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…
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 lef
t 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.
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