingram said shrilly. “They can’t blame me for that.”

Earl said “Judas priest!” in a weary, disgusted voice. Then he sighed and shook his head. “Will you do me a favor, Sambo? Will you just be serious? Forget about the car. Sit here and wait for the cops. But be serious!” Earl’s voice rose in sudden fury. “You’re a murderer. So am I. The law says we’re responsible for Burke’s death. Don’t talk like a fool. Is that asking too much?”

“I didn’t know anything was going to happen to him,” Ingram said. “I didn’t even have a gun.”

Earl settled himself carefully against the back of the sofa, and lighted a cigarette, his manner seemingly careless and negligent. He watched Ingram in silence for a few seconds, judging the texture of his fear with shrewd, instinctive accuracy. Then he said casually, “You ever been in jail?”

“No.” Ingram shook his head quickly.

“I was in jail the night they burned a man. That’s something you should know about. You’ll be ready for it then.”

Ingram looked away from Earl’s bright, searching eyes. “I don’t need any lecture about it. I can guess what it’s like.”

Earl laughed. “That’s what people outside always say. But they’re wrong. They get funny ideas from movies, I guess. You know the kind of stuff. Prisoners banging tin cups on the bars, colored guys singing spirituals, everybody solemn and scared.” Earl shook his head. “It ain’t like that, Sambo. You know what it’s like? It’s like the night they show movies. It’s an event. Everybody gets all gagged-up and excited. There’s a pool on the minute it’s going to happen. You bet a half dollar and you can win a hatful. My cellmate won eighteen bucks. He was a lifer, a real lucky guy.”

Earl straightened slowly and shifted to the edge of the sofa, studying the nervous fear in Ingram’s eyes with clinical speculation. “But it’s different for the guy they’re burning,” he said gently. “He’s sure it won’t happen. Right till the last. When the guards shave his head, he asks them if they’ve heard any gossip from the warden’s office. Then the chaplain comes in. That makes everything just fine.” Earl smiled at Ingram’s trembling lips. “The chaplain tells you all your troubles will be over after they throw the switch. God’s waiting for you, he says, waiting with a big smile on His face. You’re heading for the big leagues and God’s the manager who’ll show you all the tricks and make you feel at home. You believe that, of course. You don’t even mind what’s coming you’re so anxious to get up to the big leagues and be God’s buddy. That chaplain’s your best friend, Sambo. He walks right up to the chair with you, telling you how great it’s going to be up in the majors. He almost climbs into the chair to show you how easy it is — almost, but not quite.”

Earl flipped his cigarette into the fireplace, and the flash of the glowing tip made Ingram start nervously. “They strap you in and put a metal cap on your head,” Earl said quietly. “You jump because your skull is bare as an egg. Then they all stare at you, the guards, the chaplain, the warden, the newspaper guys, wondering how you’ll take it. They make bets on it sometimes. One guy will fight the straps, trying to break loose. Others just start whimpering.”

“Shut up,” Ingram cried; Earl’s words rang on his old, old hideous fears of being beaten and hurt, laughed at by merciless men.

“Then you just wait,” Earl said softly. “Strapped into the chair, you wait. You don’t know when it’s coming. You stare at the guards and the chaplain, watching their eyes, ready to scream if anybody gives a signal. But you can’t see the signal. They don’t ask you if you’re ready, if it’s okay to throw the switch. If the warden doesn’t like you he can let you sweat a while — make you start sobbing and screaming, waiting for the bolt of lightning to split your head in two.” Earl settled back in the couch. “That’s how it’s going to be, Sambo. That’s the straight dope.”

“How do I know I can trust you?” Ingram muttered at last. “About the radio, I mean.”

“I told you before: Why should I lie to you? What good will it do me to send you out to get caught?” When Ingram didn’t answer Earl heaved himself to his feet and took the gun from his pocket. He checked the safety, then limped to the fireplace and extended the gun butt-first to Ingram. “Go on, take it,” he said quietly. “I trust you, Sambo. I’ve got to. If we stick together, we’ve got a chance. So what do you say? You want to take it? Or do you want to fry?”

Ingram hesitated, staring into Earl’s eyes. Finally he moistened his trembling lips and put out a hand for the gun.