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.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
INGRAM ARRIVED at the bus depot in central Philadelphia shortly after ten thirty. He went quickly through the crowded terminal, the brim of Earl’s hat pulled down over his eyes, and within minutes had merged his thin body with the shadows of the city’s side streets. His reactions were as instinctive as a fleeing animal’s: fear had left him with nothing but the mindless tenacity to exist. He had walked to the highway in a protective cocoon of shock, mercifully oblivious to the rain and. wind, and the dark trees swaying grotesquely above his head. The bus had been a dimly lighted refuge, a haven of darkness and warmth; he had found a seat in the rear, and pulled the collar of Earl’s big overcoat high around his face. The motor throbbed like a powerful heart in the drowsy silence, and the soft lights fell like a blessing on the innocently sprawled bodies of the other passengers.
Ingram watched the level waves of water rolling down his window, staring through them at the pinpoints of yellow lights that gleamed from farmhouses set far off the highway. They had stopped once at a roadblock, and he pulled back in terror from the sweep of a flashlight across the window. Some of the other passengers had stirred and waked; questions were murmured while the driver talked to the police, and then the gears whined and they rolled slowly past a knot of troopers wearing long black rain slickers. There were no other stops. They roared swiftly into the city, the big tires whirring with a liquid power against the wet highway…
Ingram waited in the shadows for a streetcar to rattle by, then hurried on to the next block. The storm had driven pedestrians inside and thinned out motor traffic; lamplights gleamed on empty sidewalks and the high winds swept away the faint piping of horns, muted the heavy thunder of trucks and subways.
This was his town, his neighborhood. The familiar sights penetrated the defenses that fear had thrown up against reality. He stopped and leaned helplessly against the unyielding side of a building, a destructive wave of self-pity almost washing away all his strength. There was no hope for him. He was too sick and weak. Pain sharpened in his chest as a coughing fit shook his body. The cold and rain on his naked body had been too much…
He saw the delicatessen across the street, and remembered the smell and feel of the place, warm and spicy with Jewish foods, jars and cans shining on the shelves, the huge refrigerator filled with bottles of beer and milk and soft drinks. He used to buy sandwiches there to take home. The old man who owned the place made a sandwich that would do a hungry man for dinner.
But this was the dream world now. The delicatessen, the Chinese laundry, this street he had sauntered along in the past with a headful of crazy thoughts—those were the phantoms. The reality was back at the bleak, rain-soaked old farmhouse—Earl and Crazybone and the twisted old man.
Something moved and caught his eye. He saw a patrolman strolling along the empty sidewalk, the shadow of his swinging nightstick making a long, grotesque shadow up and down the street. The lights glinted on his brass buttons as he paused to check the door of a shop.
Ingram’s breath came in rapid little gasps, silvering the cold air in front of his face. He crossed into the next block, his shoulders hunched against the sound of pursuit; a shout, or the pound of footsteps would have sent him into screaming flight…
In two or three minutes he came to the drugstore, slowing down to stare apprehensively at the bright plate-glass windows, and the huge neon sign above the revolving doors. It was a big, busy place, with a long soda fountain, magazine racks, a drug compartment and shiny glass cases full of toilet goods and cosmetics.
It looked like a trap, a bright neon trap…
Maybe they didn’t serve colored people. Maybe he’d cause a commotion just by going in. Get himself arrested… the thought made a giddy laugh bubble in his throat. Rob a bank, okay. But don’t go ordering a cup of coffee in a white restaurant.
But another thought dissolved this crazy, morbid humor: What about Earl’s woman? Would she help him? Earl was sure of her, but Earl was a fool. He probably believed that any woman who slept with him was a slave for life. But maybe this woman wouldn’t want any part of his troubles. Maybe she’d read the note and start screaming for the police.
But suddenly he was moving, heading for the revolving doors, his questions unanswered, his fears unresolved. He hadn’t come to a decision, he had just started forward, crazily and defiantly. But he realized with elemental conviction that it was the thought of Earl which had sent him toward the drugstore, propelled him into this big, neon trap. He wanted to help the man; that was the fact of it, the senseless, pointless fact of it.
Everything at the soda fountain was clean and tidy; the coffee urns gleamed under bright overhead tubes of light, and the little groups of napkins, sugar bowls and mustard jars were lined up as neatly as a formation of toy soldiers. A blonde waitress took his order and wrote it carefully on a check; coffee and a sweet roll. She gave him a brief, impersonal smile before going away, and he felt his taut nerves relaxing, his body sinking into blessed lassitude. He put Earl’s hat on the stool beside him, and opened the collar of his coat to let the warmth of the place soak into his bones. After a moment, he glanced around the store, trying not to seem furtive or ne
rvous, making his survey slowly and casually. Several women were shopping at the cosmetic counters, and a knot of men were lined up buying cigarettes and tobacco. The short-order cook was slicing bread industriously and the blonde waitress stood staring with blank boredom at the rainy darkness beyond the bright windows.
Ingram heard an impatient voice say, “Now I want these magazines moved to the back of the store tomorrow. Circulation is our problem and goal, Lorraine. People leaf through books and block up the entrance. That’s out from now on, understand?”
“I’ll have them moved in the morning, Mr. Poole.”
“Good. Now about that lunch menu…”
The voice faded slightly. Earl hunched over his steaming coffee, trembling with the excited stroke of his heart. Lorraine… that was her name. He waited a few seconds and then glanced around at the sound of the voices.
A man and woman stood together at the magazine racks near the door. The man wore an overcoat and had his back to Ingram. The woman was slim, with black hair and a pale square face. She nodded slowly as the man spoke to her, but she was looking over her shoulder at Ingram; he saw her eyes go wide and dark as they shifted to Earl’s hat on the stool beside him. One of her hands moved to her throat, but she continued to nod thoughtfully at the man’s urgent instructions.
“Yes, I’ll watch that, Mr. Poole,” she murmured as Ingram turned back to his coffee.
“Fine. See you tomorrow. Early.”
Ingram heard the rubbery squish of the revolving door, and then the tap of high heels moved toward him on the tiled floor. She passed so close that he felt the draft of air caused by her body. Strolling toward the rear of the store she paused to realign a salt shaker, and then went behind the counter and talked briefly to the sandwich man. Ingram watched her from the corner of his eye. This was Earl’s woman; black hair, dark eyes, a square pale face. High-strung and tense, with a flat slender body and neat ankles and feet. She looked cold as ice water. The thought afforded him a derisive amusement. Did Earl like that? No demands… asleep ten minutes after hitting the sack. Ingram’s spirits were lifted and refreshed by his gleeful irreverence. But almost instantly he felt depressed and ashamed of himself.
She was coming toward him now, checking spigots and cutlery with professionally alert eyes. The waitress straightened and uncrossed her arms.
“Ann, I’d like you to see how many large-size mayonnaise we have in the stock room.”
“I did already. There’s six.”
Ingram bent over his coffee. He heard Earl’s woman say, “That can’t be right. Check them again, will you, please?”
“Sure, but I know there’s just six.”
When the waitress hurried off Earl’s woman stopped in front of Ingram. “Is everything all right? Would you like some more coffee?”
“No, ma’am. Everything’s fine.” She was carrying it off fine, except for her eyes; her voice was smooth and cool as ivory, but her eyes looked dark and hot, turbulent against her clear white skin. “Well, there is one thing you could help me with,” he said, chuckling softly. “I’ve got myself twisted around in town.” He took Earl’s note from his pocket and placed it on the counter. “The address I want is written down here, but I can’t find it no way.”
“Maybe I can help you.” She picked up the note carefully enough, but as her eyes flicked over the message the cords in her throat stood out like knife blades under her smooth skin. Ingram’s nerves fluttered as he saw the sandwich man watching her curiously.
“Do you know where that address is?” he said, clearing his throat.
She nodded quickly. “Yes, it’s not far from here. Tenth and Edgely. You go two blocks left, then turn left again and it’s just after the stoplight.”
“That sounds simple enough.”
“You won’t have any trouble. I—I keep my car near there, so I know the neighborhood.” She was smiling, but her body looked as if it were being pulled to pieces; her shoulders were rigid with tension, and a pulse fluttered desperately in the silky hollow at the base of her throat. “You won’t have any trouble, I promise you,” she said.
“Well, thank you very much, ma’am. I’ll hurry along then. The man waiting for me said not to be late. Good night, ma’am.”
Ingram waited for half an hour in the shadows of a warehouse at the intersection of Tenth and Edgely Streets, stamping his feet on the hard pavement to drive some warmth into his body. She had picked a good place to meet him; the area was dark and silent, a neighborhood of garages, small factories and shuttered-up shops. But he shifted coldly and miserably in the shadows, without confidence or hope; the heat of the coffee had faded almost instantly, and when he coughed it roused up the heavy ominous pain in his chest. She wasn’t coming… he knew that now. Otherwise she’d have been here long ago. Maybe she was sitting in a police station telling them what he looked like. He didn’t know what to do, but he didn’t have the strength to do anything but wait.
He tried to shore up his defenses, but his efforts were helpless and inert; he was just too cold and sick to care. Maybe she’d come after all. Maybe she’d just been delayed. Earl was important to her; he’d seen that in her eyes. But what good would a car be to him? With cops everywhere, with Earl wounded and sick?
He moved suddenly back into the shadows; a car had turned into the street a block away from him, its light flashing on the rain-black pavement. Ingram stayed deep in the shadows until the car slowed to a stop. He didn’t move until the front window was cranked down, and he saw the blur of her pale face in the light from a street lamp. Then he hurried across the street, sliding into the front seat as she leaned over and opened the door for him. He sank wearily into the soft cushions, his body limp and grateful in the warmth of the car. As she twisted around toward him he smelled perfume in her hair, and saw the pale smooth flash of legs in the dashboard light. The womanly essence of her made him feel weak and helpless, almost like weeping
“Where is he?” she said fiercely.
“A long way off. I got to get started back.”
“How badly is he hurt?”
“Well, he got hit in the shoulder. It won’t kill him, I guess, but he don’t look good.”
“Why did you make him do it?” she said, striking the steering wheel with the palm of her hand. “Why? Why?”
“I didn’t make him do nothing,” he said sullenly.
“He wouldn’t do it on his own. Why didn’t you—you bastards leave him alone?”
Ingram was wearied by her foolishness. “He’s in it now, ma’am. Talking about how and why won’t get him out.”
“Where are you going to take him?”
“I don’t know, ma’am. We don’t have much choice. We just got to run. Try to get out of the state.”
“He won’t ever come back, will he?”
Ingram smiled faintly. “Not unless the government starts pardoning bank robbers. Give ’em civil-service jobs or something.”
“I knew it was the bank,” she said. “I heard the radio report. I thought he was dead. I felt it all through me.”
“He’s not dead. But he may be if I don’t get started back pretty soon.”
“I brought some whisky and food from the apartment. Luckily I shopped yesterday. There’s a boiled ham, some canned goods, bread, butter and two bottles of rye.”
“That’ll help a lot.”
“I’m going with you,” she said sharply.
“He just wants the car.”
“I don’t care. He needs me.” Her voice was coldly, harshly determined. “He’s nothing to you. He’s mine. Do you understand?”
Ingram let his hands fall limply into his lap. What the hell difference did it make? “You know where the Unionville Pike leaves the city?”
“Yes.”
“That’s the route. Let’s go…”
It wasn’t until they were checked through the roadblock ten miles from Crossroads that Ingram’s mood began to change; they had a chance after all, he realized with a touch of won
der. A chance. He sat in the front seat with the black countryside rushing past him and felt hope stirring warmly in his frozen body. With the girl at the wheel, they had a chance. She was cool and smart, driving easily and efficiently now, watching everything with her sharp eyes. Another woman might have wrecked the car, or got stopped for speeding. But not this one. She knew what she was after; he saw the determination in the set of her jaw, in the tight grip of her gloved hands on the wheel.
She had been cool as a cucumber at the roadblock. When the trooper flashed his light on the car she had rolled down the front window and said, “What’s the matter? I’m in a hurry, officer.”
Lying in the rear of the car, Ingram heard the trooper say wearily, “People are always in a hurry. Particularly when it’s raining and the roads are dangerous.”
“I’m an excellent driver. My husband says I’m more confident than most men.”
“I’m glad you’re confident,” the trooper said. “It’s a cheery thought on a bad night. Don’t make any stops along the road tonight. Don’t pick up hitchhikers. Don’t pick up anybody. Got that?”
“But what’s the matter?”
“We’re just checking for somebody. You got nothing to worry about. Come on, get it rolling.” The trooper walked back to the next car, his torch swinging easily in his hand. They weren’t bothering too much about the traffic heading toward Crossroads, Ingram knew; it was people coming out they were watching.
But with the girl at the wheel they could get out; he and Earl could hide in the rear, one in the trunk maybe, and this girl could take them right under the cops’ noses. They weren’t watching for a woman, that was certain…
Even his cough seemed better now. It wasn’t even midnight yet and they would be at the farm in fifteen or twenty minutes. By tomorrow morning they could be two hundred miles away. He straightened up, savoring the feel of the warmth and strength in his body. “Kind of slow down along here,” he said, watching the road carefully. “There’s a town ahead, Avondale, I think. After that we make a turn and head into the country. It won’t be long now.”
Odds Against Tomorrow Page 14
