Roxy pushed his chair away and nodded Jo Myra. “We'll be seein' you.”
Fanquist turned to Dillon and gave him one of her 'any-time-you-say-so' smiles.
“Bye, big boy,” she said. “Don't let this babe get too many big ideas.”
Dillon grunted.
Myra watched them go. “That little curdle-puss thinks she's smart,” she said furiously. “She'd better keep her claws off you.”
Dillon sat back. “You've got a lot to worry about, ain't you?” he sneered.
Hurst snapped his fingers, calling the waiter. He paid his check and got up. Myra watched him walk across the room and go into the street. Two tough-looking birds, sitting by the door, got up and followed him. Through the doorway she saw them get into a big powerful car and drive off.
Dillon said, “That guy might get me somewhere.”
Myra said softly, “You don't need guys like that. You can get sky-high playin' solo.”
“Yeah?” Dillon sneered. “Suppose you get wise to yourself. We ain't nobody here. Look how that Federal dick shoved me around. Think we're goin' to get anywhere without an in? Not a chance. You keep your trap shut an' let me do the thinkin'. When I run outta ideas I'll give you a buzz. An' believe me, it'll take a long time before I'm screwy enough to take ideas from a dope like you.”
Myra flushed. Her eyes grew stormy, but she didn't start anything. She said, “Maybe a smart lie-down like that Fanquist moll could give you ideas.”
Dillon stared at her. “Your mind runs on one track,” he said. “She don't cut meat with me. You dames are all alike, ain't you? There's nothin' new about you, is there? I've seen it all before... so what the hell?”
Myra thought savagely, “I'll get under his skin one day. I'll fix him.”
Dillon got up. “I'm takin' some air,” he said. “This line of talk gives me a pain in my tail.”
She followed him into the street. The sun was hot, and they walked along, keeping in the shade.
Dillon said, “I gotta get me a car—I guess I'll get it now.”
“A car?” Myra was startled. “Where's the dough comin' from?”
“Suppose you keep your mind on your bed and your nose outta this?” Dillon snarled at her.
Off the main street they found a large garage with a dilapidated showroom, full of second-hand cars. A tall, thin guy, with a bobbing Adam's apple, came out and nodded to them.
“I'm pleased to meet you,” he said. “Mabley's the name, an' if you're lookin' for a good bus you've come to the right joint.”
Dillon said, “We're lookin', brother, but maybe we won't buy, then, maybe, if we find somethin' good an' cheap, we will.”
Mabley put his thumbs in his trousers pockets and raised himself on his toes. “That's fair enough, mister,” he said. “You look around.” He leant up against the wall and watched them.
Dillon spotted the car right away. It was a big, shabby-looking Packard standing in a corner by itself. It was the only car of the lot that looked as if it could hit a wall at sixty and not dent its fenders.
He didn't go over to it at once, but made a pretence of looking at the others first. Myra followed him around, not saying anything. She left it to him. At last he walked over to the Packard and examined it carefully. He opened the door and got in. The springs were good.
Mabley came over and dusted off the hood with a flick here and there. “You like this one, I bet,” he said.
Dillon got out of the car and leant against the fender. “Maybe we could use it.”
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?”
