“Now listen to me a minute,” Ingram said. “I’m no card cheat. But I know something about gambling.” He stared desperately around at the other players, realizing in an agony of fear that his attempt at composure was feeble and unconvincing; his forehead was damp with sweat and the tension inside him made his whole body tremble. “I’ll show you who’s cheating,” he cried, leaping to his feet. “Give me those cards.”
“Don’t listen to him,” Adam said. “He’s trying to talk his way out of it.”
“Everybody get his hands on the table,” Ingram said. “Come on! Only the guy who’s cheating won’t like this — palms down and keep ’em there.”
Rufe was looking at Ingram with interest. Finally he nodded and said, “I’m willing.”
Only Adam objected. “This is crazy. What’s all this hocus-pocus about?”
Rufe stared at him in silence. Finally he said coldly, “I’m willing to give him a chance. Why ain’t you?”
“He’s going to trick us, that’s all,” Adam said, but after another glance from Rufe he put his hands down tentatively and unhappily, as if he feared the surface of the table might be red-hot to the touch.
Ingram said, “All right, I’ll show you what’s been going on now.” His body was trembling with relief, but he shuffled the deck with an authority and speed that brought an appreciative chuckle from the men ringing the table. He flipped four cards to Rufe. “Worth opening with?”
Rufe turned over the cards: four aces gleamed under the naked bulb over their heads. “And here come the K-boys,” Ingram said, tossing out the kings. “And behind them the ladies, and the jacks. They’re real informative cards — read ’em from either side if you know where to look. See that little red dot up in the corner of the ace? Look good, you can’t miss it.”
As the other players leaned forward to study the cards, Adam raised a hand casually, but Ingram was waiting for this; he caught Adam’s wrist and pushed his hand back to the table. “Which ear you got it behind?” he said quietly.
“What’s this?” Rufe said, his heavy-lidded eyes glancing up at Adam. “What’s all this?”
“I read about it in a book,” Adam cried in a shrill, stammering voice. “A trick book — you know the kind. How to prank your friends. They sent me a little tube of paint to put behind your ear — it’s a joke, that’s all.” He wet his lips. “That’s the funniest part of the whole thing, ain’t it? That you’d think I was really cheating you. Ain’t that the funniest thing about it?”
“Why, you son of a bitch,” Rufe said, shaking his head almost thoughtfully. Then he hurled himself across the table, his hands grabbing at Adam’s throat, and his weight driving the man down to the ground.
The table had gone over with a crash. Everyone began shouting counsels and exhortations as the two men rolled across the cigarette-littered floor. The bartender pulled down the shades on the front windows and someone turned up the juke box to drown out the sounds of the fight.
Ingram was trapped helplessly; twice he tried to push his way free, but he couldn’t dent the mass of bodies crowding him up against the wall. He had no clear idea of how long he was pinned there; his thoughts were confused and frightened, and they drained away all his spirit and strength.
The noise died abruptly; a white man in a steel-gray uniform had pushed his way through the crowd, and his tall presence cut the heart of the men’s excitement. They backed away from him, smiling sheepishly, and he stared around with an expression of exasperated impatience on his hard face. “Get up, you two,” he said, glancing at Adam and Rufe. “What’s this all about?”
Several men began talking at once, awkwardly and evasively; they were like school kids caught misbehaving by a popular teacher, Ingram thought. The sheriff digested their jumbled accounts without any particular change in his expression. Then he looked thoughtfully at Adam. “You’ll get unhealthy hanging around barrooms, Adam. I think you’d better stick to the outdoors for a good while. And, Rufe, next time you want to hit somebody, think twice and don’t. You understand me?” The sheriff turned then and stared at Ingram. “I want to talk to you,” he said. “Mind coming along to my office?”
“I didn’t do anything,” Ingram said, wetting his lips. But he knew the protest wouldn’t help a bit; the sheriff was more interested in him than he was in Adam or Rufe — Ingram had sensed that right away. “I was just minding my own business,” he said, making a fluttering little gesture with his hand. “I didn’t do anything.”
“I just want to talk to you. Come on along.”
Ingram sighed and picked up his grip; there was nothing else he could do. Outside in the snow and darkness they walked side by side down the street, the sheriff’s big hand light on Ingram’s elbow. The snow was melting as it touched the ground, and the streets and sidewalks were black and shining in the splash of light from shop windows. The people hurrying by nodded to the sheriff, and he returned their greetings with a touch of his fingers to the broad brim of his hat.
“Sheriff, I didn’t do anything,” Ingram said, as they waited at the intersection for a traffic light to change. “The man was cheating — I just pointed it out, that’s all.”
“That isn’t what I want to talk to you about,” the sheriff said. “Come on.”
The shops they passed were crowded; this was Friday night, Ingram thought in panic. In just two hours the job was supposed to start...
Then Ingram saw something that sent a shock of alarm through his body.
The Texan had appeared on the sidewalk ahead of them, stepping out from a hotel doorway and pausing in the stream of pedestrians to light the cigarette hanging from his lips. He blew out a long stream of smoke as he turned and sauntered along the sidewalk, his eyes idly checking over the colorful displays in the shop windows.
He hadn’t seen them, Ingram realized, pulling his neck down into the collar of his coat. Maybe they could slip by him...
But it didn’t work that way.
Earl stopped for no apparent reason and stared directly at Ingram. For an instant he didn’t seem to recognize him; then his mouth fell open slowly and an almost comical expression of confusion and anger spread over his face. The cigarette he had been raising stopped short a few inches from his lips, and his whole body became tense and rigid; he stood facing them like a figure carved from stone, his eyes flicking warily from Ingram to the sheriff.
The fool, Ingram thought despairingly. Why didn’t he drift along, pretend not to notice them...
The sheriff was staring straight ahead, moving with measured, deliberate strides, seemingly unaware of Earl’s intent appraisal; but Ingram felt the man’s fingers tighten around his arm, clamping there like bands of iron.
As they passed, Earl turned and looked after them, his body motionless in the busy traffic, the cigarette burning unnoticed in his dry lips.
Chapter Eight
Earl started after them until they turned left at the next intersection; and then he swore softly and flipped his cigarette into the street. The colored guy had got himself into some kind of trouble, ruined all their careful planning; now they were all in trouble.
Earl knew he must find out what had happened, and then decide what to do next; there was no time to contact Novak. But the responsibility didn’t worry him; his fury at Ingram crowded everything else from his mind. He walked toward the intersection, sustained and nourished by anger. A hard smile touched his mouth as he moved through the nighttime shoppers, his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his overcoat.
The sheriff’s office was located in a one-story red-brick building a half block from the main street of Crossroads. A graveled driveway bordered by evergreens led up to the doorway, and encircled a small park in front of the building. In the quiet lobby Earl removed his hat and smoothed down his hair. The place was more like a respectable office than a jail, he thought, glancing around curiously. Carpeted floors, hunting prints on the walls, a rubber plant in a little reception room by the front windows. On a cork-surfaced bulletin board there was a notice of a Boy Scout meeting, and a large colored poster announcing a clothing drive by the School Improvement Society.