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.”
Hank said, “It’d be nice to own a joint like this, wouldn’t it?” He wandered over to the cash register and rang up “No Sale”. He peered into the drawer, poking the money round with his finger. “I figger we take five hundred bucks a day here.”
“There’s more’n that in the can,” George said. “We had a few odd bills settled today.”
“You think it out. I guess a joint like this would be mighty nice to own.”
George nodded. “You’re right,” he said.
Outside, a car pulled up. The two jumped to their feet and ran out. The big shabby Packard was parked near the gas-pumps.
Dillon got out. “Any more of you guys inside?” he asked.
The two looked at him in surprise. “Just the two of us,” George said. “We’ll take care of the bus all right.”
Dillon raised his hands a little. He was holding the two guns. “Grab some air,” he said viciously, “and get inside.”
The two attendants raised their hands. George went a little wobbly at the knees. He said, “Don’t let that gun off, mister.”
“Get inside!” Dillon snapped. “Jump to it!” He backed them into the office. “Stand over there by the wall, and keep your traps shut.”
Myra came in and went over to the register. She rang it open and began scooping the money into a small bag. “Watch closely, boys,” she said. “You’re seein’ history bein’ made.”
Dillon said, “Much there?”
Myra nodded. “It’s worth while.” She went through the two drawers and then slammed them to. “Maybe they’ve got a can round here.”
Dillon said, “Where’s the safe?”
Hank nodded miserably. “It’s behind the desk,” he said.
“Okay, get it open.”
George unlocked the battered safe, and Myra walked over and peered inside. She scooped up a small wad of notes, pulled two or three ledgers out of the way, and glanced behind them. She straightened up. “That’s the lot,” she said.
Dillon went round to the telephone and jerked it away from its cable. “I don’t want you boys to start yellin’ just yet. We wantta get home safe, see?” He was feeling mighty pleased.
Myra looked them over. “I guess this is your first stick-up?” she said.
George mumbled, “Sure.”
“You’re havin’ the breaks.” She took a cigarette from her handbag and paused to light it. “You’re in swell company. Know who this is?” She jerked her head towards Dillon. “I bet you don’t. That guy set fire to the middle west. He’s the original twenty-five-minute egg. There’ll come a time when you’ll tell your grand-kids how you were stuck up by this guy. I sure envy you boys; you gotta story to blow.”
Dillon said, “Get goin’, you big-mouthed doll.”
She walked over to the door and Dillon crowded her into the darkness outside. The two attendants stood against the wall, their hands held high.
The Packard shot away and ripped into the darkness. Dillon shoved his gun away. “Suppose you keep that trap of yours shut?” he said from the blackness.
“You ain’t got to worry… I’m buildin’ you up.”