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.”
Dillon said, “We're as good as the rest of the punks in this dump.” The cold light in his eyes escaped Roxy.
Roxy rambled on: “You ain't met the big shots yet,” he said. “I've been in the racket for ten years, an' I'm glad not to know them, see? The big shots stick out, an' they're the first to get their ears slapped down. You gotta get protection, an' you've gotta pay for it, if you're a big shot. You get G-heat smeared over you. Look at Floyd an' Bailey an' Nash or any of 'em, They're on the nun an' they'll keep on the run. I ain't got anythin' to worry about, I'm smart.” Again he missed the look in Dillon's eyes.
The telephone whirred suddenly, startling them. Roxy got off the couch and took the receiver off the cradle. A husky voice came over the wire. “There're a couple of hard-lookin' guys casin' the street. I guess they're Feds. They're headin' your way.”
Roxy said, “Thanks, pal,” and put the receiver back. He looked at the other two. “You better park your rods,” he said quietly. “A couple of Federal dicks are on their way up.”
Dillon got to his feet quickly and silently. “They got nothin' on me,” he said.
Roxy pulled his coat away from his shoulder-holster and undid the buckle. He slipped off the harness. “If you got a rod, you better park it,” he said; “these guys get tough if they catch you toting a gun.”
Myra said in a little flurry of panic, “Where can we hide them?”
Roxy walked over to the fireplace and knelt down. He pushed the tiled hearth back like a drawer and dropped his gun into the narrow hollow beneath. “The old girl's got this in every room. Use it.”
Dillon left the room and went to his apartment. He collected his two guns and the Thompson and stowed them away. He came back silently. “What's the idea?” he snarled. “I thought this place was okay?”
Roxy nodded. “Sure it's okay. You can't keep the Feds outta any place. The bulls leave it alone, but not the Feds. You ain't wanted by no G-man, are you?” There was sharp anxiety in his voice.
Dillon didn't say anything. He stood by the table, a little tense. With eyes like chips of ice he stared at Roxy. The expression in his eyes quite startled Roxy.
Myra broke in. “I guess not,” she said.
Roxy relaxed. “Okay, just you go on drinkin' an' say nothin'. I'll do the talkin' if there's any talkin' to be done.”
“Hell!” Dillon said savagely. “That black cow's goin' to lose some of her rent. She's nuts thinkin' I'm payin' all that dough, when the Feds can come in here.”
Roxy nodded his head. “Sure,” he said. “I guess she's been stringin' you along. You fix her. It's been comin' to her for a long time.”
Suddenly they heard a commotion going on downstairs. They stiffened involuntarily. “Here they come,” Roxy said, putting his feet up on the couch. “Now don't let those guys stampede you. They'll try all right.”
They could hear Miss Benbow protesting on the stairs. They, heard her say, “You dicks ain't got anythin' on me. You can't come bustin' in like this. I tell you this is a respectable house.”
Someone said in a gritty voice. “Take it easy, Coon, we're just lookin' the place over.”
A heavy step sounded outside then the door was kicked open. The three in the room turned their heads and looked. Dillon was cool, but Myra's nerves were jumpy. Two big men stood in the doorway, their eyes watchful. Dillon thought they looked a couple of real tough birds.
“Hello, boys,” Roxy said from the couch. He kept his hands in his lap. “I guess you ain't lookin' for me?”
One of them wandered into the room, leaving the other by the door. He said. “Get up when you talk to me.”
Roxy got up quickly and took off his hat. He looked hard at the Federal and grinned a little uneasily. “Why, if it ain't Mr. Strawn,” he said. “Ain't seen you for a long time.”
Strawn went over to him and patted his pockets. “Where's your rod?” he asked.
Roxy shrugged his shoulders. “You got me wrong,” he said. “I don't tote a rod. You know me, boss; I wouldn't do a thing like that.”
Strawn said, “That line don't get you nowhere, so lay off it.”
He looked at Dillon. Then he glanced over to the other dick. “Seen this monkey before?” he asked.
The other dick shook his head.
Strawn walked over to Dillon. “Who're you an' what you doin' around here?”
Dillon looked at him impassively. “Just havin' a drink with a pal of mine,” he said. “What's wrong with
