Ingram waited in the shadows for a streetcar to rattle by, then hurried on to the next block. The storm had driven pedestrians inside and thinned out motor traffic; lamplights gleamed on empty sidewalks and the high winds swept away the faint piping of horns, muted the heavy thunder of trucks and subways.
This was his town, his neighborhood. The familiar sights penetrated the defenses that fear had thrown up against reality. He stopped and leaned helplessly against the unyielding side of a building, a destructive wave of self-pity almost washing away all his strength. There was no hope for him. He was too sick and weak. Pain sharpened in his chest as a coughing fit shook his body. The cold and rain on his naked body had been too much...
He saw the delicatessen across the street, and remembered the smell and feel of the place, warm and spicy with Jewish foods, jars and cans shining on the shelves, the huge refrigerator filled with bottles of beer and milk and soft drinks. He used to buy sandwiches there to take home. The old man who owned the place made a sandwich that would do a hungry man for dinner.
But this was the dream world now. The delicatessen, the Chinese laundry, this street he had sauntered along in the past with a headful of crazy thoughts — those were the phantoms. The reality was back at the bleak, rain-soaked old farmhouse — Earl and Crazybone and the twisted old man.
Something moved and caught his eye. He saw a patrolman strolling along the empty sidewalk, the shadow of his swinging nightstick making a long, grotesque shadow up and down the street. The lights glinted on his brass buttons as he paused to check the door of a shop.
Ingram’s breath came in rapid little gasps, silvering the cold air in front of his face. He crossed into the next block, his shoulders hunched against the sound of pursuit; a shout, or the pound of footsteps would have sent him into screaming flight...
In two or three minutes he came to the drugstore, slowing down to stare apprehensively at the bright plate-glass windows, and the huge neon sign above the revolving doors. It was a big, busy place, with a long soda fountain, magazine racks, a drug compartment and shiny glass cases full of toilet goods and cosmetics.
It looked like a trap, a bright neon trap...
Maybe they didn’t serve colored people. Maybe he’d cause a commotion just by going in. Get himself arrested... the thought made a giddy laugh bubble in his throat. Rob a bank, okay. But don’t go ordering a cup of coffee in a white restaurant.
But another thought dissolved this crazy, morbid humor: What about Earl’s woman? Would she help him? Earl was sure of her, but Earl was a fool. He probably believed that any woman who slept with him was a slave for life. But maybe this woman wouldn’t want any part of his troubles. Maybe she’d read the note and start screaming for the police.
But suddenly he was moving, heading for the revolving doors, his questions unanswered, his fears unresolved. He hadn’t come to a decision, he had just started forward, crazily and defiantly. But he realized with elemental conviction that it was the thought of Earl which had sent him toward the drugstore, propelled him into this big, neon trap. He wanted to help the man; that was the fact of it, the senseless, pointless fact of it.
Everything at the soda fountain was clean and tidy; the coffee urns gleamed under bright overhead tubes of light, and the little groups of napkins, sugar bowls and mustard jars were lined up as neatly as a formation of toy soldiers. A blonde waitress took his order and wrote it carefully on a check; coffee and a sweet roll. She gave him a brief, impersonal smile before going away, and he felt his taut nerves relaxing, his body sinking into blessed lassitude. He put Earl’s hat on the stool beside him, and opened the collar of his coat to let the warmth of the place soak into his bones. After a moment, he glanced around the store, trying not to seem furtive or nervous, making his survey slowly and casually. Several women were shopping at the cosmetic counters, and a knot of men were lined up buying cigarettes and tobacco. The short-order cook was slicing bread industriously and the blonde waitress stood staring with blank boredom at the rainy darkness beyond the bright windows.
Ingram heard an impatient voice say, “Now I want these magazines moved to the back of the store tomorrow. Circulation is our problem and goal, Lorraine. People leaf through books and block up the entrance. That’s out from now on, understand?”
“I’ll have them moved in the morning, Mr. Poole.”
“Good. Now about that lunch menu...”
The voice faded slightly. Earl hunched over his steaming coffee, trembling with the excited stroke of his heart. Lorraine... that was her name. He waited a few seconds and then glanced around at the sound of the voices.
A man and woman stood together at the magazine racks near the door. The man wore an overcoat and had his back to Ingram. The woman was slim, with black hair and a pale square face. She nodded slowly as the man spoke to her, but she was looking over her shoulder at Ingram; he saw her eyes go wide and dark as they shifted to Earl’s hat on the stool beside him. One of her hands moved to her throat, but she continued to nod thoughtfully at the man’s urgent instructions.
“Yes, I’ll watch that, Mr. Poole,” she murmured as Ingram turned back to his coffee.
“Fine. See you tomorrow. Early.”
Ingram heard the rubbery squish of the revolving door, and then the tap of high heels moved toward him on the tiled floor. She passed so close that he felt the draft of air caused by her body. Strolling toward the rear of the store she paused to realign a salt shaker, and then went behind the counter and talked briefly to the sandwich man. Ingram watched her from the corner of his eye. This was Earl’s woman; black hair, dark eyes, a square pale face. High-strung and tense, with a flat slender body and neat ankles and feet. She looked cold as ice water. The thought afforded him a derisive amusement. Did Earl like that? No demands... asleep ten minutes after hitting the sack. Ingram’s spirits were lifted and refreshed by his gleeful irreverence. But almost instantly he felt depressed and ashamed of himself.
She was coming toward him now, checking spigots and cutlery with professionally alert eyes. The waitress straightened and uncrossed her arms.
“Ann, I’d like you to see how many large-size mayonnaise we have in the stock room.”
“I did already. There’s six.”
Ingram bent over his coffee. He heard Earl’s woman say, “That can’t be right. Check them again, will you, please?”
“Sure, but I know there’s just six.”
When the waitress hurried off Earl’s woman stopped in front of Ingram. “Is everything all right? Would you like some more coffee?”
“No, ma’am. Everything’s fine.” She was carrying it off fine, except for her eyes; her voice was smooth and cool as ivory, but her eyes looked dark and hot, turbulent against her clear white skin. “Well, there is one thing you could help me with,” he said, chuckling softly. “I’ve got myself twisted around in town.” He took Earl’s note from his pocket and placed it on the counter. “The address I want is written down here, but I can’t find it no way.”
“Maybe I can help you.” She picked up the note carefully enough, but as her eyes flicked over the message the cords in her throat stood out like knife blades under her smooth skin. Ingram’s nerves fluttered as he saw the sandwich man watching her curiously.