Novak opened the door and said, “Come on in. You know Burke. This is Johnny Ingram. Johnny, Earl Slater.”
Earl stepped into the room, giving Burke a smile, but when he turned and put out his hand to the other man a little shock of confusion and hostility went through him; the man was colored; a sharply dressed colored man with a drink and a cigarette in his hand. Ear] let his arm fall slowly to his side. “What’s this?” he said, feeling puzzled; was it some kind of a joke, he wondered.
But Novak wasn’t treating it as a joke; he sat on the edge of the bed and said casually, “Johnny’s in this deal, Tex. He’s the guy who makes my plan work. You understand?” He glanced up then, and his voice sharpened as he saw the confusion and anger in Earl’s face. “You understand?”
“Yeah, sure,” Earl said slowly, watching the Negro with bright, blank eyes.
“Okay, take a seat. We’re ready to get down to business.”
“Drink, Tex?” Burke said, nodding at the bottle on the dresser.
“Yeah, give me a little something,” Earl said. “I got a kind of funny taste in my mouth.”
Burke poured whisky over ice and handed the glass to Earl. Then he freshened his own drink and sat down on the window sill. Ingram crossed his legs carefully, his glass resting on his knee and an expression of sly amusement on his small foxy features. He chuckled amiably and said, “I’ll bet you got a dark brown taste in your mouth, Mr. Slater. That’s the worst kind, that’s the truth.”
Earl realized he was being baited, but Ingram’s conciliating smile threaded his anger with a frustrating confusion. He felt hot and prickly all over, as he tried to sort out his feelings. “Yeah,” he said at last, “yeah, that’s right. You’re pretty smart, I guess.” But the words struck him as foolish and pointless.
“Well, thank you,” Ingram said, bobbing his head.
“Sit down, Earl,” Novak said. “Might as well be comfortable.”
There was only one seat left in the room, an overstuffed armchair beside Ingram. Earl looked at it for an instant, then smiled faintly and said, “I guess I’ll stand.”
He leaned against the door, and pushed his hat back on his head.
“Okay,” Novak said quietly. “The bank we’re taking is in a sleepy little town in southeastern Pennsylvania. It’s called Crossroads. Maybe you’ve never heard of it. But after this job, you’ll know it like the palm of your hand.”
As he described the features of the town, and the roads and highways leading into it, Earl drew on his cigarette and watched the Negro from the corner of his eye. The sense of relaxed well-being he had enjoyed was gone; now his chest was tight with pressure and a relentless little pain was throbbing in the middle of his forehead. Why had they brought a colored guy into it, he thought, with a heavy anger.
“About the split,” Novak said, “I’m laying out dough for this job. I’ll take that out first. Afterwards we split what’s left four ways — right down to the penny.”
“Maybe you’d better explain to them about the expenses,” Burke said.
“I was coming to that.” Novak took a sheet of paper from his back pocket, and studied it for a moment or so. “It’s all itemized; you guys can go over it if you want to. First, there’s two cars. One’s a station wagon you’ll use on the job. It’s nothing to look at but the engine is souped-up and she’ll go like a bat. The other car is an ordinary black sedan we’ll use for the getaway.”
“We switch cars after the job,” Burke said. “That throws off anybody tailing us.” He sipped his drink and grinned. “The whole deal is smooth as oil.”
“Both cars have phony plates and phony papers,” Novak went on. “The cops will trace them back to a couple of guys named Joe. The papers and plates came a little high, but they’re worth it. Now there’s a few other items. A waiter’s outfit for Ingram here, and chauffeur’s jacket and cap. And some other stuff for him that I’ll come to later on. The tariff is around sixty-five hundred bucks. I take that out of the loot before we split it up. Is that clear?”
“Sure,” Earl said. “Afterward even-steven. Everybody equal.”
“That’s right,” Novak said, nodding slowly. “Let me tell you something; most jobs go wrong after the hard work is done. Brink’s is an example. That Merchants Bank job in Detroit last summer is another. Beautiful jobs, planned by experts. Everything smooth as silk.” Novak stared around the room. “But all these experts are in jail today. You know why? Because they shaded somebody on the payoff. That’s where the trouble starts. You got a sorehead who can always blow a whistle on you. He took the same risks as everybody else, but he didn’t get the same kind of payoff. When he’s broke and has a few drinks, it all boils over and he talks. That’s how the experts get their big smart tails kicked into jail. But it won’t happen to us. Everybody in this deal is up the same frigging creek if something goes wrong — so everybody is going to get the same share of the loot.” Novak stood and put his empty glass on the dresser. “I’ve spent time and dough looking for this particular bank, and I don’t want any trouble — now or later. In the next three weeks I’m going to make robots out of you. Every step you take is on a split-second timetable. I’ve done the thinking; all you guys have to do is follow orders. Now here’s how it starts...”
Ingram lighted another cigarette as Novak began to explain the details of the job, outlining each man’s particular role and responsibility. Ingram was preserving his look of poised interest with a physical effort; it took all his control just to sit quietly and listen to Novak’s hard, efficient voice. The Texan’s cold, contemptuous smile made it impossible for him to concentrate on what Novak was saying; the words simply broke into meaningless fragments in his mind.
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.