“I don’t blame you. I go over to Philly shopping sometimes, but a few hours of it is enough for me.”
“That’s how I feel.” Earl was smiling at her but watching the sheriff from the corner of his eye — this would put an end to his speculations, he thought. “So I thought I’d make a switch. You can always get into the city for a while if you want to.”
“What kind of farming are you going to try?”
“Well, stock maybe. Sheep or steers. Maybe a dairy herd, if I can find just what I want.”
“You should talk to Dan Worthington; he’s the biggest real-estate man around here.”
“I’ll do that — but first I like to get my own idea about things.”
“That seems a good idea. Most people jump into things too fast, if you ask me.”
Earl was glad she had said that; it would give the sheriff the picture of a solid and thoughtful guy. Nobody’s fool.
The sheriff put a dime on the counter and got to his feet. “So long, Millie,” he said. Without glancing at Earl he adjusted the chin strap of his hat and left the restaurant.
Earl looked after him, the cigarette halfway to his lips. “He’s the big deal around here, eh?” he said.
The waitress smiled and shook her head. “Nobody ever thinks of Sheriff Burns that way. He’s just—” She paused and shrugged, a little confused by the anger in Earl’s eyes. “Well, anybody in trouble thinks of him first, put it that way.”
“A nice guy, eh?”
The warmth in her voice irritated him. Staring out at the bright yellow lights of the bank, he began to drum his fingers restlessly on the counter. He was suddenly glad they were going to hang the job on this sheriff’s placid little town.
Chapter Seven
At five o’clock the following afternoon John Ingram was playing poker in a small, noisy barroom in Crossroads. He had arrived by bus an hour or so before, wearing an old overcoat and carrying a worn, scuffed overnight bag. The bar was on the main street at the southern end of town, one of a row of shops catering exclusively to Negroes.
When he left the bus, Ingram chatted with several men lounging in the doorway of the barroom, asking them about the area and inquiring about job possibilities. Giving information had made them feel important, and they all talked at once, providing loud and frequently contradictory answers to his questions.
Ingram listened politely to their jumbled array of facts and opinions, laughing and shaking his head when anyone interspersed the account with irony or humor. They were laborers for the most part, amiable and courteous, well-intentioned men, and Ingram knew they would resent any display of big-city cockiness from him; the arrogant Negro, he had learned, was always a potential source of trouble for other Negroes. In addition, he was almost always a bore; righteous and looking for slights, quick to criticize other colored people for being mannerly and minding their own business...
While chatting with them Ingram had spotted Earl Slater, the Texan, strolling along the opposite side of the street. They had stared at each other blankly for an instant or so, their faces empty and unrevealing; but in the gathering darkness Ingram had seen the sudden tension in Earl’s deliberate strides, and he knew the sight of him was responsible for this. Just seeing me is enough to steam him up, he realized. The thought brought a quick flush of shame to his cheeks. It would be long before he forgot the scene in Novak’s room, forgot the weight of the Texan’s hand across his face...
One of the colored laborers suggested they go inside for a drink. Ingram spent half an hour coasting along on a beer, and then someone at the poker table in the rear called for a player. Ingram was the only person available; he had tried to beg off, but they coaxed and cajoled him until he realized he was calling attention to himself by refusing to play.
And now, after fifteen minutes play, he knew the game was crooked.
It wasn’t risking money in a crooked game that bothered him; he could beat the man who was cheating with his eyes closed, and the stakes weren’t high enough to matter one way or another. They were just playing for quarters, keeping their bets on paper so there wouldn’t be any money in sight in case the sheriff looked in. But crooked games usually ended in rows, Ingram had learned; and he couldn’t afford to be part of any kind of row.
The cheater was sitting on Ingram’s right, a tall, yellow-skinned man named Adam. He had prominent teeth, a head like an artillery projectile, and noisy, demonstrative manners; he laughed and talked constantly, imploring fortune for cards and moaning in mock anguish when they fell to other players. The trick he had been using was simple but risky; in a smart game he would have been caught in the first couple of hands.
Adam was using a daub to mark the high cards; to his left ear was taped a thin tube of gummy paint, and after touching this with his finger tip, he could place minute identifying dots on the backs of face cards and aces. He knew what he had to beat in every hand, and he was taking greedy advantage of his information, winning pot after pot and laughing shrilly at his good luck. If he’d just take it easy, Ingram thought despairingly.
Ingram was ahead out of sheer indifferent luck; he was simply calling bets and putting down his hand, eager to find a tactful way to get out of the game.
“Your deal,” the man sitting across from him said quietly. “Let’s see something beside numbers for a change, okay?” The man was called Rufe and the other players addressed him with respect; he was solemn and cautious in his play, but there was a flash of alert intelligence in his heavy-lidded eyes.
“I’ll try to oblige,” Ingram said.
The mood of the table was changing, Ingram knew; that was as palpable to him as the noise from the bar, and the layers of blue smoke swirling in the air. The losers had become confused and angered by their bad luck. They were watching him suspiciously, the bright overhead light drawing deep shadows in their solemn, brown faces.
Ingram dealt quickly, not looking at the cards.
Why was he here? Why had he got into this? He was desperately afraid of what lay ahead of him tonight — if he were caught the police could do what they wanted with him, beat him senseless, send him to jail to rot, strap him into the electric chair to die. Any of that; he’d deserve it all.
His spirits sank to a gloomy depth. The air around him smelled warmly of cigarette smoke and beer, and men stood drinking along the short wooden bar, their happy, shouting voices rising sporadically above the music blaring from the huge juke box. It was a haven against the unfriendly darkness; it had begun to snow outside, and Ingram saw the soft flakes drifting past the windows in a fragile silence, flashing in a white splendor as they spun into the yellow glare of the street lights. But the sight of this made him feel small and lonely and helpless; he became aware then that Rufe was staring silently at him and the muscles of his stomach began to ache with a cold fear.
“There’s something funny with this deck,” Rufe said slowly. “I ain’t accusing anybody, I’m just saying what I think.”
“They aren’t my cards,” Ingram said. “You were playing with ’em before I came in the game.”
There was a murmur of support from men who had crowded around the table.
“Look, he’s pretty fast to defend himself,” Adam said. “Nobody’s accused him of nothing.”
“We’ll look at the cards,” Rufe said quietly.
The odds were rigged against him, Ingram knew; when the marks were discovered there would be an explosion at the table but by then Adam would have got rid of the paint tube behind his ear. In the excitement that would be easy enough; he could drop it on the floor, then institute a search for it. When the tube was found, he would insist it belonged to Ingram.