Hank scratched his head. “How the hell should I know what's the matter with her?” he said impatiently. “She ain't wearin' the bustle wrong?”
George shook his head. “Not a chance,” he said gloomily. “Maybe we'd get married if it was like that.”
“Then what's biting you?”
“She keeps away from me now... she's cooled off. Now what you think's come over her?”
Hank said with a sudden rush of inspiration, “Suppose you try this soap they're always croakin' about.”
George scowled. “Don't you start to rib me,” he said coldly. “I guess it's the dough that's the trouble. Edie was always keen to have dough. I ain't had a raise for two years now. I guess that's what's makin' her sore.”
Hank said, “It'd be nice to own a joint like this, wouldn't it?” He wandered over to the cash register and rang up “No Sale”. He peered into the drawer, poking the money round with his finger. “I figger we take five hundred bucks a day here.”
“There's more'n that in the can,” George said. “We had a few odd bills settled today.”
“You think it out. I guess a joint like this would be mighty nice to own.”
George nodded. “You're right,” he said.
Outside, a car pulled up. The two jumped to their feet and ran out. The big shabby Packard was parked near the gas-pumps.
Dillon got out. “Any more of you guys inside?” he asked.
The two looked at him in surprise. “Just the two of us,” George said. “We'll take care of the bus all right.”
Dillon raised his hands a little. He was holding the two guns. “Grab some air,” he said viciously, “and get inside.”
The two attendants raised their hands. George went a little wobbly at the knees. He said, “Don't let that gun off, mister.”
“Get inside!” Dillon snapped. “Jump to it!” He backed them into the office. “Stand over there by the wall, and keep your traps shut.”
Myra came in and went over to the register. She rang it open and began scooping the money into a small bag. “Watch closely, boys,” she said. “You're seein' history bein' made.”
Dillon said, “Much there?”
Myra nodded. “It's worth while.” She went through the two drawers and then slammed them to. “Maybe they've got a can round here.”
Dillon said, “Where's the safe?”
Hank nodded miserably. “It's behind the desk,” he said.
“Okay, get it open.”
George unlocked the battered safe, and Myra walked over and peered inside. She scooped up a small wad of notes, pulled two or three ledgers out of the way, and glanced behind them. She straightened up. “That's the lot,” she said.
Dillon went round to the telephone and jerked it away from its cable. “I don't want you boys to start yellin' just yet. We wantta get home safe, see?” He was feeling mighty pleased.
Myra looked them over. “I guess this is your first stick-up?” she said.
George mumbled, “Sure.”
“You're havin' the breaks.” She took a cigarette from her handbag and paused to light it. “You're in swell company. Know who this is?” She jerked her head towards Dillon. “I bet you don't. That guy set fire to the middle west. He's the original twenty-five-minute egg. There'll come a time when you'll tell your grand-kids how you were stuck up by this guy. I sure envy you boys; you gotta story to blow.”
Dillon said, “Get goin', you big-mouthed doll.”
She walked over to the door and Dillon crowded her into the darkness outside. The two attendants stood against the wall, their hands held high.
The Packard shot away and ripped into the darkness. Dillon shoved his gun away. “Suppose you keep that trap of yours shut?” he said from the blackness.
“You ain't got to worry... I'm buildin' you up.”
“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
