hands digging into her flesh.
He said at last, “Can't you watch your feet?” He did not take his hands away, but shifted them a little so that they were just under her breasts.
She said nothing. His touch paralysed her. The fire that had burnt inside her for him blazed up so that she could only lean limply against him, willing him to stay there.
He suddenly took his hands away and took a step from her. “Come on up, for God's sake,” he said thickly. “You goin' to stand there all night?”
They moved on again. He kept just one step ahead of her. She could feel the heat from his body, and she could hear his breath coming jerkily.
In the apartment he flicked on the light. She could see his face glistening, and a wild look she had not seen before in his eyes. She leant against the wall, her mouth a little slack, looking at him through half-closed eyes.
They stood facing each other, then without moving she said, “Now...”
Dillon passed his tongue over his lips. She could see the urge in him struggling with his caution. Moving forward, she passed close to him and sat on the bed. She put her hands behind her and leant back.
The blood slowly mounted to his face until it was congested. She saw his mouth twist and she dropped back, flat across the bed. He came towards her and, reaching out, he gripped the neckband of her dress, savagely ripping the flimsy stuff from her.
Triumphantly she received him, and gave herself to his ruthless and urgent possession.
PART THREE
Outside, the rain beat on the windows. Below, the streets were empty and glistening in the yellow lights of the street lamps.
Myra paced the room restlessly, a cigarette in her mouth. No word from Dillon. She looked impatiently at the clock. Then she turned and, pulling back the curtain, looked into the empty street.
Her mind was alive with doubts. She went over to the telephone, lifted the receiver, hesitated, then put it back on its cradle. Where the hell was Dillon? she kept asking herself. He said he'd be there at nine o'clock; it was just after eleven.
She walked into her bedroom and switched on the table-light. The room was well furnished, looking rather like a movie set. She stood looking round, seeing nothing.
Six months had gone by since the day they had got Hurst out of a jam. Six months of unrest and feverish activity. Hurst had paid them back for what they had done. Dillon was his right-hand man now. They were no longer petty gangsters. They were in the money now. Dillon's job was to see Hurst's racket ran smooth. He had a tough mob to work for him, while Hurst was content to sit in the background and collect the money as it rolled in.
Hurst's racket was this. He manufactured automatic machines of every description. He had gambling machines, moving-picture machines of a doubtful kind, food machines, cigarette machines and even prophylactic machines. On the face of it, a good sound business. It was where he put the machines that made his game a racket.
His mob went round with a truck planting the machines on small shopkeepers, or hotels, apartment houses and suchlike. These people were forced to take them. Those foolish enough to resist were either beaten up or had their windows smashed. They got no rake-off from the machines and Hurst had no over-heads. He sent men round weekly to clear the money, and he made a big thing out of it. His gambling machines were foolproof. Foolproof for Hurst. A sucker simply could not win anything from them, but still they tried. Hurst had over six thousand automatic machines in operation.
It was Myra who suggested the schools. Hurst was nervous that there would be a row, but Myra had planned carefully. Nearly every school had a favourite candy shop, and it was in the candy shop that the automatic was planted. They put a smut movie automatic and a gambling automatic, and the kids flogged all their candy money in these machines. It brought in a new and pretty big revenue.
Dillon kept all the shopkeepers on the jump. He had to find fresh fields to plant the automatics, and he had to supervise the collecting of the money Hurst gave him a ten per cent cut on what he turned in.
It was not quite the big job Dillon had planned but it was bringing them in fifteen hundred dollars a week. Also, Dillon was running a mob, and it was a mighty tough mob at that.
Myra had money to burn. She kept away from Dillon's headquarters, and lived the life of a rich business man's wife.
For six months Dillon had been coming back each night around nine o'clock, and they would go out some place and eat. And now there was no sign of him'.
She wondered if he'd run into trouble. After his one attempt to get rid of Hurst, Little Ernie had sunk in the background. Myra began to think maybe Dillon had got himself knocked off in a gun fight.
The bell whirred suddenly, making her start round.
She ran to the front door. Roxy was standing there, his black fedora tilted over his eyes, and his hands in his pockets.
Myra said, “Why, Roxy!” She was pleased to see him.
“H'yah, baby.” Roxy stood smiling at her. “Ain't seen you for a long time.”
“Come right in.” She stood aside to let him pass.
Roxy wandered in, his eyes roving round the room. He raised his eyebrows a little. “Swell joint you got here,” he observed.
“Do you like it?” Myra led him over to the leather couch.
“Sure, I think it's class. You two must be knockin' the berries off the bush all right.”
Myra nodded. “We get along,” she said. “And you, Roxy, how are you makin' out?”
Roxy shrugged. “About the same,” he said. “I'd like somethin' more steady, but I ain't moanin'.”
Myra said, “Maybe Dillon'd fix it for you.”
“You think he would?” Roxy sounded eager.
Myra nodded. “I guess he'd be glad to. I'll speak to him when he blows in.” The look of uncertainty came back.
“Ain't he around?” Roxy sounded disappointed. “I loped to see that guy.”
Myra shook her head. “I'm worried,” she said. “He ain't given me a buzz or nothin'.”
Roxy leant back. “Well, he'll be along... you see.”
Myra moved about the room. “What'll you drink, Roxy?” she asked.
“A rye if you've got it,” Roxy said. “You sure have moved up in the world.” He watched her mix the drinks, then he said casually, “You heard about Fan?”
Myra came over and gave him the rye. She shook her head. “No,” she said. “What's Fan been doin'?”
Roxy held the glass up to the light and looked at the liquor thoughtfully. “She pulled out about three weeks ago. Left me flat. I miss that dame.”
Myra raised her eyebrows. “What she want to do that for?” she asked.
“You know how it is. I guess we got along all right, but we just didn't think much of each other. She ran into some bird who'd got a lotta dough, and she joined up with him.”
Myra said, “Who's the bird?”
Roxy shook his head. “She didn't tell me that,” he said, stretching his legs out and looking at his feet. “Went off kind of mysteriously. Didn't even leave an address. She just said she'd found some guy who was goin' to stake her for a good time, and off she went.”
Outside they heard the front door click, and Dillon walked in. He stood in the doorway looking at Roxy, a little
