“I guess I’ll fix up my drink,” he said.
Her fingers stopped moving on his chest. For a moment or so she was silent, breathing slowly and quietly. Then she said, “Will you make me one, too?”
Earl sat up and lifted himself over her, feeling guilty but relieved to be away from the insistent demands of her body. He made two drinks, then snapped on the lamp at the foot of the sofa and began looking for cigarettes. There was a pack in his pocket, but he needed an excuse for turning on the lights.
“There’s some on the coffee table,” she said.
“Oh, yeah. Thanks.”
She had stretched out with her arms above her head. The position flattened her stomach and lifted her breasts into sharp little cones beneath the blue sweater. She smiled at him, her eyes soft and quiet. “That light’s awfully bright,” she said.
Earl sat down on the ottoman in front of the television set and lighted a cigarette. He didn’t want her, and he wished to God she’d cut out the sales pitch. He hadn’t wanted her for a long time, he thought with a stir of anger. He was just a damned stud, just doing a job.
“I’m getting hungry,” he said. “Don’t you think we’d better get dinner started?”
“All right.” She went into the kitchen and snapped on the light. He tried to think of something to say that might take her mind off her hurt feelings. “Those pork chops all right? I told Meyers what you said about the ones he gave me last week.”
“They’re just beautiful.” The enthusiasm in her voice was genuine; she was inspecting the chops with critical pleasure. “Just enough fat on them and they’re thick enough for a change.” She put the frying pan back on the stove with a brisk clatter. “You’ll see the difference.”
He shook his head and sipped his drink. Lorraine turned on the burner, then stepped into her loafers and came into the living room with her drink. For a few seconds she stood looking down at him, analyzing the worried frown on his face. “Honey, listen to me,” she said. “Will you listen to me without getting mad or upset?”
“Sure, sure,” he said. “I’m not some wild dog you have to tiptoe around. I can listen. What do you want to say?”
She knelt beside him and pressed one of his hands tightly against her breast. “You know I love you, Earl. Don’t you know that?”
“Sure, honey.” He felt smothered and trapped, but the yielding, supplicant position of her body brought a strange constriction to his throat; he touched her smooth hair awkwardly. “Yes, Lory, I know that. It’s—it’s important to me.”
“You know that I wouldn’t lie to you—that I wouldn’t tell you anything that wasn’t for your own good. Don’t you know that?”
“Sure,” he said. “I know that.”
She tightened her grip on his hand, staring at him with wide, anxious eyes. “If you do something crooked, everything we mean to each other will be ruined. Because you’ll keep going crooked once you start. And sooner or later they’ll catch you.”
“Not with Novak running things,” he said, feeling a sudden loyalty toward Novak swelling in his body. “He’s smart, Lory. All I got to do is follow orders. And this job is so big I’ll never need anything else.”
“What is it?” she said, whimpering the words in a trembling little voice. “For God’s sake, what does he want you to do, Earl? Why did he pick on you? Why couldn’t he leave you alone?”
“Look, he’s giving me a chance, if you’d only see it that way. He could have picked a dozen other guys. He’s a big operator, Lory. But he picked me.” Earl jabbed a thumb at his chest. “Me, a nothing, a guy without even a job. And he’s giving me a chance. While all you do is whine about yourself. Why don’t you think about me for a change? I’m nothing, don’t you understand?” The words came out in a thick, bitter rush and he jerked his hand away from her and began to pace the floor, his anger and frustration swelling and pounding for release. “I grew up in a shack on three dirt acres. Does that tell you anything? We lived like niggers. We lived right beside ’em, in the same kind of a shack, eating the same stinking food, and wearing the same rotten clothes. And my old man tied me up and beat me like a dog for playing with them when I was a kid and didn’t know any better.” He shook his fists in her white scared face, furious with the need to make her understand. “Can’t you see? Can’t you get it? There was nothing, no toilet, no furniture, nothing at all. That’s what I came from, Lory.” He rubbed his forehead, feeling the dry, bitter taste of shame in his mouth. “That’s what I was, Lory. Let me tell you something. Once I saw a picture of a harmonica in a catalogue. It cost ninety-five cents. I decided I was going to own that harmonica. Nothing would stop me. I saved two years. And you know the closest I ever came? Fifty-two cents. That was the closest I ever got, Lory.” He let his big hands fall to his sides. “Fifty-two cents. I didn’t make it, Lory.”
“But lots of people have it hard starting out,” she said uncertainly; she was confused by the intensity of his outburst. “I didn’t even get to finish high school, you know.”
“Sure, you had it tough,” he said wearily. “Everybody did, I guess. But maybe I had it tough in a special kind of way. I lied about my age to get into the Army—well, I would have lied to get into hell. Anything was better than that shack.”
“That’s all past now. If you’d settle down to a job—you could be anything you wanted.”
“With my record? Bosses love that. They start sweating if they see you within six feet of the cash register.” He pounded a fist into his palm. “Two jail stretches for nothing. If I go up again it’s going to be for something, I promise you.”
“Lots of companies would give you a chance. You won’t let them, that’s all.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he said, mocking her with his tone; his anger dissolved into a sullen futility as he realized that he couldn’t make her understand. “Why in hell should I let them pry into me? Would you like some fat bastard wrinkling his nose at you while you say, ‘Yes, sir, I’ve been a bad boy, but they taught me my lesson and you can kick me in the tail if I get out of line.’” He chopped impatiently at the air with his hand. “No, Lory, no! I can’t take that stuff.”
“You’re just thinking about yourself,” she said, beginning to cry. “You’re not thinking about me.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” he muttered, rubbing both hands through his hair. “Let’s forget it. Let’s forget it, in the name of sweet Jesus Christ.”
She got quickly to her feet, brushing at her tears with the backs of her hands. “We can’t forget it, Earl. Listen to me—please listen to me for just one more minute.” She put her arms around him, and when he stiffened against the pressure of her body she only clung to him more fiercely. “Let’s go away, Earl,” she said, in a desperate whisper. “I’ve got time coming at the store. Two full weeks. You remember the lodge we went to last spring? We could drive up tomorrow. You loved it there, didn’t you, Earl? You loved it. I know you did.”
“Yeah, it was nice,” he said slowly. It had been a fine time; clean air and walks through the woods, a good, healthy time.
“We could get the same cabin,” she said smiling quickly as she felt the tension easing in his body. “We could broil steaks and sit around the fire at night. Remember Tony, the fellow at the hotel you used to chop wood with? Well, you could see him again. Please, please, Earl. Let’s go away.”
“Well, it seems kind of childish,” he said rubbing a hand over his short black hair. “I mean, just pulling out without any plans or anything.”
“Let’s do it that way, Earl. Please, please. Let’s just pack and leave.”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Poole won’t like it.”
“I don’t care, I don’t care about him. Don’t say any more about it. You’re starved, and it’s my fault. You need food.” She laughed and hugged him tightly. “You’re too big for your own good, that’s your trouble.”
As she turned toward the kitchen the front doorbell rang, and she hesitated, glancing at Earl with a f
rown. “Now who could that be?”
“Well, you’d better see.”
Lory dabbed at her eyes as she hurried across the room. “What a time to bother people,” she murmured under her breath. “It’s probably something that would wait until tomorrow morning as likely as not.” When she opened the door Earl saw Margie McMillin’s blond head shining in the dim hallway light. He sighed and lighted a cigarette. Margie lived upstairs. Lorraine got along with her fine but he could only take her in small doses; she meant well enough, but her incessant chatter ground on his nerves like a file. She came in saying, “This is a ghastly time to bother anybody, but I know you two are a pair of night owls. I knew you’d be up. Hi, Earl. How’s my favorite boy friend?” She peeked into the kitchen, and clapped a hand to her forehead. “You haven’t had dinner yet!”
“I got home a bit late,” Lory said.
Margie grinned at Earl. “Boy, if I’d just known you were down here all alone.”
“Lory was about to fix dinner,” he said, hoping she’d take the hint.
“That sounds cozy,” she said. “I wish Frank would get home late some nights. So we could have a real late dinner. Like the French.” She struck a pose to show off her body, ripe and compact in slacks and a white silk blouse. “Oui? Non? How’s my French, Earl? Pretty sharp?”
He was trying to control his exasperation. “What’s on your mind, Margie?”
“Seriously, very seriously, we want to ask you to do us a big favor.”
“Me?” Earl said.
“I haven’t talked to Earl about it yet,” Lorraine said sharply. “I’ll call you in the morning, Margie.”
“I’ll ask him myself then,” Margie said. “Don’t go shaking your head at me, Lorraine. After all, it’s my anniversary.”
“Look, what’s this all about?” Earl said.
“Just this, lambie pie.” She came toward him with tiny steps, and smiled demurely into his eyes. “Frank’s talked his boss into letting him have Thursday and Friday off—because it’s our anniversary. Well,” Margie held up her hand and counted on her fingers, “with Thursday and Friday and a little cheating on Monday, that’s five full days almost.”
“It sounds great,” Earl said, watching her with a little frown. “You going away?”
“To Florida,” she said, pretending to swoon. “Swimming, lying in the sand, dancing all night—I can’t even bear thinking about it.”
“Let me talk to Earl later,” Lorraine said. “We haven’t had dinner yet.”
“I’ll hurry, I promise,” Margie cried. “There’s one hitch, Earl. Frank’s mother was coming down from Scranton to watch the baby but she wired us yesterday that she can’t get here until Saturday morning. I told Lorraine about it, and she suggested—” Margie put the tip of her forefinger against his chest. “She suggested that you could help out until Frank’s mother arrived.”
“What do you mean?” Earl said. He looked at Lorraine. “Do you know what she’s talking about?”
“I just told her I’d ask you,” Lorraine said, wetting her lips. “It’s no real work. The baby sleeps all day and I’d take over at night.”
Margie hugged herself. “And Frank and I will take over nights in Florida,” she said. “Say yes, Earl—please.”
Earl smiled uncertainly. He looked at Lorraine then and the smile faded, and a little frown settled between his eyes. “You figured I could baby-sit for them, eh? Is that it?”
“I told her I’d ask you about it. They’re really stuck—” She smiled anxiously. “It wouldn’t hurt you, really it wouldn’t. Tommy’s an angelic child.”
“Yes, you wouldn’t know he’s there half the time,” Margie said. “I could show you about the formula and everything…” She glanced quickly at Lorraine. “Well, I’ll let you talk it over. Maybe I should have let Lory prepare you for the shock. Frank says—” The look on Earl’s face brought an uneasy smile to her lips. “He says I’m always rushing in where angels fear to tread.”
“That’s a fresh way of putting it,” Earl said. “What’s he driving a truck for when he can think of sharp things like that? Why doesn’t he get a job writing on television?”
“Well,” Margie said, with color moving up in her cheeks, “well, that’s nice, I must say.”
“Now stop it, both of you,” Lorraine said.
“So what’s wrong with driving a truck?” Margie said. “It’s a lot better than sitting around doing nothing, if you ask me.”
“You’re right,” Earl said slowly. “Dead right.”
“I’m sorry, Earl. I didn’t mean to be catty. I’m sorry.” She backed toward the door, trying to smile into the anger in his face. “I just thought I’d ask—because we’re stuck, like Lorraine said. I’ve got to get back upstairs. Frank was just pouring me a beer. Good night all.”
When the door closed, Lorraine said quickly, “There’s nothing to be upset about—they’re friends of ours. You can’t blame them for asking a favor.”
He stood watching her with cold, furious eyes. “That’s how you figure me, eh? A baby sitter?”
“No, Earl, no. But they’re neighbors, after all, and they feel—Where are you going?”
He went to the closet and pulled a sweater over his bare shoulders, then got into his black overcoat. “I’ve got a job, in case you’re interested. I’m not available for baby-sitting.”
“No, Earl, I won’t let you.”
He turned to her, his anger a steady, powerful support to the decision he had made. “Get yourself another bus boy,” he said. He picked up the note from the top of the television set and threw it at her feet. “You want your gray dress from Berger’s? Well, goddamit, go get it.” His voice shook with emotion. “You want the potatoes peeled, you peel ’em. You want to baby-sit with McMillin’s brat, go right ahead. But count me out, Lory.” He was so angry his voice broke like that of a child trying not to cry. “What do you want of me? That’s what I want to know. You want me wandering around the streets without even a bar I can go into? A bar where I’d be welcome like other guys? You want me to smile at that little whore upstairs, and change her kid’s diapers while she’s off in Florida with that stupid jerk of a husband of hers? Is that what you want?” His voice rose in a fury. “Is that it, Lory? Do you want to beat me into nothing? Nothing at all?”
“I just want you to stay with me,” she said, shaking her head in anguish. “That’s all, Earl. I swear it.”
“You don’t know what you want,” he said, breathing heavily. “You don’t know yourself, Lory. But I’m different. I know what I’ve got to do.”
He slammed the door after him when he left, and the crash of it echoed and reverberated up and down the drafty stairways of the old house. Lorraine stood in the middle of the room with her hands pressed tightly across her mouth, staring with wide, frightened eyes at the closed door. Finally she let her arms fall to her sides. After a while she went slowly into the kitchen and put one pork chop into the smoking skillet.
CHAPTER FOUR
SHORTLY AFTER NINE the following morning, John Ingram sauntered into the lobby of Novak’s hotel. He was a small and slender man in his middle thirties, neatly turned out in a pearl-gray overcoat, glossy black shoes and a light-gray, snap-brim fedora which he wore slanted at a debonair angle across his forehead. There was a dancer’s rhythm in his light, sure footsteps and in the easy, balanced movements of his body. He walked as if he were listening to the strains of a military band, head back, shoulders straight and his hard leather heels clicking out a neat tempo against the tiled floor of the hotel lobby.
Ingram was a Negro; his eyes were dark brown, alert but somewhat cautious and his skin was the color of well-creamed coffee. There was a foxy look about his small face, and a neat mustache added to the suggestion of dapper, big-city sharpness; but the over-all projection of his personality was neither shrewd nor arrogant; he seemed merry rather than clever, as if he were dressed for a masquerade party and realized his costume was an outrageous contradiction
of his true station in life.
He walked briskly across the lobby and entered an empty elevator. The operator, a colored man, glanced curiously at him but said nothing. When a stout, middle-aged white woman stepped in, Ingram moved to the rear of the car and removed his hat with a punctilious flourish.
The woman pretended to ignore the gesture. She stared through Ingram and said “Seven, please” to the operator in a cool, detached voice.
Ingram, smiling broadly and obsequiously, said, “I’d lak to go to flo’ ten, if you please, boy.” His manner was a parody of shuffling conciliation; a defensive chuckle rippled the butter-smooth surface of his voice and the inflection of the sentence rose and fell in an apologetic croon.
The operator glanced sharply at him, a warning glint in his eyes. “What’s that? Ten?”
“Thass right. Ol’ ten.” Ingram bobbed his head, smiling unctuously at the white woman. “Ol’ big dick, thass how the gambling men call it. Ol’ big dick.” He laughed shrilly, slapping his hat against his thigh.
The woman stared stonily at a spot of flaking paint on the door of the car. She seemed ill at ease; spots of color had risen in her cheeks, and her lips compressed in a thin, exasperated line. When the door opened at the seventh floor she stepped out quickly, the swing of her wide hips suggesting an emotional reaction dead center between confusion and indignation.
The operator closed the door and looked around at Ingram, making no move to start the car. “Now who do you know on the tenth floor?” he asked quietly.
“Friends of my father’s,” Ingram said, giving him a slow, mysterious wink. “Old golfing buddies. Pappy was quite a character. Belonged to all the good clubs. Shell-Share-The-Road Club, William’s-After-Shave Club—” Ingram laughed softly. “He was practically a charter member. So elevate us, man, elevate us.”
The operator grinned at Ingram, then laughed indulgently and threw over the starting lever. “You’re quite a character, too, I guess. But you watch yourself around here. That woman was minding her own business. This isn’t a place to be acting like a cane-field darky and making folks embarrassed.”
Odds Against Tomorrow Page 4
