“If there’s any buildin’ up, I’m the guy to take care of that,” Dillon returned.
Myra held the wheel. She didn’t say anything. Her eyes were intent on the road. As the car lurched to the bends she let her body swing against Dillon. She could feel the hardness of him under his coat, and it sent a flicker through her that made her blood sing in her ears.
This guy was tough, she thought, but he was a man. He had muscles and sinews and she began to ache for contact with him. Dillon, suddenly sensing her physical feeling for him, moved away, leaning well into the corner of the seat. She went limp with her frustrated longing for him.
Back at the apartment, they mounted the stairs silently and shut their door. Myra flicked on the light, walking slowly into the centre of the room, pulling her hat off as she did so, shaking her hair free.
Dillon stood by the door, rubbing his chin. He felt a vague urge towards her, but he ignored it. That urge made him a little uneasy.
Myra emptied the sack on the table and turned the money over with her finger. “Ain’t a great deal here,” she said, “but it’ll do to get on with.”
Dillon came over and sat down. He counted the money and stacked the notes neatly before him. Myra stood behind him, watching him. When he had finished she reached out and put her hands on his shoulders. The heavy muscles of his back contracted under her touch. She felt the flicker of flame shoot through her again.
He got abruptly to his feet, throwing her hands away. “Cut it out!” he said savagely. “You keep your whore tricks for some other punk.”
She moved towards him. “We can’t go on like this,” she said; “you can’t share this room with me—”
Dillon reached out his fist and shoved her away. “You heard me,” he said. She caught the unevenness of his voice. “Get into bed, an’ shut up!”
She said softly, “Sure, I guess I was only thinkin’ of you.”
Dillon turned from her and went over to his bed. He sat down and began to pull off his shoes. Myra stood in the middle of the room and undressed. She took her time. She let each garment fall to the floor until she had nothing on. She stood like that, looking at Dillon, then she turned and got into bed.
For the first time since she had known him she knew that she had made an impression on him. She knew that he was aware of her and she was content to wait for him.
Early next morning they woke with a start. Someone was drumming on their door. Dillon shot out of bed, making a grab for his gun. For a moment Myra was startled and she made to follow him, then she relaxed back on the pillow.
Roxy called from the other side of the door, “It’s me.”
Swearing softly, Dillon opened the door.
“What the hell do you want?” he said. “You got me thinkin’ the bulls were here.”
Roxy eased his way into the room. He looked a little startled at the sight of Dillon’s gun. “I guess I’m sorry about that,” he said. “But you two seen the paper?” His eyes were popping a little.
Myra said from the bed, “Let me see.”
Roxy tossed the paper on to the bed. “Got a big write-up there,” he said. “I guess you two’ve started already.”
Dillon went over and took the paper from Myra. He read through the account coldly and then tossed the paper back to Myra. “What makes you think that was me?” he asked Roxy quietly.
Roxy didn’t like the look in his eyes. He said uneasily, “Why, I just guessed it. None of the mob round here talk big when they pull a job. I just figgered that maybe you had started a new line.”
Dillon walked over to the mirror and examined his beard in the glass. Both Myra and Roxy watched him. He turned his head, so that he could look at them. “It ain’t goin’ to be the last those rags are goin’ to print about me,” he said. “They’ll have plenty to print before I’m through.”
During the two weeks that followed Dillon pulled three more hold-ups. He purposely kept them small—a service station and two out-of-the-way stores. He made enough money to be sure of living well for the next few weeks.
Although they shared a room, he did not again give Myra any opportunity of expressing her feelings. He was cold and ruthless to her. She was there to do what he said, and nothing more. Myra was sure of herself. She accepted his indifference and waited. She knew now that he had feelings, and she knew that it was only a matter of time.
Acting on Roxy’s suggestion, they moved out of Miss Benbow’s and took a small apartment off Grand Avenue.
Roxy thought Strawn might get a line on Dillon. Strawn was no fool, and he was just aching to push someone around. Dillon, one day, would overstep the line and start shooting, Roxy reasoned, and Roxy was not going to be there when Strawn called with the wagon. He reasoned it out carefully with Dillon. “This guy Strawn likes gettin’ tough. He ain’t got anythin’ on you, but that wouldn’t stop him lookin’ you up an’ slappin’ your ears down if he hadn’t anything better to do. I guess you’d be a lot safer away from this joint.”
Through Roxy’s efforts they got another apartment. It had one big advantage of being near the Union Station and having two entrances, and consequently two exits. Also, Roxy pointed out, they were just a block away from the General Hospital, so what more could they want!
A week after they had moved in, Roxy surprised them by a late visit. It was just after eleven o’clock, and Dillon was sitting by the radio reading the newspaper. Myra was practising dance steps at the other end of the room. She broke off to let Roxy in. She had only to take one look at Roxy to see that he was seriously worried. “What’s your grief?” she asked him sharply.
Dillon swung round in his chair and stared at him with his hard eyes.
Roxy wandered in and sat on the arm of a chair. He pushed his hat to the back of his head. “I gotta load on my mind,” he said. “You know Hurst?”
Dillon said impatiently, “I know Hurst all right. What’s the matter with him?”
“Little Ernie’s crowd is after him. He’s asked for it an’ he’s goin’ to get it.”
Dillon shrugged. “Why get low? You ain’t got to worry about Hurst. Suppose they do iron him out?”
Roxy said, “You don’t get it. If Hurst gets knocked there’s goin’ to be a hell of a stink. The cops’ll crack down on everyone they can lay their hands on. Hurst pays ’em plenty, and it’s sure goin’ to make them mad to have a meal-ticket like that shot to hell.”
Myra said, “What do you mean, crack down?”
Roxy moved a little impatiently. “This guy’s a big shot. The papers’ll play it to the sky. The cops won’t touch little Ernie… he’s too big for ’em. They’ll go after the small guys like us. They’ll hang every goddam frame on us to make a pinch, get it? We’ll be the mugs who’ll get tossed in the can.”
“You mean all this?” Myra asked.
“For God’s sake, of course I mean it. There’s only one thing to do an’ that’s to take a powder quick.”
Dillon got up. His face was cold and set. “No bull’s goin’ to frame me,” he said. “How the hell do you know they’re after him?”
Roxy said, “I heard it from Archer, one of Ernie’s boys. He took Fan out last night an’ got a little plastered. Fan keeps her ears open; she kidded him along, an’ he blew the set-up. They’re fixin’ him tonight.”
Myra took a step forward. “Tonight?”
Roxy nodded. “Hurst’s got a dame he’s nuts about. She’s the wife of some high-pressure guy in the City. She’s scared sick her old man’ll get the lowdown on her two-timing. Right; she meets Hurst in an apartment every now an’ then. Hurst is crazy enough to go there on his own. I guess he’s scared his bodyguard might get talkin’; anyway, when he goes on these outings he goes alone. Ernie’s been watching him for weeks, an’ he’s got this business taped. They’re callin’ on Hurst and they’ll give it to him at the apartment.”