“Why didn’t you give him a phony?”
“I was too scared. He’d have known if I lied to him. He’s like that. And if he got suspicious he might have went through my suitcase and found all that stuff.”
“That’s tough, Sambo,” Earl said, shaking his head thoughtfully. “Real tough. You get in a fight, get yourself picked up by the cops, but you don’t have enough brains to give ’em a phony name. That’s real tough for you.”
Ingram smiled shakily. “You got to get somebody else.”
“There isn’t time, Sambo.”
“Well, we got to put the job off for a couple of weeks.”
“We’re ready to roll tonight, Sambo.” He spoke in a flat, empty voice, completely without emotion or inflection. “Burke and Novak are on their way by now. It’s too late to change anything. Get the stuff out of your suitcase.”
“You aren’t listening to me,” Ingram said frantically. “They got my name, don’t you understand? They’ll send it to every cop in the country. They’ll stake out my friends, my family, so I won’t have a prayer. You might as well put a gun to my head and pull the trigger. You got to get somebody else.”
Earl stood and took the.38 from his pocket. He hefted it slowly in his hand, watching Ingram’s reaction with a cold smile. “Novak gave us a job to do,” he said finally. “So get this, Sambo: we’re going to do it. Just like we planned.” Earl spoke quietly, but his voice was beginning to tremble with emotion. “You understand me? You’re going to do what you came here to do. Otherwise I’ll blow a hole right between your eyes. You believe that, Sambo?”
“You wouldn’t mind doing it, I bet,” Ingram said softly. “It wouldn’t bother you, would it?”
“I didn’t want you on this job, remember. I knew you’d rat out if you got a chance. But you’ll stick — because I’m holding a gun at your head. Now open that suitcase and save your whining for your friends.”
“Well, maybe that’s best,” Ingram said, sighing heavily. “No point depressing strangers with my troubles.” He glanced at Earl’s hard features. “Laugh, clown, laugh — that’s my motto. That’s your philosophy, too, I guess. The smiling Texan — that’s you, man.”
“Don’t bother being cute. Open the suitcase.”
Ingram sighed again and swung the overnight bag onto the bed. He released the catches, raised the lid and removed a folding tray and eight cardboard containers. Earl arranged the containers in rows on the tray, then opened a drawer and lifted out a thermos and a half-dozen cellophane-wrapped sandwiches which he had bought that morning in a town a dozen miles down the highway. While he filled the containers with coffee Ingram put on a waiter’s cap and stiffly starched jacket which he had taken from the suitcase. He adjusted the cap at a rakish angle, and buttoned the f gleaming white jacket tightly about his throat.
“At yo’ service,” he said, clicking his heels together, and bowing obsequiously to Earl. “We aim to please around this heah place.”
“You look fine,” Earl said shortly. “You’re just right for a monkey suit.”
“Thank you kindly,” Ingram murmured, smoothing down the front of the jacket.
The change in the Negro’s manner infuriated Earl, but it also made him feel awkward and uncomfortable; the man was laughing at him, he knew, but what the hell for? That’s what he couldn’t figure out: what was funny about this deal?
“Man, that coffee smells good,” Ingram said, smacking his lips with comical relish. “We got enough to spare a cup for ourselves?”
Earl saw then that Ingram was smiling with an effort; his lips were trembling with fear or cold or something. He turned away, angered and embarrassed by the sight. “If you want some, take it, for God’s sake,” he said. “You might as well get warm.”
He walked to the bay windows and pulled the curtains back with a finger. There was a crowd in the brightly lighted bank, and quite a few shoppers still hurrying up and down the sidewalks. The rain had almost stopped but it looked to him as if the weather was turning colder; he began to wonder about ice forming on the hard-surfaced roads and highways. Well, it would be there for anybody who followed him...
Earl stared down the street at the drugstore. The red neon sign above the doorway threw a circle of crimson light on the blackly shining sidewalk. He glanced at his watch. Just about twenty-five minutes more...
A footstep sounded behind him, and he wheeled quickly and pulled the gun from his pocket. Ingram said, “Hey, man!” in a soft, terrified voice as Earl jammed the gun into his side, almost knocking the container of hot coffee from his hand.
“You just relax,” Earl said, staring at Ingram’s frightened face. “You hear? Just take it nice and easy.”
“Man, you better do the same,” Ingram said, shaking his head slowly. “I was just bringing you some coffee.”
“Never mind about me,” Earl muttered, turning back to the window. “Just stand here and keep your eyes open. When you see Burke, you get ready to move...”
Chapter Nine
Sheriff Burns buttoned up his long black slicker as he stepped from his small private office. Morgan, his deputy, smiled at him and said, “Good night to be on the way home, if you ask me. It’s pretty miserable, eh?”
Burns looked out the window. The rain was still lashing the sycamores behind his office, although it sounded as if it might be easing off a bit. Adjusting the chin strap of his hat, he glanced at the radio phones that kept Crossroads in direct, round-the-clock contact with the State Police substation five miles down the highway. He didn’t bother answering Morgan’s comment about the weather; Burns didn’t consider the weather a very significant topic just now. He had no prejudice against irrelevant chatter except when it wasted time; most people enjoyed wrapping themselves in cocoons of idle conversation, and he suffered this without really understanding it, victimized somewhat by his essential good humor and tolerance. Still staring at the radio phones, he said, “Who was that in here while I was talking to that colored fellow?”
“Oh — a fellow asking for directions.”
“What did he look like?”
“Let’s see: pretty big, tall and rangy. Black hair, tanned face. Kind of hard-looking.”
“Was he wearing a black overcoat and a brown felt hat?”
“Yeah, that’s right.” Morgan knew something was bothering the sheriff. He waited patiently, his expression deliberately impassive; as a six-month rookie he had learned to keep his hero worship under wraps. Burns was just another man, he realized, although there were still times when he felt this judgment was ridiculously inadequate. Like saying Everest was just another mountain.
“Did he talk about anything else?” the sheriff said.
Morgan hesitated, reassembling every detail of the conversation. The sheriff always wanted details; nothing was irrelevant in his opinion until it had been proven so. But the conclusions he drew from details frequently bewildered Morgan.
“I got the feeling he didn’t like colored people.” Morgan was encouraged by the sheriff’s thoughtful nod. “He asked if the colored folks here gave us a lot of trouble — just like he’d ask if two and two made four. You know what I mean?”
“Did he happen to mention the colored man in my office?”
“Why, yes he did!” Morgan was excited and surprised. “He saw you bringing him in and he asked if he was in trouble.”
“So?”
“Well—” Morgan hesitated. “I said there was no charge against him.”
“That wasn’t necessary, was it?”
“No — but he got me kind of annoyed.” Morgan punched the space bar of the typewriter in exasperation. “I should have kept my mouth shut.”
The sheriff pulled on his gauntlets and said, “Keep your ear close to that speaker tonight. If anything takes the State Police cars away from this area, I want to know about it. Right away. Understand?”