Gurney said, “I'll take you along tonight.”
Dillon shook his head. “I'll be there,” he said; “you don't got to worry about me.”
He walked back behind the counter, leaving Gurney standing uncertain in the middle of the store. Then Gurney walked out into the bright sunlight. This guy Dillon got him beat. There was somethin' phoney about him. He was no hobo, he could tell that. This guy was used to handling men. He said a thing and expected the thing done. He scared Gurney a little.
He was so busy thinking about Dillon that he didn't see Myra walking down the street. Myra hastened her steps, but Gurney was already climbing into the car, and before she could call to him he had driven away.
Myra was quite pleased he hadn't seen her. She had taken some trouble in dressing. Her flowered dress had been washed and ironed. Maybe it had shrunk a shade, but that didn't worry her. She knew it showed off her figure. Her thick black hair glistened in the sunlight, and was dressed low in her neck. The seams of her imitation silk stockings were straight, and her shoes shone. She was going to have a look at Dillon.
She'd heard about Dillon the day he had moved in, but she had purposely waited until he had seen all the women in Plattsville. She thought it was time now to give him an eyeful. Walking down the street, she knew she was good. She knew the men turned their heads, and she guessed that she was going over big with this Dillon.
She walked into the empty store, clicking her heels sharply on the wooden floor. Purposely, she stood in the patch of sunlight flooding the doorway. She'd seen that trick worked before, and with her thin dress she knew she was showing plenty.
Dillon looked up. “I've seen it before,” he said, “it ain't anythin' new. Come out of the light.”
If he had struck her she couldn't have been more furious. Automatically she moved a few paces into the shadow, then she said, “What kind of a cheap crack do you think that is?”
Dillon shitted a wad of gum from one side of his mouth to the other. “What do you want?” he said.
“A real live salesman, ain't you?” she said, gripping her purse hard. “If you want to keep your job you gotta do better than that.”
Dillon said, “Skip it. I ain't listening to big-mouth talk from a kid with hot pants. Get what you want and blow.”
Myra took three quick steps forward and aimed a slap at Dillon's face. She was nearly sobbing with rage. Dillon reached up and caught her wrist. “Be your age,” he said; “you ain't in the movies.”
She stood there, helpless in his grip, loathing his hard eyes. “I'll tell my Pa about you,” was all she could say.
He threw her arm away from him, spinning her into the centre of the store. “Scram, I tell you,” he said.
She screamed at him: “You dirty sonofabitch! My Pa will bash you for this!”
Abe stood in the doorway, his eyes popping out of his head. “What's going on?” he asked.
Myra spun round. “You're crazy to have that bum in here. He's been insulting me—”
Dillon came round the counter with a quick shuffle. He took hold of Myra and ran her to the door, then he swung his arm and smacked her viciously across her buttocks, sending her skidding into the street. Myra didn't stop— she ran.
Abe tore his hair. “What the hell do you think you're doing?” he squeaked. “That's Butch Hogan's daughter. The old man'll raise the dead about this.”
Dillon came back into the store. “Forget it,” he said. “I'm about sick of these goddam bitches starin' at me. Maybe they'll leave me alone for a while.”
Abe, bursting with impotent fury, forgot his fear of Dillon. He spluttered, “An' what about my business? What are people goin' to say? They ain't comin' here to be roughed around. This is goin' to ruin me.”
Dillon pushed him away and walked into the kitchen. Abe followed him, still shouting.
“Aw, forget it,” Dillon snarled. “This ain't goin' to hurt your business. I bet that little chippy is as popular in this burg as a bad smell. This ain't goin' to get round the town. A kid like that ain't goin' to let on she's just had her fanny smacked.... Forget it.”
They all sat on Butch's verandah and waited for Dillon to come. The moon was just appearing above the black silhouetted trees, throwing sharp white beams on the windows of the house.
Upstairs, Myra crouched by the window, also waiting for Dillon. Her eyes, red with weeping, remained in a fixed stare on the road beneath her. Her whole being curled with hate. Her mind seethed.
Butch shifted a little in his chair. “Who the hell's this fella?” he asked suddenly, asking the same question that the others were pondering about in their minds.
“I don't know,” Gurney said. “Maybe he can get us outta this jam. I thought it might be worth tryin'.”
Hank said from the darkness: “Sankey's in a terrible state. He don't say anything, but just sits around an' broods. Franks's got him tied up.”
Out of the darkness Dillon came up the verandah steps. Even Myra, who had been watching the road, hadn't heard him or seen him.
The four men sat still, looking at him. Then Gurney said, “This is Dillon.”
Butch got to his feet. He moved round the small table, on which stood a bottle and glasses. He held out his hand. “So you're Dillon, the fight-fixer?” There was a faint sneer in his voice.
Dillon looked him over, looked at his hand and ignored it.
Butch moved his great paw impatiently. “Gimme your hand,” he said. “I wantta see what kind of a guy you are.”
A gleam came into Dillon's eyes. He put his hand in Butch's. Then Butch squeezed. The tremendous muscles of his forearm swelled as he put all his strength into a crushing grip. The sweat suddenly jumped out of Dillon's face. He shifted his feet, then swung a punch at Butch with his left, coming up and hitting. Butch in his thick throat. It thumped into Butch like a cleaver into beef. Butch reeled back, making a croaking sound. Gurney sprang to his feet and saved him from going over.
Dillon stood flexing his ringers. “That's the kind of a guy I am,” he said evenly.
Butch put his fingers to his throat. He sat down a little heavily. No one had hit him so hard since he left the resin. He said, when he got his breath, “This guy's okay, he can punch.”
Dillon came a little nearer. “Suppose we get inside where I can see you.”
They went inside without a word. Dillon stood by the window. He said, “Sit down.”
Gurney said, “There's some booze outside, want any?”
Dillon looked at him. “I don't use it. Forget it! This is important. Franks has got your boy on the run. You're all backing Sankey for a win. Sankey ain't goin' to win unless Franks is so goddam bad that a child could push him around. That right?”
Gurney nodded. “I guess that's about it.”
“Any of you guys got any dough?”
They looked at Morgan, a thin, cruel-faced little man who looked like a jock. He said, “Maybe I could find some.”
“I'll fix this fight for five hundred bucks,” Dillon said. A little sigh went round the room. Gurney shook his head. “That's too much,” he said.
Dillon rubbed the back of his neck. “You mugs dumb?” he said. “I said I'd fix this fight, and I mean fix it. Your man'll win You can back him for any money You can't lose.”
Morgan leant forward. “I guess I'd like to know just who you are, mister,” he said.
Dillon looked at him under his eyelids. “Maybe you'd like to know a lot of things... you ain't got to worry about me. I've done this sorta thing before What's it to be?”
Morgan looked at the other three. Butch nodded. “We'll come on in with you,” he said.
Morgan shrugged. “Okay,” he said. “I'll pay the money when Sankey's won.”
Dillon showed his teeth. “You'll bet that five hundred bucks on Sankey for me. An' you'll lay the dough when I tell you.”
Morgan thought a moment, then said, “Fair enough.” The four men began to catch some of Dillon's confidence.
“D
ig down,” Dillon said, spreading a fin on the table. “I want some working expenses. This is all I got. Dig down.”
Each contributed. Between the five of them they put up a hundred dollars. Dillon put the bills in his pocket. Gurney went out on to the verandah and fetched in the drinks. They all had a shot except Dillon.
Butch said, “How you goin' to handle this?”
Dillon tapped on the table with his fingernails. “I'm goin' to tell Franks to take a dive.”
Butch said, “For God's sake, he'll knock your guts out.”
Dillon shook his head. “He won't.” He pushed back his chair. “I guess that's all.” The others, except Butch, got to their feet. Dillon said, “Suppose you boys blow, I wantta talk to Butch.”
Gurney moved to the verandah. “Maybe we'll get together some other time,” he said.
“Yeah,” Dillon nodded his head; “you might look round tomorrow.”
Butch sat waiting until the others disappeared into the night. Dillon came back from the verandah. He stood looking at Butch thoughtfully. Then he closed the door and came over.
Butch said, “Who taught you to punch like that?”
Dillon shrugged. “Never mind that. I've got things to talk to you about. Anyone else in this dump?”
Hogan shook his head. “My gal's upstairs in bed. That's all.”
“I'm goin' to make some dough out of the town,” Dillon said. “You can come in on the ground floor if you want to.”
Butch stroked his nose. “Suppose you put the cards down an' let me look at 'em,” he said at last.
Dillon lowered his voice. “I carried a gun for Nelson,” he said.
Crouched outside the door, Myra shivered a little.
Butch looked a little uneasy. “He was a hard guy,” he said.
“He was a mug,” Dillon said bitterly. “I've been under cover now some time. The heat's off. Okay, I guess it's time to move into the money again. How's it feel?”
Butch said, “You ain't tellin' me this unless you knew right off I'd agree.”
Dillon nodded his head. “I thought you were a bright guy. Maybe you have lost your peepers, but you still got some brain.”
Butch said again, “You want the house, huh? Near the State line. Me as a cover?”
“You got it.” Dillon relaxed a little. “I ain't working anythin' this side of the border. Just quick raids. Nothin' very big; that'll come later. Then back under cover here. How do you like that?”
Butch brooded. “What's it worth?” he asked at last.
“Twenty-five per cent cut on everything.”
Butch nodded. “Okay.”
Dillon asked abruptly: “This guy Gurney—is he all right?”
Butch nodded. “He'd come in, I guess,” he said. “Gurney's after the big dough. He ain't particular how he makes it.”
“I'll have a word with him later. Now this guy Franks. There's only one way to deal with him. He's gotta have a scare thrown in him, see? He's got to be tipped off that he gets it if he doesn't take a dive. The first thing is to square the Town Marshal How'd you stand with him?”
“He's an old bird Sell his soul for a buck. He can be squared.”
“Then see him an' fix it. I gotta keep out of this. Tip him off to put his money on Sankey an' tell him the fight's rigged. If Franks puts up a squawk for protection, he won't get it, see?”
Butch nodded.
Dillon took out the hundred dollars and counted out fifty of them.” “Give him that to bet with.”
Butch fumbled with the money and put it in his pocket. “I guess you're goin' to fix this fight all right,” he said. “I'm putting everything I've got on this.”
Dillon said, “It's goin' to be okay, you see.”
He moved over to the door. Outside, Myra crept away, not making a sound. She climbed the ladder leading to the loft which served for her bedroom; and safe in the darkness of familiar surroundings she slipped out of her dress before going to the window. Dillon was standing in the road, looking cautiously up and down, then with a quick shuffling step he disappeared into the darkness.
Myra stood by the window some time, thinking, her face, lit by the moonlight, the hot air of the night touching her skin. Even when she got into bed she could not sleep. The clay-like face of Dillon hung before her like the dead face of the moon. His voice still rang in her ears, scorning her. The blow that he had struck her still burnt her body, making her squirm on the sagging mattress. Sleep would not come to her, to blot out mercilessly the pain of her bruised pride. She suddenly began to cry the hot tears running down her face unchecked. Her two fists, clenched, beat on the bed. “I hate you! I hate you!” she sobbed. “You lousy, goddam bastard!”
* * * *
Gurney drove carefully. He had to nurse the car over the rough road. One good pot-hole would sure bust the axle. Dillon sat beside him, his hat over his eyes. Every now and then Gurney shot him a quick look. Dillon had him guessing. He couldn't place him. Something told him that Dillon would get him somewhere, that he would lead him to the money class, but, fascinated by the thought, he still hung back a little, not trusting him.
It was the evening following the meeting of Dillon and Butch. Dillon had picked Gurney up after the store had closed for the night. They were on their way across the border to the hick town where Franks lived. They were going to call on Franks.
Dillon said suddenly: “You gotta tackle this guy; I'll just be around You know what to say. Don't let him start anythin'. Talk tough. He won't take a sock at you. I'll be right with you.”
Gurney brooded, staring at the road, white and dusty in the headlights. “This guy can hit,” he said uneasily. “He'll get mad if I shoot off too much.”
Dillon shifted. “You do what I say,” he said, “I can handle any mad guy.” He pulled a heavy Colt automatic from the inside of his coat, turned it in his hand, so that Gurney could see it, then he put it back.
“For God's sake”—Gurney was startled—“where the hell did you get that?”
Dillon looked at him, peering at him from under his hat. “You ain't scared of a rod?” he asked.
This was too tough for Gurney, but he didn't say so. He licked his lips uneasily and drove on. After a while he said, “You ain't goin' to pop this guy?”
“Sure I'm goin' to, if he gets mad.” Dillon said. “This ain't the first guy I've popped.”
The old car swerved a little. Gurney found his hands trembling. “I guess I ain't standin' for a murder rap,” he said suddenly.
Dillon reached out and turned off the switch. The engine spluttered and went dead. Gurney trod on the brake. “What's the idea?” he asked nervously.
Dillon pushed back his hat and leant towards Gurney, crowding him into the corner of the car. “Listen,” he said, “you're goin' to get this straight. From now on I'm givin' the orders and you're takin' 'em, see? We're gettin' into the dough, an' no one's stoppin' us. If they get in our way it's goin' to be so much grief for 'em—get that? In a little while I'll be running the town. You can get in in the ground floor or you can stay out. You stay out an' one dark night someone's goin' to toss a handful of slugs in your guts; you know too much—get all that? Butch's on, so get wise to yourself.”
Gurney went a little yellow. He didn't have to think much. “Sure,” he said, “I get it. Sure, you go ahead. You're the boss.”
Dillon raked him with his cold eyes. “There was one bright boy who talked like that an' changed his mind. He walked down a street one night with his guts hanging out down to his knees. Someone gutted him with a knife. Hell! You ought to have seen that guy. He tried to stuff his guts back, but just touching them with his hands made him so sick he let 'em hang in the end.”
Gurney said, “You ain't goin' to have any trouble with me.” He said it in a weak voice, but he meant it.
They drove on.
A clock somewhere struck the half-hour after ten when they pulled up outside Franks' house. It wasn't much to look at from the front, but then Franks
was only a smalltime fighter, just making his way. They walked up the short path and stood outside the screen door. Gurney pulled at the bell, hearing it jangle somewhere at the back. Behind a yellow blind a light gleamed. Someone was up all right.
Through the screen door they could see a woman coming. Dillon nodded to Gurney and stepped back a little.
The door opened outwards, and the woman stood on the step looking at them with a little puzzled frown. She was young and plain. Her black hair was done up in a coil, a few ends straggling untidily. She had a good figure, her breasts riding high, and large hips. When she spoke, her voice was soft and carried a southern accent. “What is it, please?” she said.
“Len in?” Gurney said.
The woman nodded. “Sure he's in,” she said. “Who shall I say?”
Gurney took a step forward, pushing the woman back. Followed by Dillon, he walked into the house. The woman retreated, her face suddenly frightened. “What is it?” she asked breathlessly. “You can't come busting in like this.”
Gurney walked into the sitting-room. Franks was sitting in an easy chair holding a child awkwardly, a bottle of milk suspended in his hand. Franks was a big, smoothfaced guy, young and free from the usual mashed features of a fighter.
The woman brushed past Gurney and ran over to Franks. She was badly scared. Franks pushed the baby into her arms, getting to his feet quickly. He was startled. His eyes showed it; they were a little wide, but he wasn't losing his head. If there was going to be trouble, his confidence in his great flat muscles was unshakable.
“You can't come in here like this,” he said to Gurney. “I see guys like you at the gym.”
Gurney grinned uneasily. He was a little nervous of Franks. “We're in, buddy,” he said. “Get the dame outta here, we want to talk to you.”
Franks said, “Beth, take the kid.”
She went out without a word. She was only gone a second or so. She came back alone, and stood just behind Franks. Her eyes were big and scared. Franks said to her patiently, “Keep out of this, honey.”
She didn't say anything, but she didn't move. Dillon's thin lips set in a sneer.
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