Dillon said sharply, “It ain’t time yet. Myra wants handlin’.”
Fanquist said, “Why the hell don’t you toss that piece of ass out on her can?” Her voice was suddenly strident and furious.
“I tell you it ain’t time for that yet,” Dillon snarled. “Suppose you leave this to me?”
“Am I seein’ you today?”
Dillon looked round his office, a harassed expression on his face. “You gotta have patience—” he began.
“That’s another tune I’m getting sick of,” Fanquist said bitterly. “You make me tired. I guess I’m a sucker to stand for it. All right, if that’s the way you feel I guess you can stay away.” She hung up.
Dillon slammed the receiver down on the prong and mopped his face with his handkerchief. Women were hell, he thought. Before Myra had come along and he had started fooling with her, he just kicked women around; now they had him crawling. What the hell had come over him?
The door opened and Hurst walked in. For a moment Dillon was startled. Hurst never came to this place. He got to his feet. Hurst looked at him thoughtfully, then nodded. He walked over to a chair and sat down. “I was passing, so I thought I’d look in and hear how things were going,” he said.
Dillon sat down. “They’re all right.”
“No trouble?”
Dillon shook his head. He gave a bland smile. “Why, no, Mr. Hurst, I guess things are goin’ mighty smooth just now.”
Was Hurst looking at him in an odd way, or was he imagining things?
Hurst said abruptly, “What’s wrong with your girlfriend?”
Dillon raised his eyes. A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Myra? I don’t get it.”
Hurst shrugged. “She pulled me from a game last night asking where you were.”
Dillon suddenly went cold. Aw, she’s always like that if I’m a shade late,” he said carelessly. “I’ll tell her not to worry you.”
Hurst got to his feet. “That’s okay,” he said. “I just wondered.” He moved to the door. With the handle in his hand, he glanced back over his shoulder. “You ain’t causin’ Little Ernie any worries?”
Dillon knew now why he had come in. Since Little Ernie had sent two gunmen after him, Hurst was scared sick of any other trouble starting.
Dillon shook his head. “We’re leavin’ em alone,” he said quietly, and grinned to himself. This punk would have a tit if he knew what was going to happen.
Hurst nodded. “That’s it,” he said. “You leave those guys alone. We can get along without treading on their corns.
Dillon watched him go, and when the door had closed he stretched his neck and spat viciously into the brass spittoon by the desk.
The news that Myra knew that he wasn’t with Hurst the previous night infuriated him. He sat back in his chair and tried to reconstruct the scene between them. Myra was no sucker. She knew there was another woman. His brows came down. Just let her start something, he told himself. If she thought she could push him around, she’d got a surprise coming. Hurst and Myra. They both knew too much for his comfort. Maybe… He sat there thinking. Yeah, maybe… He’d have to watch those two. It looked like he’d have to do something.
His cold, sullen face became grimly set.
Myra waited until Dillon had left the apartment, then she began a systematic search. She knew Dillon had no head for addresses. Somewhere, she was sure, she would find a clue that would lead her to this broad. Her face hard and set and her hands impatient, she went carefully through Dillon’s wardrobe. She turned out every pocket, but she found nothing. She went through his drawers, careful not to disturb anything, but again she was unsuccessful.
She sat back on the bed thinking. This was getting her nowhere. He must have written the address down. She was certain of it. The only hope was he would be carrying it on him. That would make things difficult. She went once more to his compact room. Three soiled evening shirts caught her eye, hanging up on a peg. He’d been too lazy to throw them out for the wash.
On the cuff of one of them she found what she was looking for. Scribbled in pencil was an address—158 Sunset Avenue.
She stood there, holding the shirt in her hand, a cold fury sweeping over her. “You see, you two-timin’ bastard, this whore of yours is goin’ to get a shock.”
Putting the shirt carefully back in the cupboard, she went to her drawer and found her gun. It was a toy affair with a mother-o’-pearl handle, exceedingly unpleasant at close quarters. She put on her hat and coat and shoved the gun in her handbag. Then she stood hesitating. Maybe this wasn’t quite the job for a gun. A hard little smile reached her mouth. She took from Dillon’s drawer a length of solid rubber hose. She balanced it in her hand thoughtfully. Then, winding the thong round her wrist, she forced the hose up her sleeve.
Slamming the front door behind her, she took the elevator to the street level. A yellow taxi shot to the kerb and she nodded briefly. “Sunset Avenue,” she said. “An’ flog your horse.”
The taxi jerked away. The driver said, “This is a hell of a town. I’ve never run into any guy who ain’t in a hurry.”
Myra wasn’t in the mood to talk. She said nothing.
The taxi-driver studied her in the mirror thought she was easy on the eye, and let it go at that.
Sunset Avenue was at the far end of the town. It took them a good half-hour’s run to make it. The driver suddenly crammed on his brakes. “Here it is, lady: what number jer want?”
Myra said, “Stop here… this’ll do.” She got out of the cab and paid him off. Then she walked slowly down the Avenue looking for 158. Her fury was smouldering by the time she found it. The place was a neat little villa standing in a fair-size garden. A place like this would cost money to keep up, she thought, and for a moment she hesitated. Maybe she had made a mistake. This place might be where one of Dillon’s business associates hung out. Her step faltered. Then she thought she’d come this far, it wouldn’t take long to check it up.
She walked up the crazy pavement and rang on the bell. She stood waiting, uncertain of herself. The door jerked open and Fanquist gaped at her.
It was certainly a shock to Myra. She saw it in a flash. Dillon was the rich guy who was staking this floosie to a good time.
She said quietly, “Hello. I bet this is a surprise.”
Fanquist got her nerve back. She said, “My Gawd, it’s the kid again! What the hell you doin’ here?”
Myra said, “Dillon told me you had moved, so I thought I’d look you up.”
“Dillon told you?” Fanquist’s eyes hardened.
Myra nodded. “Sure. May I come in? I’d love to look around.”
Fanquist stood squarely in the doorway. She said in a hard voice, “Scram… go on, get to hell out of here!”
Myra could see two men wandering down the street. She had to get inside quick. Still keeping a smile on her face, she said, “Why, Fan, that ain’t the way to talk. I gotta message for you.” She opened her bag casually. Fanquist watched her, a puzzled look on her face. She wondered what the hell all this was leading to.
Myra took the gun out of her bag and showed it to Fanquist. “Get inside quick, you bow-legged street pushover,” she said with a rush.
Fanquist’s eyes opened very wide, and she went white under her rouge. She took a step back, and Myra stepped in and shut the door.
A big living-room opened out from the hall, and Myra drove Fanquist in there. The room was expensively furnished.
Myra said between her teeth, “So this is the love-nest, is it?”
Fanquist stammered, “You’re going to be sorry for this…. Wait until he hears about it.”
“Sit down, you bitch,” Myra said. “I’ve got a lot to talk to you about.”
Fanquist said harshly, “You ain’t throwin’ a scare into me. You better get out an’ get out quick.”