“You gotta keep your nut,” he had told her. “I’ll be right with you, but you gotta go where I say, an’ go quick. You ain’t gotta argue… you gotta drive.”
When Dillon was through with her, he started on Gurney. He showed Gurney how to pull the gun, and how to shoot. Dillon said to him, “You ain’t to pop that heater. You leave that to me. There’s only two punks in that bank, an’ those guys ain’t goin’ to cause trouble. They got a wife, an’ maybe they got kids. All you gotta do is to collect the dough and get out quick.”
Gurney had the .45 under his coat. It made him feel good. He was excited, and he wasn’t scared any more.
The jaloopy had been hidden in a wood some twenty miles from the bank. Dillon hadn’t any trouble knocking off the Cadillac. It just stood in the main street asking to be knocked off. Even the engine was running, while some guy did his week-end store buying. That bus certainly could move.
They began to run into the town. Dillon edged himself forward, so that his head came between the two in the front. “Take it easy,” he said. “Just run up and stop without any fuss.”
Myra said, between her teeth, “What the hell you think I’d do? Turn the goddam thing over, and push it down the street on its roof?” Her heart was banging against her ribs.
Dillon sat back. “You keep your nut,” was all he said. Taking the blanket off the Thompson, he pulled the gun across his knees, his left hand on the car door.
Gurney pulled the .45 from inside his coat. He held it in his lap. His mouth was very dry.
They pulled up outside the bank.
Myra shoved out the clutch, put the gear in bottom, and revved the engine hard. She said, “Don’t take all day.”
Dillon put his Colt automatic beside her. “Maybe you better have that.”
Myra slipped the gun under her, and sat on it. The butt was just under her hand.
Swinging the door open, Dillon ran across the pavement and entered the bank. The Thompson was under his coat. Gurney came in at his heels. There was a fat woman wedged against the grille, arguing with the teller. Gurney could hear her voice putting up a squawk. His brain was stiff. He couldn’t get what she was saying.
A thin, lanky man got off a stool at the far end of the bank and wandered down when he saw Dillon.
“Stand by the door,” Dillon said to Gurney.
The lanky guy said, “We’re closin’ down right now,” he sounded as if he were bored to hell with the bank.
“Grab some air,” Dillon yelled, pitching his voice high, “this is a stick-up.” The Thompson showed its black barrel.
The two guys behind the counter stiffened into waxworks.
The fat woman turned her head. Dillon was right behind her. She took one look at him and her big mouth opened. Gurney nearly dropped his gun. “That dame’s going to yell the roof off,” he thought.
Dillon shifted the gun a little and swung his fist. He hit the woman across her mouth with his knuckles. There was a lot of steam in that punch. She was right up against the counter, so she couldn’t ride the punch. It made a real mess of her face. She flopped down on her knees and then spread out. A whistling sound dribbled from her throat. Without taking his eyes from the other two, Dillon kicked at her head. He kicked her just once. The woman’s head bounced away from his boot. She stopped making any noise.
The lanky guy suddenly went green, and vomited on the floor in front of him. He didn’t lower his hands, but just bent his head forward.
Dillon said to Gurney, “Hey! This bastard’s been eatin’ ice cream.”
Gurney wasn’t feeling so good himself. He scrambled over the grille The two watched him with wide eyes. They were scared to death.
Gurney went through the drawers, piling the notes on the counter. Dillon stood watchful, holding the Thompson ready. He said, “Get the safe open.” He looked hard at the teller.
Gurney grabbed the teller’s arm. “Get it open!” he snarled, pushing the .45 into his ribs. “Get goin’, you sonofabitch.”
The teller staggered across to the vault, his knees buckling. Gurney could see the sweat running down behind his ears into his collar. The teller pulled open the door. It wasn’t even locked. He tried to say something, but he was so scared he couldn’t get his tongue working.
Gurney grabbed the money, done up in neat packets. There wasn’t a lot, but he took everything he could see. He left the coin. Then he ran back to the counter and shoved all the money into a small flour-sack he’d brought with him. He vaulted over the grille again.
Dillon said, “Get goin’.” He stood by the door until Gurney was out, then he began to back out. “Don’t start anythin’,” he snarled at the lanky guy. “This typewriter’ll cut you to hell.”
He turned and ran. Myra was already rolling the car. As he sprang on the running-board the Cadillac shot forward with a jerk that nearly threw him loose.
The car lurched with screaming tyres as she pulled into the centre of the road. Dillon tossed the Tommy into the back seat and clung to the running-board, trying to get in. “Gimme a hand, you bastard!” he yelled at Gurney.
Gurney grabbed Dillon’s arm, pulling him forward. Another lurch tossed Dillon head first into the car. He scrambled to his knees, swearing savagely.
Myra gritted her teeth. At the back of her mind she had hoped to lose Dillon. She had not consciously tried to ditch him, but now he was safe she knew that she had tried to shake him.
The Cadillac went down the main street with a rush. The quivering needle of the speedometer swung to seventy. Faintly above the swish of tyres and the scream of the wind they could hear people shouting.
Myra gripped the wheel, her eyes fixed on the road that seemed to jump up from the ground and rush to meet her. Another car coming from the opposite direction crowded on brakes as the Cadillac hurtled down on it. Myra touched the wheel and swept by. The open road lay in front.
Dillon glanced through the rear window. The road was deserted. He sat back on the seat and wiped off his palms. He was tossed about in the back as the car tore down the rough road.
Gurney twisted his head and grinned at him. “Just like that,” he shouted.
Dillon didn’t say anything. He was looking murder. He wasn’t sure if Myra had tried to ditch him. He knew it was a mighty close thing. Gurney was still clutching the sack. Dillon leant forward and took it from him. Gurney looked round, a little startled, but Dillon’s cold eyes made him flinch. “Take it easy,” Dillon shouted to Myra, “we ain’t goin’ to turn this can over.”
Myra eased the pressure on the pedal and the Cadillac dropped down to fifty.
Gurney said, “It was a cinch.”
Dillon sneered. “Sure, but it could’ve been tough.”
They drove in silence for the next few miles. Gurney was feeling uneasy. He knew that if he’d let Dillon alone he’d have been shaken off the running-board. He knew Dillon knew it. What the hell was Myra playing at? This guy Dillon was too tricky to double-cross.
Myra ran the Cadillac off the road when they came to the wood where the jaloopy was hidden. They all got out, leaving the Cadillac hidden from the road.
Dillon took two quick steps away from the other two. His face was hard and threatening. He slightly raised the Tommy. “Put your rod on the ground,” he said to Gurney. “You keep away from the car,” he went on to Myra.
The two stood very still. Myra found her voice. “What’s the big idea?” she said, her voice suppressed.
“I want those rods… maybe you didn’t try to hang it on me in the car, but I ain’t takin’ any chances with you. Snap into it. Drop that gun, Gurney.”