“Will you be along?”
“I guess so. Any other guys interested in Sankey?”
“There's Hank, he trains him, an' there's Al Morgan, who manages for him.”
“Tell 'em both to come. Not Sankey; he'd better keep out of it.”
Gurney said, “I'll take you along tonight.”
Dillon shook his head. “I'll be there,” he said; “you don't got to worry about me.”
He walked back behind the counter, leaving Gurney standing uncertain in the middle of the store. Then Gurney walked out into the bright sunlight. This guy Dillon got him beat. There was somethin' phoney about him. He was no hobo, he could tell that. This guy was used to handling men. He said a thing and expected the thing done. He scared Gurney a little.
He was so busy thinking about Dillon that he didn't see Myra walking down the street. Myra hastened her steps, but Gurney was already climbing into the car, and before she could call to him he had driven away.
Myra was quite pleased he hadn't seen her. She had taken some trouble in dressing. Her flowered dress had been washed and ironed. Maybe it had shrunk a shade, but that didn't worry her. She knew it showed off her figure. Her thick black hair glistened in the sunlight, and was dressed low in her neck. The seams of her imitation silk stockings were straight, and her shoes shone. She was going to have a look at Dillon.
She'd heard about Dillon the day he had moved in, but she had purposely waited until he had seen all the women in Plattsville. She thought it was time now to give him an eyeful. Walking down the street, she knew she was good. She knew the men turned their heads, and she guessed that she was going over big with this Dillon.
She walked into the empty store, clicking her heels sharply on the wooden floor. Purposely, she stood in the patch of sunlight flooding the doorway. She'd seen that trick worked before, and with her thin dress she knew she was showing plenty.
Dillon looked up. “I've seen it before,” he said, “it ain't anythin' new. Come out of the light.”
If he had struck her she couldn't have been more furious. Automatically she moved a few paces into the shadow, then she said, “What kind of a cheap crack do you think that is?”
Dillon shitted a wad of gum from one side of his mouth to the other. “What do you want?” he said.
“A real live salesman, ain't you?” she said, gripping her purse hard. “If you want to keep your job you gotta do better than that.”
Dillon said, “Skip it. I ain't listening to big-mouth talk from a kid with hot pants. Get what you want and blow.”
Myra took three quick steps forward and aimed a slap at Dillon's face. She was nearly sobbing with rage. Dillon reached up and caught her wrist. “Be your age,” he said; “you ain't in the movies.”
She stood there, helpless in his grip, loathing his hard eyes. “I'll tell my Pa about you,” was all she could say.
He threw her arm away from him, spinning her into the centre of the store. “Scram, I tell you,” he said.
She screamed at him: “You dirty sonofabitch! My Pa will bash you for this!”
Abe stood in the doorway, his eyes popping out of his head. “What's going on?” he asked.
Myra spun round. “You're crazy to have that bum in here. He's been insulting me—”
Dillon came round the counter with a quick shuffle. He took hold of Myra and ran her to the door, then he swung his arm and smacked her viciously across her buttocks, sending her skidding into the street. Myra didn't stop— she ran.
Abe tore his hair. “What the hell do you think you're doing?” he squeaked. “That's Butch Hogan's daughter. The old man'll raise the dead about this.”
Dillon came back into the store. “Forget it,” he said. “I'm about sick of these goddam bitches starin' at me. Maybe they'll leave me alone for a while.”
Abe, bursting with impotent fury, forgot his fear of Dillon. He spluttered, “An' what about my business? What are people goin' to say? They ain't comin' here to be roughed around. This is goin' to ruin me.”
Dillon pushed him away and walked into the kitchen. Abe followed him, still shouting.
“Aw, forget it,” Dillon snarled. “This ain't goin' to hurt your business. I bet that little chippy is as popular in this burg as a bad smell. This ain't goin' to get round the town. A kid like that ain't goin' to let on she's just had her fanny smacked.... Forget it.”
They all sat on Butch's verandah and waited for Dillon to come. The moon was just appearing above the black silhouetted trees, throwing sharp white beams on the windows of the house.
Upstairs, Myra crouched by the window, also waiting for Dillon. Her eyes, red with weeping, remained in a fixed stare on the road beneath her. Her whole being curled with hate. Her mind seethed.
Butch shifted a little in his chair. “Who the hell's this fella?” he asked suddenly, asking the same question that the others were pondering about in their minds.
“I don't know,” Gurney said. “Maybe he can get us outta this jam. I thought it might be worth tryin'.”
Hank said from the darkness: “Sankey's in a terrible state. He don't say anything, but just sits around an' broods. Franks's got him tied up.”
Out of the darkness Dillon came up the verandah steps. Even Myra, who had been watching the road, hadn't heard him or seen him.
The four men sat still, looking at him. Then Gurney said, “This is Dillon.”
Butch got to his feet. He moved round the small table, on which stood a bottle and glasses. He held out his hand. “So you're Dillon, the fight-fixer?” There was a faint sneer in his voice.
Dillon looked him over, looked at his hand and ignored it.
Butch moved his great paw impatiently. “Gimme your hand,” he said. “I wantta see what kind of a guy you are.”
A gleam came into Dillon's eyes. He put his hand in Butch's. Then Butch squeezed. The tremendous muscles of his forearm swelled as he put all his strength into a crushing grip. The sweat suddenly jumped out of Dillon's face. He shifted his feet, then swung a punch at Butch with his left, coming up and hitting. Butch in his thick throat. It thumped into Butch like a cleaver into beef. Butch reeled back, making a croaking sound. Gurney sprang to his feet and saved him from going over.
Dillon stood flexing his ringers. “That's the kind of a guy I am,” he said evenly.
Butch put his fingers to his throat. He sat down a little heavily. No one had hit him so hard since he left the resin. He said, when he got his breath, “This guy's okay, he can punch.”
Dillon came a little nearer. “Suppose we get inside where I can see you.”
They went inside without a word. Dillon stood by the window. He said, “Sit down.”
Gurney said, “There's some booze outside, want any?”
Dillon looked at him. “I don't use it. Forget it! This is important. Franks has got your boy on the run. You're all backing Sankey for a win. Sankey ain't goin' to win unless Franks is so goddam bad that a child could push him around. That right?”
Gurney nodded. “I guess that's about it.”
“Any of you guys got any dough?”
They looked at Morgan, a thin, cruel-faced little man who looked like a jock. He said, “Maybe I could find some.”
“I'll fix this fight for five hundred bucks,” Dillon said. A little sigh went round the room. Gurney shook his head. “That's too much,” he said.
Dillon rubbed the back of his neck. “You mugs dumb?” he said. “I said I'd fix this fight, and I mean fix it. Your man'll win You can back him for any money You can't lose.”
Morgan leant forward. “I guess I'd like to know just who you are, mister,” he said.
