Dillon opened a drawer and took out a box of cigars. He pushed them over to Roxy. “You wantta join up?” he said.
Roxy selected a cigar, bit the end off and spat it from his mouth. “Yeah,” he said. “I'd like to get into somethin' steady. My racket is gettin' shot to hell.”
Dillon looked at him thoughtfully. “What I'm goin' to tell you ain't to go further,” he said, keeping his voice low.
Roxy looked a little startled, but he nodded. “Sure, I don't talk,” he said. “You should know that!”
Dillon hitched his chair closer. “I'm figgerin' you're the guy I've been lookin' for,” he said. “Maybe I'm wrong, but I don't think so. Listen. At the moment I'm runnin' this automatic racket an' I'm picking up around fifteen grand a week. Nice, but nothin' to rave about. Hurst's got a grand organization. He's got protection. He's got a real tough crowd workin' for him. This Hurst guy gets so far, but he don't go the limit. With his organization, he could go the limit.”
Roxy drew on his cigar, letting the heavy smoke slide from his mouth. “What's the limit?” he asked.
Dillon said very quietly, “Little Ernie's the limit.”
Roxy's eyes narrowed. “I don't get that,” he said.
“I want to take over Ernie's part of the town. Hurst won't stand for it, but I guess if I did it he'd have to stick by me an' like it.”
“What's that to me?” Roxy asked cautiously.
Dillon looked at him hard. “The whole town'd be too big for me to handle. I gotta have a guy I could trust. You'd get in on this on the ground floor.”
Roxy said, “Maybe Hurst wouldn't stand for it.”
Dillon got up and walked to the door. He opened it and glanced outside, then he came back and put his head close to Roxy's. “Maybe what Hurst says won't count any more.”
Roxy looked up into his black eyes. He shifted uneasily at the malevolence there. He hastily turned his eyes, and studied the grey ash of his cigar. “Got the mob at the back of you?” he asked.
Dillon nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Those guys out there see me all the time. I tell 'em to do this an' that an' they do it. Okay. When the time comes, an' Hurst fades away, those guys ain't asking questions. They'll just go on takin' orders from me... get it?”
Roxy thought a little, then he said, “You've got somethin' there.”
Dillon nodded. “Yeah, I guess I got somethin' there all right.”
Roxy said, “I bet Myra thinks that's a good stunt.”
Dillon scowled. “That dame don't count,” he said coldly. “She's gettin' big ideas, an' she's goin' to get a surprise one of these days.”
Roxy looked startled. “I like Myra,” he mumbled. “She's got what it takes.”
Dillon shrugged, and stood up. “When I'm ready, I'll tell you,” he said. “Can I count on you?”
Roxy said, “Sure, you can count me in. I've been waiting for a break like this for some time. I guess I was too cautious when I was runnin' around with Fan. You seen her, by the way?”
Dillon shot him a quick, suspicious glance. “I ain't seen her,” he said.
Roxy sat down on the edge of the table. “Listen, Bud,” he said evenly. “Don't let's start this game with a double-cross. I ain't sore you pinched Fan from me. I miss her just like I'd miss a deck of cards I got used to, but that's all.”
Dillon clenched his fists. His eyes gleamed at Roxy. “You been checkin' up on me?” he said, a gritty sound in his voice.
Roxy said hastily, “Hell! I wouldn't do a thing like that. I just heard—”
Dillon said, “It'd better get no further. I don't want that little bag Myra gettin' ideas about Fan.”
Roxy shook his head. “She ain't dumb,” he said thoughtfully. “You watch her. She'll get on to it.”
Dillon began pacing the small office. “I'm gettin rattled with that dame. I guess she's about washed up with me. She'll have to get to hell out of it.”
Roxy touched the ash off his cigar into the tray. “You'll have a little trouble,” he said. “I'd be careful how you handle that bird.”
Dillon shot him another cold look. “I can handle her,” he said. “You keep your nose clean on this. Anyway, suppose you get to work an' wise yourself up on Little Ernie's territory? What I want is a list of all the smalltime stores, hotels an' suchlike who could take on automatic machine. You walk round an' take a look at the ground. You're on the pay-roll now, so you might as well get used to a little work.”
Roxy grinned. “I get it,” he said. “What you pay in'?”
“I'll give you a couple of hundred bucks an' ten per cent on the take when we get goin'.”
Roxy shrugged his shoulders. “I guess you're right about gettin' rid of the big shots. I could do with a little of their share.”
When he had gone, Dillon went over to the telephone and rang Fanquist. Her slow drawl floated to his ear. “Listen, baby,” he said, speaking close to the mouthpiece, “I've just had a word with Roxy. He knows, but that guy is shootin' on the level. I've fixed him up to work for me, an' he ain't goin' to start trouble.”
Fanquist started her old beef. “When are we really goin' to get together? I'm sick of this jumpin'-in-an'-out-of-bed stunt of yours.”
Dillon said sharply, “It ain't time yet. Myra wants handlin'.”
Fanquist said, “Why the hell don't you toss that piece of ass out on her can?” Her voice was suddenly strident and furious.
“I tell you it ain't time for that yet,” Dillon snarled. “Suppose you leave this to me?”
“Am I seein' you today?”
Dillon looked round his office, a harassed expression on his face. “You gotta have patience—” he began.
“That's another tune I'm getting sick of,” Fanquist said bitterly. “You make me tired. I guess I'm a sucker to stand for it. All right, if that's the way you feel I guess you can stay away.” She hung up.
Dillon slammed the receiver down on the prong and mopped his face with his handkerchief. Women were hell, he thought. Before Myra had come along and he had started fooling with her, he just kicked women around; now they had him crawling. What the hell had come over him?
The door opened and Hurst walked in. For a moment Dillon was startled. Hurst never came to this place. He got to his feet. Hurst looked at him thoughtfully, then nodded. He walked over to a chair and sat down. “I was passing, so I thought I'd look in and hear how things were going,” he said.
Dillon sat down. “They're all right.”
“No trouble?”
Dillon shook his head. He gave a bland smile. “Why, no, Mr. Hurst, I guess things are goin' mighty smooth just now.”
Was Hurst looking at him in an odd way, or was he imagining things?
Hurst said abruptly, “What's wrong with your girlfriend?”
Dillon raised his eyes. A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Myra? I don't get it.”
Hurst shrugged. “She pulled me from a game last night asking where you were.”
Dillon suddenly went cold. Aw, she's always like that if I'm a shade late,” he said carelessly. “I'll tell her not to worry you.”
Hurst got to his feet. “That's okay,” he said. “I just wondered.” He moved to the door. With the handle in his hand, he glanced back over his shoulder. “You ain't causin' Little Ernie any worries?”
Dillon knew now why he had come in. Since Little Ernie had sent two gunmen after him, Hurst was scared sick of any other trouble starting.
Dillon shook his head. “We're leavin' em alone,” he said quietly, and grinned to himself. This punk would have a tit if he knew what was going to happen.
Hurst nodded. “That's it,” he said. “You leave those guys alone. We can get along without treading on their corns.
Dillon watched him go, and when the door had closed he stretched his neck and spat viciously into the brass spittoon by the desk.
The news that Myra knew that he wasn't with Hurst the previous night infuriated him. He sat back in his chair and tried to reconstruct the sc
ene between them. Myra was no sucker. She knew there was another woman. His brows came down. Just let her start something, he told himself. If she thought she could push him around, she'd got a surprise coming. Hurst and Myra. They both knew too much for his comfort. Maybe... He sat there thinking. Yeah, maybe... He'd have to watch those two. It looked like he'd have to do something.
His cold, sullen face became grimly set.
Myra waited until Dillon had left the apartment, then she began a systematic search. She knew Dillon had no head for addresses. Somewhere, she was sure, she would find a clue that would lead her to this broad. Her face hard and set and her hands impatient, she went carefully through Dillon's wardrobe. She turned out every pocket, but she found nothing. She went through his drawers, careful not to disturb anything, but again she was unsuccessful.
She sat back on the bed thinking. This was getting her nowhere. He must have written the address down. She was certain of it. The only hope was he would be carrying it on him. That would make things difficult. She went once more to his compact room. Three soiled evening shirts caught her eye, hanging up on a peg. He'd been too lazy to throw them out for the wash.
On the cuff of one of them she found what she was looking for. Scribbled in pencil was an address—158 Sunset Avenue.
She stood there, holding the shirt in her hand, a cold fury sweeping over her. “You see, you two-timin' bastard, this whore of yours is goin' to get a shock.”
Putting the shirt carefully back in the cupboard, she went to her drawer and found her gun. It was a toy affair with a mother-o'-pearl handle, exceedingly unpleasant at close quarters. She put on her hat and coat and shoved the gun in her handbag. Then she stood hesitating. Maybe this wasn't quite the job for a gun. A hard little smile reached her mouth. She took from Dillon's drawer a length of solid rubber hose. She balanced it in her hand thoughtfully. Then, winding the thong round her wrist, she forced the hose up her sleeve.
Slamming the front door behind her, she took the elevator to the street level. A yellow taxi shot to the kerb and she nodded briefly. “Sunset Avenue,” she said. “An' flog your horse.”
The taxi jerked away. The driver said, “This is a hell of a town. I've never run into any guy who ain't in a hurry.”
Myra wasn't in the mood to talk. She said nothing.
The taxi-driver studied her in the mirror thought she was easy on the eye, and let it go at that.
Sunset Avenue was at the far end of the town. It took them a good half-hour's run to make it. The driver suddenly crammed on his brakes. “Here it is, lady: what number jer want?”
Myra said, “Stop here... this'll do.” She got out of the cab and paid him off. Then she walked slowly down the Avenue looking for 158. Her fury was smouldering by the time she found it. The place was a neat little villa standing in a fair-size garden. A place like this would cost money to keep up, she thought, and for a moment she hesitated. Maybe she had made a mistake. This place might be where one of Dillon's business associates hung out. Her step faltered. Then she thought she'd come this far, it wouldn't take long to check it up.
She walked up the crazy pavement and rang on the bell. She stood waiting, uncertain of herself. The door jerked open and Fanquist gaped at her.
It was certainly a shock to Myra. She saw it in a flash. Dillon was the rich guy who was staking this floosie to a good time.
She said quietly, “Hello. I bet this is a surprise.”
Fanquist got her nerve back. She said, “My Gawd, it's the kid again! What the hell you doin' here?”
Myra said, “Dillon told me you had moved, so I thought I'd look you up.”
“Dillon told you?” Fanquist's eyes hardened.
Myra nodded. “Sure. May I come in? I'd love to look around.”
Fanquist stood squarely in the doorway. She said in a hard voice, “Scram... go on, get to hell out of here!”
Myra could see two men wandering down the street. She had to get inside quick. Still keeping a smile on her face, she said, “Why, Fan, that ain't the way to talk. I gotta message for you.” She opened her bag casually. Fanquist watched her, a puzzled look on her face. She wondered what the hell all this was leading to.
Myra took the gun out of her bag and showed it to Fanquist. “Get inside quick, you bow-legged street pushover,” she said with a rush.
Fanquist's eyes opened very wide, and she went white under her rouge. She took a step back, and Myra stepped in and shut the door.
A big living-room opened out from the hall, and Myra drove Fanquist in there. The room was expensively furnished.
Myra said between her teeth, “So this is the love-nest, is it?”
Fanquist stammered, “You're going to be sorry for this.... Wait until he hears about it.”
“Sit down, you bitch,” Myra said. “I've got a lot to talk to you about.”
Fanquist said harshly, “You ain't throwin' a scare into me. You better get out an' get out quick.”
“Sit down,” Myra repeated. She held one hand behind her back, jerking the rubber club down from her sleeve.
Fanquist was getting her nerve back all right. She sneered. “That rod ain't gettin' you anywhere.... Get out!”
Myra swung the club round and hit Fanquist across her face with it. Fanquist staggered back, the chair struck her behind her knees, and she collapsed into it. She held both her hands over her face, the pain striking her dumb. Myra stepped back a little and waited.
“Maybe you'll jump to it next time,” she said.
“You're goin' to pay for this,” Fanquist gasped. “My God, you're goin' to pay for this!”
“Listen, you bohunk. You're goin' to clear out of this town quick, an' you'll stay out. I'm just givin' you a warning.”
Fanquist took her hands away from her face. Her eyes glittered murderously. She screamed suddenly, “You can't make me get out!... Dillon's mine now—He's mine—do you hear?”
Myra's face was hard. She took a step forward. The .25 was pointing directly at Fanquist. “That's what you say,” she snapped. “You're goin' okay, and you're goin' for good.”
Fanquist moved like a snake striking. She smacked Myra's hand away, sending the gun flying across the room. At the same time she sprang forward, her head down, and her hands grasping Myra's waist.
Myra went over with Fanquist on top of her. They both hit the floor with a crash that jarred the room Fanquist shifted her hands quickly, trying to catch Myra round the throat. Myra got her chin down, so Fanquist only got a grip on her jaw. Swinging the club up, Myra hit Fanquist on the shoulder. It was a glancing blow, but it made Fanquist squeal. She made a grab at Myra's hand, but missed, and got another sock from the club.
Myra was twisting like an eel, trying to get from under Fanquist, but she was too heavy for her. She kept beating Fanquist with the club, but there was no weight behind the blows. They hurt Fanquist, but not enough to shake her off. All the time, she was lunging to get Myra's arm pinned down with her knee.
Myra got in a lucky one, hitting Fanquist on the side of her head. Fanquist went crazy with the pain. She grabbed Myra by the hair, banging her head twice on the floor. Myra stiffened her neck, checking the force, but even then it half stunned her.
Letting go of the club, so that it swung by its thong, she reached out, catching Fanquist's ears. Fanquist was wearing big pearl stud earrings. Myra wrenched them away, splitting the lobes as she did so. Fanquist let go of her and put her hands over her ears, screaming like a train going through a tunnel. Blood ran through her fingers, down her neck.
Myra hit her across her eyes with her open hand, sending her reeling backwards. A sharp kick got Myra in the clear. Fanquist crawled up on her hands and knees. Myra stiffened, then launched herself at her again. They went over in a heap, upsetting a small table and sending two chairs flying with a crash. Myra's clutching hands ripped Fanquist's dress down the front, and as Fanquist, screaming wildly, tried to roll clear, Myra clawed her down her bare back, making four long deep grooves.
<
br /> Fanquist was terrified. She was half-crazy with pain and panic. She just wanted to get out of the room, away from those claw-like fingers. Somehow she managed to wriggle loose and get to her feet. She ran with unsteady steps to the door. Myra heaved up and collared her round the knees, bringing her crashing down on the floor again.
“Let me go... let me go... let me go!...” Fanquist screamed twisting and kicking.
Again Myra clawed her, ripping her clothes, stripping her to the waist.
Fanquist tried to fight back, making a lunge at Myra's eyes with her nails. Myra jerked her head away, and hit her across both wrists with the club. She put a lot into that blow. Fanquist fell on her knees, her head swimming with pain.
“Now you two-timin' floosie,” Myra panted, “here's what's comin to you.” She kicked Fanquist in her side, sending her over hard. Fanquist was past squawking. Her eyes wide with terror and pain, she crouched there, moaning Blood glistened on her body like paint.
Myra said, “Get up before I start on you again. Go on, get up you heel!”
Fanquist dragged herself off the floor, her breath coming in great heaving sobs. “Don't... hit me...” she whined. “I'll... play ball...”
Myra sneered. “I ain't finished with you,' she said. “I've got a long way to go before I'm through with you.”
Fanquist, giving a strangled cry, turned and stumbled to the door. Myra threw a chair in her way. Fanquist banged her knees against it and went forward, falling across the chair with a thud that shook the breath out of her body.
Myra sprang forward, and driving her knee into Fanquist's shoulders, she pinned her.
Fanquist screamed, a real terror gripping her. With one hand pushing her face into the carpet, Myra swung the club with the other.
“Go on,” Myra said, “you yell....”
She began to beat Fanquist's arched back with all her strength. Fanquist wriggled and screamed, but Myra held her. She tried to protect herself with her hands, but the club beat them away, sending waves of pain up her arms as well as through her body. Myra beat her until she drooped over the chair, limp and silent.
Standing there breathless, Myra said, “I guess that's all.”
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