“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.
CHAPTER SEVEN
AT FIVE O’CLOCK the following afternoon John Ingram was playing poker in a small, noisy barroom in Crossroads. He had arrived by bus an hour or so before, wearing an old overcoat and carrying a worn, scuffed overnight bag. The bar was on the main street at the southern end of town, one of a row of shops catering exclusively to Negroes.
When he left the bus, Ingram chatted with several men lounging in the doorway of the barroom, asking them about the area and inquiring about job possibilities. Giving information had made them feel important, and they all talked at once, providing loud and frequently contradictory answers to his questions.
Ingram listened politely to their jumbled array of facts and opinions, laughing and shaking his head when anyone interspersed the account with irony or humor. They were laborers for the most part, amiable and courteous, well-intentioned men, and Ingram knew they would resent any display of big-city cockiness from him; the arrogant Negro, he had learned, was always a potential source of trouble for other Negroes. In addition, he was almost always a bore; righteous and looking for slights, quick to criticize other colored people for being mannerly and minding their own business…
While chatting with them Ingram had spotted Earl Slater, the Texan, strolling along the opposite side of the street. They had stared at each other blankly for an instant or so, their faces empty and unrevealing; but in the gathering darkness Ingram had seen the sudden tension in Earl’s deliberate strides, and he knew the sight of him was responsible for this. Just seeing me is enough to steam him up, he realized. The thought brought a quick flush of shame to his cheeks. It would be long before he forgot the scene in Novak’s room, forgot the weight of the Texan’s hand across his face…
One of the colored laborers suggested they go inside for a drink. Ingram spent half an hour coasting along on a beer, and then someone at the poker table in the rear
called for a player. Ingram was the only person available; he had tried to beg off, but they coaxed and cajoled him until he realized he was calling attention to himself by refusing to play.
And now, after fifteen minutes play, he knew the game was crooked.
It wasn’t risking money in a crooked game that bothered him; he could beat the man who was cheating with his eyes closed, and the stakes weren’t high enough to matter one way or another. They were just playing for quarters, keeping their bets on paper so there wouldn’t be any money in sight in case the sheriff looked in. But crooked games usually ended in rows, Ingram had learned; and he couldn’t afford to be part of any kind of row.
The cheater was sitting on Ingram’s right, a tall, yellow-skinned man named Adam. He had prominent teeth, a head like an artillery projectile, and noisy, demonstrative manners; he laughed and talked constantly, imploring fortune for cards and moaning in mock anguish when they fell to other players. The trick he had been using was simple but risky; in a smart game he would have been caught in the first couple of hands.
Adam was using a daub to mark the high cards; to his left ear was taped a thin tube of gummy paint, and after touching this with his finger tip, he could place minute identifying dots on the backs of face cards and aces. He knew what he had to beat in every hand, and he was taking greedy advantage of his information, winning pot after pot and laughing shrilly at his good luck. If he’d just take it easy, Ingram thought despairingly.
Ingram was ahead out of sheer indifferent luck; he was simply calling bets and putting down his hand, eager to find a tactful way to get out of the game.
“Your deal,” the man sitting across from him said quietly. “Let’s see something beside numbers for a change, okay?” The man was called Rufe and the other players addressed him with respect; he was solemn and cautious in his play, but there was a flash of alert intelligence in his heavy-lidded eyes.
“I’ll try to oblige,” Ingram said.
The mood of the table was changing, Ingram knew; that was as palpable to him as the noise from the bar, and the layers of blue smoke swirling in the air. The losers had become confused and angered by their bad luck. They were watching him suspiciously, the bright overhead light drawing deep shadows in their solemn, brown faces.
Ingram dealt quickly, not looking at the cards.
Why was he here? Why had he got into this? He was desperately afraid of what lay ahead of him tonight—if he were caught the police could do what they wanted with him, beat him senseless, send him to jail to rot, strap him into the electric chair to die. Any of that; he’d deserve it all.
His spirits sank to a gloomy depth. The air around him smelled warmly of cigarette smoke and beer, and men stood drinking along the short wooden bar, their happy, shouting voices rising sporadically above the music blaring from the huge juke box. It was a haven against the unfriendly darkness; it had begun to snow outside, and Ingram saw the soft flakes drifting past the windows in a fragile silence, flashing in a white splendor as they spun into the yellow glare of the street lights. But the sight of this made him feel small and lonely and helpless; he became aware then that Rufe was staring silently at him and the muscles of his stomach began to ache with a cold fear.
“There’s something funny with this deck,” Rufe said slowly. “I ain’t accusing anybody, I’m just saying what I think.”
“They aren’t my cards,” Ingram said. “You were playing with ’em before I came in the game.”
There was a murmur of support from men who had crowded around the table.
“Look, he’s pretty fast to defend himself,” Adam said. “Nobody’s accused him of nothing.”
“We’ll look at the cards,” Rufe said quietly.
The odds were rigged against him, Ingram knew; when the marks were discovered there would be an explosion at the table but by then Adam would have got rid of the paint tube behind his ear. In the excitement that would be easy enough; he could drop it on the floor, then institute a search for it. When the tube was found, he would insist it belonged to Ingram.
“Now listen to me a minute,” Ingram said. “I’m no card cheat. But I know something about gambling.” He stared desperately around at the other players, realizing in an agony of fear that his attempt at composure was feeble and unconvincing; his forehead was damp with sweat and the tension inside him made his whole body tremble. “I’ll show you who’s cheating,” he cried, leaping to his feet. “Give me those cards.”
“Don’t listen to him,” Adam said. “He’s trying to talk his way out of it.”
“Everybody get his hands on the table,” Ingram said. “Come on! Only the guy who’s cheating won’t like this—palms down and keep ’em there.”
Rufe was looking at Ingram with interest. Finally he nodded and said, “I’m willing.”
Only Adam objected. “This is crazy. What’s all this hocus-pocus about?”
Rufe stared at him in silence. Finally he said coldly, “I’m willing to give him a chance. Why ain’t you?”
“He’s going to trick us, that’s all,” Adam said, but after another glance from Rufe he put his hands down tentatively and unhappily, as if he feared the surface of the table might be red-hot to the touch.
Ingram said, “All right, I’ll show you what’s been going on now.” His body was trembling with relief, but he shuffled the deck with an authority and speed that brought an appreciative chuckle from the men ringing the table. He flipped four cards to Rufe. “Worth opening with?”
Rufe turned over the cards: four aces gleamed under the naked bulb over their heads. “And here come the K-boys,” Ingram said, tossing out the kings. “And behind them the ladies, and the jacks. They’re real informative cards—read ’em from either side if you know where to look. See that little red dot up in the corner of the ace? Look good, you can’t miss it.”
As the other players leaned forward to study the cards, Adam raised a hand casually, but Ingram was waiting for this; he caught Adam’s wrist and pushed his hand back to the table. “Which ear you got it behind?” he said quietly.
“What’s this?” Rufe said, his heavy-lidded eyes glancing up at Adam. “What’s all this?”
“I read about it in a book,” Adam cried in a shrill, stammering voice. “A trick book—you know the kind. How to prank your friends. They sent me a little tube of paint to put behind your ear—it’s a joke, that’s all.” He wet his lips. “That’s the funniest part of the whole thing, ain’t it? That you’d think I was really cheating you. Ain’t that the funniest thing about it?”
“Why, you son of a bitch,” Rufe said, shaking his head almost thoughtfully. Then he hurled himself across the table, his hands grabbing at Adam’s throat, and his weight driving the man down to the ground.
The table had gone over with a crash. Everyone began shouting counsels and exhortations as the two men rolled across the cigarette-littered floor. The bartender pulled down the shades on the front windows and someone turned up the juke box to drown out the sounds of the fight.
Ingram was trapped helplessly; twice he tried to push his way free, but he couldn’t dent the mass of bodies crowding him up against the wall. He had no clear idea of how long he was pinned there; his thoughts were confused and frightened, and they drained away all his spirit and strength.
The noise died abruptly; a white man in a steel-gray uniform had pushed his way through the crowd, and his tall presence cut the heart of the men’s excitement. They backed away from him, smiling sheepishly, and he stared around with an expression of exasperated impatience on his hard face. “Get up, you two,” he said, glancing at Adam and Rufe. “What’s this all about?”
Several men began talking at once, awkwardly and evasively; they were like school kids caught misbehaving by a popular teacher, Ingram thought. The sheriff digested their jumbled accounts without any particular change in his expression. Then he looked thoughtfully at Adam. “You’ll get unhealthy hanging around barrooms, Adam. I think you’d better stick to the ou
tdoors for a good while. And, Rufe, next time you want to hit somebody, think twice and don’t. You understand me?” The sheriff turned then and stared at Ingram. “I want to talk to you,” he said. “Mind coming along to my office?”
“I didn’t do anything,” Ingram said, wetting his lips. But he knew the protest wouldn’t help a bit; the sheriff was more interested in him than he was in Adam or Rufe—Ingram had sensed that right away. “I was just minding my own business,” he said, making a fluttering little gesture with his hand. “I didn’t do anything.”
“I just want to talk to you. Come on along.”
Ingram sighed and picked up his grip; there was nothing else he could do. Outside in the snow and darkness they walked side by side down the street, the sheriff’s big hand light on Ingram’s elbow. The snow was melting as it touched the ground, and the streets and sidewalks were black and shining in the splash of light from shop windows. The people hurrying by nodded to the sheriff, and he returned their greetings with a touch of his fingers to the broad brim of his hat.
“Sheriff, I didn’t do anything,” Ingram said, as they waited at the intersection for a traffic light to change. “The man was cheating—I just pointed it out, that’s all.”
“That isn’t what I want to talk to you about,” the sheriff said. “Come on.”
The shops they passed were crowded; this was Friday night, Ingram thought in panic. In just two hours the job was supposed to start…
Then Ingram saw something that sent a shock of alarm through his body.
The Texan had appeared on the sidewalk ahead of them, stepping out from a hotel doorway and pausing in the stream of pedestrians to light the cigarette hanging from his lips. He blew out a long stream of smoke as he turned and sauntered along the sidewalk, his eyes idly checking over the colorful displays in the shop windows.
He hadn’t seen them, Ingram realized, pulling his neck down into the collar of his coat. Maybe they could slip by him…
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