Roxy tossed the paper on the floor. He finished his coffee and lit a cigarette. “Got any ideas for today?” he asked hopefully.
“I'm havin' a finger-wave.” Fanquist stretched her arms and yawned. “Ten o'clock. It'll take the best part of two hours... meet me for lunch?”
Roxy nodded. “Yeah, I'll do that,” he said. “I'll pick you up at Verotti's.”
A tap came at the door. Roxy looked over at Fanquist, his eyebrows raised. Then he put his hand inside his coat and loosened the gun in its holster. “Who is it?” he asked.
“It's okay,” came Miss Benbow's hoarse whisper.
“What the hell does she want?” Roxy said, walking to the door and jerking it open.
Miss Benbow came in. Her white teeth glittered like piano keys. Roxy shut the door and turned the key again. “What's the trouble?” he asked, tossing the cigarette-butt into the fireplace.
Miss Benbow nodded to Fanquist. “You've got neighbours,” she said. “They're new... I ain't seen 'em before.”
Roxy looked a little startled. “They okay?” he asked sharply.
“I guess so,” Miss Benbow said. “They knew how to get in. He's called Dillon.”
“Dillon? Why, that guy's been out of the game for a long time. You remember Dillon?” Roxy looked over at Fanquist.
“Sure, I remember hearin' of him. A mean guy. A guy who don't smoke or drink or have a girl is a mean guy.”
Roxy grinned. “That's what you say.”
Miss Benbow moved a little restlessly. “There's something about those two I don't like. The broad is just a kid, but she's bad. She's got a cold little face that I wouldn't like to wake up an' find on my pillow. The guy's big an' tough. He makes me uneasy.”
Fanquist looked interested. “This guy, is he handsome?”
Roxy laughed. “You oughtta have a cold bath, Fan,” he said. “Ain't she a hot momma?”—to Miss Benbow.
Miss Benbow grinned some more. “I like to see it,” she said. “There're too many cold-blooded broads around to please me.”
Fanquist pouted. “Come on, you big lump,” she said. “Don't keep a girl waitin'. What's he like?”
Miss Benbow nodded her head. “Sure, sure,” she said. “He's got it all. Dressy kind of a guy. Big, strong and hard. Good in bed, he'd be.”
Fanquist looked over at Roxy. “Ain't you jealous?” she asked.
Roxy grinned. “Sure I am... I'm burnin' up.”
“I'd leave that guy alone,” Miss Benbow cautioned. “That little bag don't look like she'd stand for much interference.”
Fanquist shrugged. “Aw! To hell with her,” she said. Then, glancing at the clock, she dragged off the bedclothes. “My Gawd!” she said. “I gotta get my hair fixed at ten.”
Miss Benbow moved to the door. “I figgered you'd like to hear about those two,” she said.
Roxy nodded. “I'll look 'em over.”
He sat down in the overstuffed chair and watched Fanquist dress. “You ain't in such a goddam hurry you can't wash,” he said, when she started to pull her clothes on.
She took no notice. She adjusted the straps of her hold-up. Roxy looked with raised, eyebrows. “You be careful,” he said. “Some guy's going to trip over your chest one of these days.”
Fanquist giggled. “The things you say,” she said, doing things to her face.
Roxy switched his mind. “I guess I'll take a gander at those two,” he said, picking his teeth with a match-end. “Maybe they'll be interestin'.”
“Watch yourself with the broad,” Fanquist warned him. “I'll hook her eyes out if she starts on you.”
“Okay,” Roxy waved his hand. “You know me. I ain't got the strength to take on two dames at once. You watch Dillon.”
She paused at the door. “Say, if these two ain't dumb, bring 'em along to Verotti's. They might amuse me.”
Roxy nodded. “Yeah,” he said, “if they are bright I'll do that.”
Fanquist shut the door behind her and ran downstairs. Roxy picked up the paper again and studied the police news.
Roxy was a heistman. He wasn't very spectacular, but he made a nice living on the side. He specialized in car hold-ups. Gangdom considered him smart, and they had a certain respect for him. He had kept clear of the cops, he'd never been mugged or finger-printed, and he wasn't a killer. His stick-ups brought him in on the average a grand a week, and he was doing pretty well for himself.
Fanquist helped towards the weekly contribution by dipping pockets. She seldom came back without a piece of jewellery or a pocket-book in her bag.
Roxy and Fanquist had teamed up about eighteen months ago. They liked each other well enough, but there was no real affection there. Fanquist thought he was a bit of a wop, and Roxy considered she was a little tramp. They kept their opinions to themselves and broke no bones. They slept together as a matter of physical convenience, and they ate together for company. They shared a room for economy, and they got on pretty well.
When Roxy had finished the newspaper he got up, put on a black fedora, looked himself over in the long wall-mirror, and sauntered on to the landing. He took a packet of gum from his pocket and peeled off the wrapper, then he put the gum in his mouth and clamped on it thoughtfully. All the time he did this he was listening.
He knew it would be dangerous to tap on the door; he remembered hearing things about Dillon. He'd seen a guy take some hot lead through his belly, just tapping on doors. He leant up against the doorway and waited, hoping someone would come out. He waited some little time, then he shrugged his shoulders. He went back to his room, leaving his door open.
The big Spanish guitar gave him an idea. He reached over and began playing. He went right into the Prologue of Pagliacci. Roxy had a smooth voice; a nice rich tenor. With the Prologue he knew he was good. He could reach the E Flat and he could swell up on it until the windows rattled. He liked tossing this high stuff off, but Fanquist wouldn't stand for it.
He guessed no dame would remain long behind a door with this hot Italian stuff going on, and he was right. Myra put her head round the door and came out.
Roxy wallowed in the sobs, made himself miserable with the last bars, then closed down hurriedly with a few showy chords.
He grinned at Myra. “I bet you thought it was a cat-fight.”
She stood looking at him admiringly. “Say, that was swell,” she said.
“You like it?” He tried to look surprised. “That's just classic stuff. Wantta hear me do 'Stormy River'?”
She nodded, her hands clasped in front of her. Roxy thought she was easy on the eye. Her figure was subtle, not like Fanquist's curves that reached out and tried to snap at you. Her big eyes made Roxy glad that she couldn't read his mind. He ran his fingers over the strings. Roxy could certainly handle that guitar.
Out came Dillon. His face was cold and suspicious. Roxy nodded to him, but kept on playing, then he began to sing. It wasn't for nothing he had listened to every record Bing Crosby had ever made. Roxy hadn't enjoyed himself so much for years.