Womack braced himself against the workbench, his arms spread beside him, fingers pressing hard into the greasy wood. The fingers quivered in spite of his pressure to keep them still.
After tomorrow, he thought, there’ll be no more kidding yourself. After tomorrow you’ll be a thief — maybe even a murderer — and it won’t be like in the war. Kill a guy in the war and they pin a medal. But tomorrow will be different.
Womack looked at the others, at Lila who stood slightly apart, smoking silently. His mind went to Emma, back over a life that had led him to this, and he raised his hands.
Womack’s eyes swept over the others, a half smile on his face, as he said, “I’m ready to roll right now.”
12
Julio Silvera looked at his five-year-old daughter. She sat with him at breakfast, studying him with warm brown eyes, round face resting in the palm of her hand.
They had a way — especially at breakfast — of communicating by means of a mystical, silent language known only to father and daughter. This morning something in Julio’s eyes was saying, “Don’t put so much jam on your toast.”
And in his daughter’s eyes: “I love you, Daddy.”
For some reason — perhaps it was faint uneasiness that drained the appetite from his stomach — the silent line of communications seemed to be breaking down so that Julio, wrinkling his paper impatiently, said aloud, “Finish your milk, Debbie.”
Carole, his wife, came in from the kitchen. She looked immaculate even in the worn-out robe, hair pulled straight back and secured with a rubber band, then falling to her shoulders in a long pony-tail. She was very fair. He liked the lightness of her hair and complexion. It always gave him a strange sense of satisfaction when others, startled by the contrast of his own dark skin, turned to stare.
Carole poured the coffee and sat down opposite her husband. Moving the jam jar out of the reach of her daughter, she said pleasantly, “Drink your milk, Debbie.”
“Carole—”
She looked at him and he could tell — had known all morning — that she sensed something on his mind. He had been a fool to wait this long to tell her. Now he didn’t quite know how.
She waited and when he didn’t speak she said, “Have you talked to Mr. Phillips? I mean... about your vacation.”
I might as well get it over, he thought
“There won’t be any vacation. Today is my last day.”
“Julio!”
He shrugged. “I told you when I took the job it might only be temporary. Mr. Phillips wants to retire. He’s tired. And starting next month the Army is going to handle the payroll transfer. I think that’s what finally made him decide. The Army’s his biggest account. Without the Army, he’d just be losing money anyway.”
“And us?” She looked up, her eyes wet. “What about us?”
“We’ll make out okay.” He tugged at his daughter’s pony-tail and, bending over, kissed her lightly on the nose. He repeated the process — it was part of the morning ritual — with his wife. “I stopped off to see Mr. Burton last night. He’s short-handed at the lumber yard again. He wants me to work through the summer and maybe stay on permanently if business picks up.”
“Did he say how much he’ll pay?”
“No. We’ve just been talking, kind of. I’ll go by and see him again tonight.”
“Well. I’ll miss seeing you in your uniform. You’re really very handsome, you know.” She adjusted the collar of his shirt — Phillips Armored Transport Service said the triangular patch on the short sleeve — and stood back to survey the effect. “But I don’t mind telling you that I’m a little relieved now that it’s all over. I never liked the idea of your being responsible for all of that money. It’s just too risky.”
“No more risky than a lot of jobs.” He grinned. “If it was, the pay would be better.”
Carole walked as far as the back screen porch with her husband, kissed him lightly, and watched as he backed their second-hand Volkswagen out of the garage.
Although it was the beginning of another hot day in July, inexplicably, she shivered.
13
Lila and Sammy Travis checked out of the hotel before breakfast on that same Tuesday morning. They left in the white Thunderbird and Lila was driving. She was dressed in shorts and a sleeveless blouse. Sammy wore a sportshirt, open at the neck, and a pair of lightweight golf slacks. His jacket was tossed over the seat between them. The inside pocket contained his three-day-old discharge papers. He reached over and patted the pocket. Then, placing his head back on the seat, he smiled as the warmth of the early morning sun touched him. Lila found a parking place on Main-street and the two of them went into a cafe and ordered a leisurely breakfast. Their watches had been carefully checked. They had time to kill.
Bernie White ate breakfast in the little diner across the highway from the ABC Garage. He was neatly dressed and he had a battered suitcase. Yesterday had been his last day at the garage but Mr. Hitt, who was back on the job now, had allowed him to sleep overnight on the old Army cot. He had four eggs, over easy, a side order of country sausage, fried potatoes, toast and coffee. He reflected that it had been this way when he was in the war. He had always been hungry just before going into action. A picture came into his mind. It was of a man in his company who had been killed during the Battle of the Bulge. The bullet had smashed the man’s face so that he could not breathe. He had choked to death. The thought did not affect White’s appetite. He put the image from his mind and continued eating.
Womack went without breakfast that morning. Waking up a little before eight a.m. he walked along Mainstreet until he found a barber shop that was open. He had a shave, trying to relax, but his mind spun crazily. He closed his eyes beneath a steaming towel and listened while the barber filled him in on the news. It was bad, as always. Somehow, the thought that the world was in a mess seemed to cheer him. When he came outside the sun was up full and for some reason he felt better. He walked south for a block and a half, past the cafe where Lila and Sammy sat over a leisurely breakfast, then west for two blocks to where the big rig was parked. As he climbed behind the wheel he looked at his wristwatch. Exactly nine-fifty. Right on schedule. He kicked the engine over and crawled out into traffic. Five minutes later he hit the highway. The sun broiled white and hot on the concrete. He could feel the sweat forming damp spots under his arms and beneath the belt around his waist. For a moment he had the feeling that the whole thing was ridiculous, that no one in his right mind could possibly take a thing like this seriously, that he should laugh at the whole deal and keep right on rolling until he hit El Centro. But for Johnny Womack the feeling passed.
Sheriff Adam Wibber woke up that morning in a tangle of sodden sheets, sweltering and suffering, gas pains like gnawing worms in his stomach. He heard someone groaning and realized that it was himself. Still groaning, he got to his feet, and walked into the kitchen. He stood in the middle of the floor, his two-hundred-and-forty pound body stripped to the waist, his bare feet splayed out over the faded linoleum. For one brief, unpleasant instant, he thought of his wife, Sarah. They had been divorced for over twelve years and in all of that time he thought of her only when confronted with the prospect of getting his own breakfast. He took a pan from the stack of pans in the sink and started water boiling for his cereal.
An hour later Wibber left the house and got into the tan-and-white car with the star on the side. He drove very carefully leaving Valerie and headed west on Route 77 until it intersected a secondary county road. He checked his watch. It was ten thirty-two. At ten forty he got out of the car. Lighting a phosphorous flare, he dropped it onto the highway, in the westbound lane. Then he dug out his handkerchief and mopped the sweatband of his western hat.