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  Roxy nodded. “Sure it's okay. You can't keep the Feds outta any place. The bulls leave it alone, but not the Feds. You ain't wanted by no G-man, are you?” There was sharp anxiety in his voice.

  Dillon didn't say anything. He stood by the table, a little tense. With eyes like chips of ice he stared at Roxy. The expression in his eyes quite startled Roxy.

  Myra broke in. “I guess not,” she said.

  Roxy relaxed. “Okay, just you go on drinkin' an' say nothin'. I'll do the talkin' if there's any talkin' to be done.”

  “Hell!” Dillon said savagely. “That black cow's goin' to lose some of her rent. She's nuts thinkin' I'm payin' all that dough, when the Feds can come in here.”

  Roxy nodded his head. “Sure,” he said. “I guess she's been stringin' you along. You fix her. It's been comin' to her for a long time.”

  Suddenly they heard a commotion going on downstairs. They stiffened involuntarily. “Here they come,” Roxy said, putting his feet up on the couch. “Now don't let those guys stampede you. They'll try all right.”

  They could hear Miss Benbow protesting on the stairs. They, heard her say, “You dicks ain't got anythin' on me. You can't come bustin' in like this. I tell you this is a respectable house.”

  Someone said in a gritty voice. “Take it easy, Coon, we're just lookin' the place over.”

  A heavy step sounded outside then the door was kicked open. The three in the room turned their heads and looked. Dillon was cool, but Myra's nerves were jumpy. Two big men stood in the doorway, their eyes watchful. Dillon thought they looked a couple of real tough birds.

  “Hello, boys,” Roxy said from the couch. He kept his hands in his lap. “I guess you ain't lookin' for me?”

  One of them wandered into the room, leaving the other by the door. He said. “Get up when you talk to me.”

  Roxy got up quickly and took off his hat. He looked hard at the Federal and grinned a little uneasily. “Why, if it ain't Mr. Strawn,” he said. “Ain't seen you for a long time.”

  Strawn went over to him and patted his pockets. “Where's your rod?” he asked.

  Roxy shrugged his shoulders. “You got me wrong,” he said. “I don't tote a rod. You know me, boss; I wouldn't do a thing like that.”

  Strawn said, “That line don't get you nowhere, so lay off it.”

  He looked at Dillon. Then he glanced over to the other dick. “Seen this monkey before?” he asked.

  The other dick shook his head.

  Strawn walked over to Dillon. “Who're you an' what you doin' around here?”

  Dillon looked at him impassively. “Just havin' a drink with a pal of mine,” he said. “What's wrong with that?”

  Strawn looked him over, his face hardening. “Where you from?” he snapped.

  Dillon shot a look at Myra. Strawn swung his fist. He smacked Dillon on the jaw. Dillon was off balance—he went over with a thud.

  Roxy yelled, “Don't start anything!” His eyes were popping.

  Dillon looked up at Strawn, his eyes black with hate. He came slowly to his feet, rubbing his jaw with his hand. Beyond the look in his eyes he remained impassive.

  Strawn said, “Listen, you melon-headed monkey, when I ask you somethin' you answer quick Where are you from an' what's your name?”

  The other dick looked bored, but he had got a gun in his hand.

  Dillon said between his teeth, “I'm from Plattsville. Name's Gurney... Nick Gurney.”

  Myra stood very still. She put her hand to her mouth.

  “Just a big farmer's hick, huh?” Strawn sneered. “Well, listen, hayseed, you better keep outta this town. We don't like punks like you. You better go right back to Plattsville an' stay there. Do you get it?”

  Dillon just stood there hating him with his eyes. Strawn clenched his fists. “Answer me, will you? By heck! You get snotty with me, you goddam bohunk, an' I'll tear your guts out an' beat you to death with 'em!”

  Dillon said, “I get you.”

  Strawn looked Myra over. “Well, sister, an' who're you?” he asked, eyeing her thoughtfully.

  “I'm his wife,” Myra said quietly. She put a lot of personality into her look.

  Strawn shook his head. “This ain't no place for a kid like you to be in. You better get out an' go home. You'll lose a lotta time goin' round with a bum like this.” He jerked his head at Dillon. “Forget him, an', go home to your Ma.”

  Myra lowered her eyes. She thought, “The big dumb-mouthed bastard.

  Strawn shrugged. “Okay, watch yourselves, you three.” He stepped outside the door and pulled it shut. He said in a low voice to the other dick, “We'll watch that Gurney, he's a bad guy.”

  Roxy held his hand up for silence. They sat there staring at the door, listening. It was only when they heard them go downstairs that they relaxed.

  Dillon said evenly, “Some day I'll fix that heel. By God! He's got it comin' to him!”

  * * *

  Verotti's was a dive off Twenty-second Street, near the Union Station. Fanquist had a table in the corner. She was drinking a rye highball.

  When Roxy came in with Dillon and Myra she waved excitedly to them. Roxy came up to the table and waved his hand. “This is Myra and Dillon,” he said. “They've got a room across the way.”

  Fanquist had eyes only for Dillon. “What a hot-looking man!” she said. “Am I pleased to meet you, or am I?”

  Myra's face was cold. She sat down next to Fanquist, trapping her against the wall. Dillon sat opposite, with Roxy at his side.

  Myra said, “It's grand to run into a guy like Roxy. He's been a real pal.”

  Fanquist shot her a quick look. “Say,” she said, swiveling round so that she faced Myra, “what are you doin' away from your Ma? Hey, hot man, you're baby-snatching. That ain't right.”

  Myra's eyes glinted. “Don't embarrass him,” she cut in quickly. “He likes 'em young. This guy ain't got time for broads who've got the grass worn off... you ask him.”

  Fanquist leant against the wall. “Smart kid, huh?” she said, two bright-red spots on her cheeks. “Grass worn off, huh? That's a nice crack from a kid.”

  Myra turned her head. “Don't we do anythin' around here but talk?”

  A waiter shuffled up and they ordered drinks. Roxy sat with his hat over his eyes, grinning to himself. Nothing pleased him more than to listen-in to two women clawing each other.

  Fanquist leant over the table towards Dillon. “I bet you know some hot spots in this town,” she said.

  From where he sat Dillon could look down the neck of her dress. He lifted his eyes and gave his hard stare. Fanquist suddenly felt a little cold. She sat back hurriedly.

  Dillon said, “We thought maybe we might see some of em. We've just blown in.”

  Roxy said, “That guy over there's Hurst.”

  They looked across at a table in the middle of the room. A big blond man was drinking by himself. He wore his neat dark suit well. There was an air of money and importance about him.

  Dillon said, “Who's Hurst?”

  Fanquist laughed. “You do say things!” she said. “That guy's tops just now. He runs most of the big rackets round here.”

  “That so?” Dillon looked Hurst over again. “A big shot, huh?”

  Roxy nodded. “Yeah, he's a big shot all right.”

  Myra said, “Maybe you know him?”

  Roxy looked blank. “Hey!” he said. “What you think? I said this guy was a big shot. He don't mix with guys like you an' me.”

  Fanquist said in her slow drawl, “Maybe the kid fancies her chance.”

  Myra said, “Why not? He's just a guy, ain't he?”

  Fanquist sneered. “Hurst don't play with kids,” she said. “When that guy takes a woman he takes a woman.”

  Myra pushed back her chair. “I'll show you how I take a guy like that,” she said.

  Roxy said quickly, “Don't you start anythin' like that. Hurst's a tough bird. He don't like stunts like that.”

  Myra paused. �
�I'm interested in that guy,” she said.

  “You're interested because he's got somewhere. But the trouble with those guys is they don't stay that way long.”

  “No?”

  “No. Hurst won't stay much longer. He's been in the racket too long.”

  Myra took a sip from her glass. Her eyes were cloudy. “He looks big enough to take care of himself,” she said.

  Roxy shook his head. “You wait an' see. Little Ernie's gunnin' for him. An' Little Ernie'll get him all right.”

  Myra moved restlessly. “Maybe he'll get Little Ernie first,” she suggested.

  “You ain't got the lowdown to this burg.” Roxy spun his glass between his finger and thumb. “Hurst runs the Automatic racket. He's been makin' a pile of dough for some time. Little Ernie runs the Cat shops. He's in a big way too. That's the set-up. For years these guys ain't overlapped. They've made their pile outta their rackets an' kept to their side of the town. These guys are never contented, see? Maybe they pick up a couple of million bucks a year. Good money? Not to these guys. They want more. They've got big overheads. They've got a long list of retainers to pay off. So they always want more.”

  Myra said softly, “A couple of million bucks?”

  Roxy nodded. “Sure, that ain't so much to guys like that,” he said. “Hurst is startin' somethin'. He's expandin'. He's pushin' into Little Ernie's territory. That wop won't stand for that. Hurst says it's okay. Automatics can't hurt Little Ernie's Cat «hops. So he pushes ahead.” Roxy shrugged. “One day, mighty soon, Hurst's goin' to get a handful of slugs tossed into his guts. Then his million bucks ain't goin' to mean a thing.”

  Myra lit a cigarette. “Maybe he'll get the wop first,” she said.

  “Yeah, maybe he will.”

  Fanquist said, “So you ain't taking Hurst after all?”

  Myra shook her head. “I'll take him a little later on,” she said.

  Fanquist got up. “I guess we'd better get goin',” she said to Roxy. “I gotta job of work to do.”

  Roxy pushed his chair away and nodded Jo Myra. “We'll be seein' you.”

  Fanquist turned to Dillon and gave him one of her 'any-time-you-say-so' smiles.

  “Bye, big boy,” she said. “Don't let this babe get too many big ideas.”

  Dillon grunted.

  Myra watched them go. “That little curdle-puss thinks she's smart,” she said furiously. “She'd better keep her claws off you.”

  Dillon sat back. “You've got a lot to worry about, ain't you?” he sneered.

  Hurst snapped his fingers, calling the waiter. He paid his check and got up. Myra watched him walk across the room and go into the street. Two tough-looking birds, sitting by the door, got up and followed him. Through the doorway she saw them get into a big powerful car and drive off.

  Dillon said, “That guy might get me somewhere.”

  Myra said softly, “You don't need guys like that. You can get sky-high playin' solo.”

  “Yeah?” Dillon sneered. “Suppose you get wise to yourself. We ain't nobody here. Look how that Federal dick shoved me around. Think we're goin' to get anywhere without an in? Not a chance. You keep your trap shut an' let me do the thinkin'. When I run outta ideas I'll give you a buzz. An' believe me, it'll take a long time before I'm screwy enough to take ideas from a dope like you.”

  Myra flushed. Her eyes grew stormy, but she didn't start anything. She said, “Maybe a smart lie-down like that Fanquist moll could give you ideas.”

  Dillon stared at her. “Your mind runs on one track,” he said. “She don't cut meat with me. You dames are all alike, ain't you? There's nothin' new about you, is there? I've seen it all before... so what the hell?”

  Myra thought savagely, “I'll get under his skin one day. I'll fix him.”

  Dillon got up. “I'm takin' some air,” he said. “This line of talk gives me a pain in my tail.”

  She followed him into the street. The sun was hot, and they walked along, keeping in the shade.

  Dillon said, “I gotta get me a car—I guess I'll get it now.”

  “A car?” Myra was startled. “Where's the dough comin' from?”

  “Suppose you keep your mind on your bed and your nose outta this?” Dillon snarled at her.

  Off the main street they found a large garage with a dilapidated showroom, full of second-hand cars. A tall, thin guy, with a bobbing Adam's apple, came out and nodded to them.

  “I'm pleased to meet you,” he said. “Mabley's the name, an' if you're lookin' for a good bus you've come to the right joint.”

  Dillon said, “We're lookin', brother, but maybe we won't buy, then, maybe, if we find somethin' good an' cheap, we will.”

  Mabley put his thumbs in his trousers pockets and raised himself on his toes. “That's fair enough, mister,” he said. “You look around.” He leant up against the wall and watched them.

  Dillon spotted the car right away. It was a big, shabby-looking Packard standing in a corner by itself. It was the only car of the lot that looked as if it could hit a wall at sixty and not dent its fenders.

  He didn't go over to it at once, but made a pretence of looking at the others first. Myra followed him around, not saying anything. She left it to him. At last he walked over to the Packard and examined it carefully. He opened the door and got in. The springs were good.

  Mabley came over and dusted off the hood with a flick here and there. “You like this one, I bet,” he said.

  Dillon got out of the car and leant against the fender. “Maybe we could use it.”

  Mabley opened his eyes wide. “Listen,” he said earnestly, “that car's got guts. There's plenty under that hood. Suppose you come for a run an' see?”

  Dillon nodded. “Sure,” he said, “I don't mind givin' you a break if it will hold together.”

  Mabley ran his hands through his hair. “If it will hold together... you'll see.”

  Dillon got under the wheel. “I guess I'll drive,” he said.

  The Packard was good. Dillon knew it would be. Out on a good stretch of road he worked it up to eighty-five. It held the road without a roll, and he guessed with a little tuning he could squeeze some more speed out of it.

  They drove back to the garage in silence. Mabley was smug with certainty. When Dillon nailed the Packard, and they got out, Mabley said, “Didn't I tell you?... That bus can move.”

  Dillon said, “You're right. She's a bit too fast, if anythin'.”

  Mabley raised his hands. “Gawd!” he groaned. “Ain't you ever happy?”

  Dillon broke in, “Now, come on, we ain't got all day. How much?”

  Mabley leant against the fender. “Two thousand bucks, an' it's cheap at the price,” he said.

  Dillon stared at Myra. “Did you hear him?” he gasped. “Two thousand bucks for that old heap?”

  He turned to Mabley. “We don't want your garage, we want the car, see?”

  Mabley shrugged. “I tell you it's cheap,” he said firmly.

  Dillon said, “That old can ain't worth more'n eight hundred bucks, an' you know it.”

  Mabley said, “Two thousand.”

  Myra shrugged. “Let's go,” she said. “This guy's crazy.”

  “Maybe he doesn't know his game right. Listen, I'll stretch a point an' buy it from you for a grand.”

  Mabley shook his head. “No use to me, mister. It's givin' it away at two.”

  Myra wandered away. “Come on, you can see he won't be reasonable.”

  Dillon said, “You're right. I guess we'll leave it.” He walked over to where Myra was pretending to examine another car.

  Mabley hesitated. “Well, seein' you're sold on this bus, I'll let you have it for nineteen hundred. That's rock bottom.”

  Dillon took Myra's arm and walked her to the door. “These small-time traders are nuts,” he said. “Nineteen hundred! What a crack!”

  Mabley came after them. “Wait a minute. Don't you be in such a hurry.”

  Dillon said, “Forget it. We ain't interested no
more.”

  Myra cut in sharply, “Fourteen hundred. That's flat.”

  Dillon shot her a hard look, but didn't say anything. Mabley scratched his head. “I'll split the difference. I'm cuttin' my own throat, but I guess business is busted to hell these days.”

  Dillon wanted that car. He nodded. “Sixteen hundred if you fill the tank an' oil her.”

  Mabley looked at him. “You sure are a hard guy,” he said. “But I'll do it.”

  “Get her ready in an hour,” Dillon said sharply. “We'll be back.”

  They walked out of the garage. Myra started a moan. “This is goin' to knock a hole in our dough.”

  Dillon said, “Where do you get this 'our' stuff? We're fillin' the hole up again tonight, so what do you care?”

  * * * * *

  The Conoco Service station at Bonner Springs was floodlit at night. Two tired attendants relaxed in the office, their ears unconsciously cocked for the sound of a car, ready to snap to attention and come out at a run.

  George, a fair-haired boy, thought of his girl-friend. When he wasn't busy his mind dwelt on her, when it wasn't dwelling on how he could make more money. George was a simple hick. He was like thousands of other guys. Two things came uppermost, his girl and money.

  Hank, his fellow attendant, lolled across the table. “What's bitin' you, pal?” he asked. “You been lookin' like a bad dream for a coupla hours.”

  George heaved a sigh. “Say, you know Edie... What you think's the matter with her?”

  Hank scratched his head. “How the hell should I know what's the matter with her?” he said impatiently. “She ain't wearin' the bustle wrong?”

  George shook his head. “Not a chance,” he said gloomily. “Maybe we'd get married if it was like that.”

  “Then what's biting you?”

  “She keeps away from me now... she's cooled off. Now what you think's come over her?”

  Hank said with a sudden rush of inspiration, “Suppose you try this soap they're always croakin' about.”

  George scowled. “Don't you start to rib me,” he said coldly. “I guess it's the dough that's the trouble. Edie was always keen to have dough. I ain't had a raise for two years now. I guess that's what's makin' her sore.”