Dead Stay Dumb

through her. She wanted him. She wanted him to take her brutally, to bruise her in the taking of her.

     They had been two nights on the journey, moving cautiously forward towards Kansas City. She had spent two nights of sick disappointment with him. He had treated her coldly, sharing the same room with her, but not touching her.

     Dillon disturbed her thoughts abruptly. “This is it,” he said.

     They stopped outside the dress shop. The place was in gloomy darkness.

     “This joint is good,” Dillon said, speaking out of the side of his mouth. “All the boys come here.”

     He located a bell-push at the top of the door and pressed. They could hear the sharp whir somewhere at the back of the building. They waited there in the rain like statues.

     Miss Benbow came and opened the shop door herself. She blocked the entrance with her great body. “My!” she said. “Ain't you made a mistake?”

     Dillon said distinctly, “It's mighty hot round here. I guess it's cooler inside.”

     Miss Benbow looked at them suspiciously. “Where you from?” she snapped.

     Dillon growled, “Suppose we come in an' talk? I'm gettin' wet.”

     The negress hesitated, then stepped to one side. “Come in,” she said.

     They stepped into the dark shop and waited in the darkness until Miss Benbow had shot the bolt, then she turned on the electric light, and they blinked at her.

     “Now then,” she said suspiciously, “where you from?”

     “Plattsville,” Dillon said.

     “Who sent you here?”

     Dillon said softly, “You heard of a guy called Nelson?”

     Miss Benbow nodded. “Sure,” she said, “I knew Nelson.”

     Dillon pushed his hat back. “Okay: I toted a rod for Nelson. I'm Dillon.”

     Miss Benbow moved uneasily. “I guess most of Nelson's boys are dead,” she said.

     “This one ain't.” Dillon grinned mirthlessly. “We want a room an' some grub.”

     Miss Benbow hesitated, then she said, “Fifty bucks a day.”

     Myra said, “For Gawd's sake... this ain't the Belmont Plaza.”

     Dillon broke in sharply. “Shut up! We're floppin' in this joint... who's payin', anyway?”

     “Let's see your money.” Miss Benbow held out her hand. There was a cold look in her eyes.

     Dillon grinned wolfishly. He pulled out his roll and let Miss Benbow feast her eyes on it. She drew her thick lips off her teeth. There was plenty of grease in that smile of hers. “Like the look of that?” he said.

     Miss Benbow said, “You can have a room all right. I guess I want a week's rent now, mister.” Her voice was well shot with oil.

     Dillon stripped some notes off the roll and slung them on the table. Miss Benbow picked up the money and counted it carefully. Then she jerked her head. “I'll take you up,” she said.

     They followed her up a narrow stairway to a big landing that could have been a lot cleaner. There were four doors leading on to the landing. She plodded over to the farthest one and unlocked it.

     “How's this?” she said.

     The room was big. Two beds divided by a small table faced the window. The carpet was thick, and the chairs overstuffed. It looked good to Myra after Butch's shack.

     “This'll do fine,” she said.

     Miss Benbow shot her a contemptuous look. Her eyes rolled inquiringly at Dillon.

     “Yeah,” Dillon said, dumping the suitcases down. “What about some chuck? My belly's flappin'.”

     Miss Benbow put another pound of grease in her smile. She could well afford to feed these two. “I'll send somethin' up right away,” she said, “you bet.”

     When she had pulled the door to after her Myra shot a look at Dillon. “You're playin' a fancy hand, ain't you?” she said. “Fifty bucks a day! That's some dough.”

     “Pipe down,” Dillon said coldly. He gave her a hard look. “Can't you use your head? This joint means a lot to me. I can meet the big shots here.... I gotta hunch I can pull somethin' big... ain't that worth payin' for?”

     He tossed his fedora on a hook on the door and walked over to Myra. They looked at each other.

     “I've been out of this game too long,” he said, speaking very slowly, choosing his words. “I gotta get an in before I get goin'.”

     Myra put her hand on his sleeve. “You're goin' to be the biggest shot of them all.” There was a soft yielding tone in her voice.

     Dillon curled his lip. “Yeah?” he said. “Who says?”

     Her face, no longer the face of an adult child, was hard with determination to the point of ruthlessness. “I say so. You're goin' to show all these little mobsters just where they get off. You're gonna think an' act big. No one must get in your way... you understand that? No one must get in your way.” She spoke slowly, emphasizing every word.

     Dillon reached out and gripped her arms. His steel-like fingers bit into her muscles and she suddenly went weak inside for him. “You got it right the first time,” he said. “And you're trailin' along right behind me.” He paused, then went on, “Thought of the cops?”

     She laughed at him. “What did Nelson do with the cops? He'd enough dough to straighten things. Didn't he get protection? Okay, that's what you're goin' to get.”

     Dillon shook his head wisely. “Sure he got protection—an' look at him now. They dug twenty-four slugs outta that guy when they put him on the slab.”

     “G-men,” Myra said tersely. “You ain't got any worry. You keep clear of the G-men an' you'll be okay.”

     Yeah I'll keep clear of the G-men.” There was a hard note of menace in his voice.

     A knock sounded on the door. They stiffened, then Dillon said crossly, “Relax, can't you?” He went over to the door and jerked it open.

     A tall, thin girl, with heavily rouged cheeks, was standing there holding a large tray, covered with a cloth. “Miss Benbow sent this up.” She had a nasal whine that put Myra's teeth on edge.

     Dillon stood back and let her in. Myra looked her over. The girl glanced at Dillon wide-eyed, and put down the tray. She again looked at Dillon, a sly side-look with a strong line of “come hither” in it. She went out, swinging her hips a little.

     Dillon kicked the door shut. “I guess that street pushover thinks she's good,” he said.

     Myra took the cloth off the tray. “I guess dames don't mean much to you,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady.

     Dillon shrugged. “The reason why a dame don't mean a thing is because they toss it in your face. The way most of 'em carry on, you'd think it wore out.”

     Myra put her hands on the table and examined her nails.

     She said, without looking up at him, “They could give a guy like you a pretty good time.”

     Dillon turned and stared at her. “That's what you think,” he said, a faint sneer on his mouth. “I think different.”

     He sat down at the table and began to eat hungrily.

     Across the landing, behind a locked door, Roxy was having breakfast. The Kansas City Times was propped up against the coffee-pot, and he read it carefully as he ate.

     Fanquist still lay in bed, her flaxen hair spread out on the pillow, a cigarette in her lips. She watched Roxy sleepily.