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
Monday. I could use that. I genuinely could. So what do you say, gentlemen? Who's ready to get started?"
Again there was a momentary silence, then the roommate stepped back.
"No fight," he said.
"Not yet. Against orders."
Scott laughed again. A low, hard, even, humorless laugh.
"Too damn bad," he said.
"I was really looking forward to one."
Tommy saw some confusion mingle with anger in the face of the roommate.
What he didn't see was fear, and he thought that the man might be thinking that he was a match for the black flier.
"You'll get your chance," the man said to Scott.
"Unless they shoot your black ass first."
Before Scott could answer this. Tommy suddenly pointed at the roommate.
"You're on the damn list," he said sharply.
The man pivoted toward him.
"What list?"
"Witness list." Tommy again looked at the faces of the men in front of him. Two of the other men standing there were also among the men the prosecution was going to call. One was another roommate of the murdered captain, the other was an occupant of another bunk room in Hut
101, from down the corridor.
"You, and you, too," Tommy said briskly.
"Actually, glad you're here. You can save me some time finding you.
What are you going to testify to on Monday? I want to know, and I want to know right goddamn now."
"Screw you. Hart. We don't have to say anything," the man from down the hallway said. He was a lieutenant and had been in the bag for close to a year. Second seat on a B-26 Marauder that had been shot down near Trieste.
"That's where you're wrong, lieutenant," Tommy said coldly, endowing the word lieutenant with the same intonation that he would have attached to an obscenity.
"You are required to tell me precisely what you will testify about on Monday. If you don't believe this, then we can go and find Colonel MacNamara and he will so inform you. Of course, I would also be obligated to inform him about this little gathering here. He might conceivably also interpret it as a violation of his direct order. I don't know-" "Screw you. Hart," the man repeated, but with less conviction.