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.
He finished off with a real tricky ending, and put the guitar down on the couch. “Come on in,” he said: “I guess I owe you two a drink.”
Myra walked in quite at ease. She sat down on the arm of the couch and looked round the room. Dillon leant against the doorway. He watched Roxy closely.
Myra thought Roxy looked like George Raft. She liked him. He didn’t strike her as being a big shot, but she thought he’d do to be getting on with.
Roxy fixed three highballs and passed them round. Dillon put his glass on the table, shaking his head.
Roxy raised his eyebrows. “What’s wrong with it?”
Dillon said sourly, “I don’t use it.”
Myra said, “Come on in an’ shut the door—there’s a draught.”
Dillon came in and shut the door. There was a second’s silence. Then Myra and Roxy started to speak. They looked at each other and laughed. “I’m Myra… this is Dillon,” she said.
Roxy nodded. “I’m pleased to know you both. I guess you two wouldn’t be here if you weren’t in the game.”
Dillon said coldly, “What’s your racket?”
Roxy took a pull at his glass. He glanced at Myra. “I’m known as Roxy around here,” he said. “Maybe we’d better get more acquainted before we get down to rackets.”
Dillon shrugged. “That don’t suit me,” he said. “You may act dumb, but I bet you know who I am, so I guess a little info from you might ease things.”
Roxy tipped his hat over his eyes. This guy had a mean look, he thought. He tried to remember some of the things he had heard about him. It was too long ago. He could only remember he was a killer.
“Sure,” he said at last, “I know you. I guess I’m just in a small way. My line’s stickin’ up cars. I make a little dough now an’ then. My girl’s a dip.”
A sneer went across Dillon’s face. Real small-time stuff, he thought. “I gotta get back into the racket,” he said. “I’ve been out too long.”
Roxy went over and lay on the couch. He studied his cloth-top boots. He had very small neat feet, and he liked to admire them. “Yeah,” he said, “I guess you’re forgotten.”
Dillon flashed a look at Myra—signalling her to be quiet. He said, “I wantta contact someone big.”
“I like you two,” Roxy said thoughtfully, “so I’ll deal it off the top deck. You don’t stand a chance ‘musclin’ in on anything big in this burg until you got yourself a reputation again. The old mobs are washed up and the new crowd just think there’s no one who can show ’em anythin’. You try to horn in there an’ you’re goin’ to run into plenty of grief.”
Myra said in a quiet voice, “Well, that’s talkin’.”
Roxy looked up and grinned. “Sure, that’s the way it is, sister. You gotta go slow, see? I can give you an openin’ here and there. I’d be glad to, but you gotta build your set-up slow.”