hatred. Someone hated Vic enough to kill him, even here.'
Scott leaned back on his bed, bursting into laughter.
'Well, Hart,' he said, his chest expanding and his voice loud.
'You're right, I guess. But it seems to me, in this war, murdering one another's about the easiest damn thing we do. And I'm not all that sure it all the time has a whole lot to do with hatred. More often than not, it seems to have more to do with convenience' Scott spoke this last word with sarcastic emphasis, before continuing.
'But what you say has possibilities. Even if they are unlikely ones.'
Lincoln Scott stretched again, like a tired man. Then he slowly rose to his feet and walked over to Tommy Hart.
'Stick out your hand. Hart,' Scott said abruptly.
Tommy held out his arm, thinking that it was an odd moment for Lincoln Scott to want to shake hands. But this wasn't what Scott did. Instead, he simply poised his own hand next to Tommy's. Black and white.
'See the difference?' Scott asked.
'I don't know what we can say that's going to make anyone in that courtroom forget it. Not for one second. Not one lousy second.'
Scott turned away, but stopped and twisted back toward Tommy.
'But trying should be fun. And I'm not the type that likes to go down without a fight, you know. Hart? You learn that in the ring. You learn it in a college classroom when you're the only Negro there and you damn well better work harder than all your white classmates if you expect not to flunk out. I learned it at Tuskegee when the white instructors washed guys out of the program guys who could fly circles around any white pilot for failing to salute them on the parade ground fast enough. And when on the night before we were to ship out to go to battle and die for our country, the good old boys in the local chapter of the Klan took it upon themselves to give us a proper southern send-off by burning a cross right outside the camp perimeter. Fairly well lit up the night, that did, because the white MPs guarding the camp didn't think it necessary to call in the fire brigade to put out the flames, which also tells you something. You learn it in a prisoner-of-war camp, too, when nigger is the first word you hear as you march through the gate, and it doesn't come out of some Kraut's mouth, either. Losing may be inevitable.
Hell, Hart, we all die sometime, and if this is going to be my time, well, so be it. But not without taking a swing or two.
Maybe throwing a punch. You see, how you retain your dignity is by fighting hard and moving forward. That's what my daddy the preacher used to say on Sunday mornings. No matter how little the step might be, keep moving forward.
Even when you know the outcome already.'
'I don't presume that-' Tommy started, but Scott again cut him off.
'That's the luxury of a decidedly white attitude. My own attitude has a different color,' Scott said. This time, as he turned away from
Tommy, he reached back down to the bunk for his Bible. But instead of sitting, he went over to the bunk-room window, leaning up against the wall at its side and staring out into the camp, though precisely what Scott was suddenly looking for Tommy could not tell.
There were a half-dozen kriegies waiting in the corridor outside Lincoln Scott's solitary bunk room. They straightened up as Tommy closed the door behind him, suddenly standing together, blocking his path to the outside. Tommy stopped in his tracks, eyeing the men in front of him.
'Someone got a problem?' he asked slowly.
There was a momentary silence, then one man stepped forward.
Tommy recognized him. He had been one of Trader Vic's roommates and his name was on the witness list that Tommy carried in his breast pocket.
'That would depend,' the kriegie answered.
'Depend on what?'
'Depend on what you're up to, Hart.'
The man stood squarely in the center of the corridor. He folded his arms across his chest But the others gathered in a phalanx behind him.
There was little doubt about me menace in their eyes, and none in the way they stood. Tommy breathed in sharply, lowering his own hands, and clenching them into fists. He told himself to keep his wits about him.
'I'm simply doing my job,' he said slowly.
'What is it you're doing?'
The roommate was barrel-chested, shorter than Tommy, but with a thicker neck and arms. He was in need of a shave, and he'd pushed his slouched hat back on his head.
'What I'm doing is checking on you, Hart.'
Tommy stepped forward.
'No one checks on me,' he said briskly.
'Now, out of the fucking way.'
The group of men tightened formation, blocking his progress. The roommate stepped directly into Tommy's path, chest pushed out, so that now the men were only inches apart.
'What was with the board. Hart? The one you ripped from Hut103?'
'My business. Not yours.'
'You're goddamn wrong about that,' the roommate replied.
This time he punctuated his words by stabbing a finger three times in Tommy's chest, making him step back a single stride.
'What was with the board? It got something to do with that murdering bastard that killed Vic?'
'You'll find out same time as everybody else.'
'No. I think I'll find out now.'
The roommate stepped forward, as did the men behind him. Tommy searched their faces. He recognized most; they were men who'd played baseball with Vic, or who'd assisted him in his trades. One of the men, hanging near the back, to Tommy's surprise, was the band leader who'd led the jazz concert at the wire for the man who'd died in the tunnel. He hadn't known that Vic was friends with any of the musicians, and this made him pause for a moment.
The roommate jabbed his finger into Tommy's chest a second time, grabbing for Tommy's attention.
'I don't hear you. Hart.'
He didn't reply, but behind him, he suddenly heard the door to Scott's door swinging open. He did not turn, but he was suddenly aware of another presence behind him, and he guessed, judging from the faces of the kriegies, that Scott was approaching.
The men fell into a silence, and Tommy could hear sharp breaths of air, as men waited for something to happen. After a moment, the roommate spoke.
'Fuck off, Scott. We're talking to your mouthpiece here. Not you.'
Scott was now at Tommy's shoulder. Tommy was surprised to hear both harshness and amusement in the black flier's response.
'Is there going to be a fight?' he asked almost lightly.
'Because if there is, well, I'd like that. I'd really like that, because I know who I'm taking a piece of first.'
There was no immediate reply, and Lincoln Scott laughed.
'Yes, indeed,' Scott said.
'I definitely think I'd like a real good fight. Even with bad odds, you know. I've been cooped up here without enough proper exercise all these weeks, and I think a fight is precisely what I need. Maybe help get some of the tension out of my system before we head to court on
