Roxy nodded. “Yeah, he’s a big shot all right.”
Myra said, “Maybe you know him?”
Roxy looked blank. “Hey!” he said. “What you think? I said this guy was a big shot. He don’t mix with guys like you an’ me.”
Fanquist said in her slow drawl, “Maybe the kid fancies her chance.”
Myra said, “Why not? He’s just a guy, ain’t he?”
Fanquist sneered. “Hurst don’t play with kids,” she said. “When that guy takes a woman he takes a woman.”
Myra pushed back her chair. “I’ll show you how I take a guy like that,” she said.
Roxy said quickly, “Don’t you start anythin’ like that. Hurst’s a tough bird. He don’t like stunts like that.”
Myra paused. “I’m interested in that guy,” she said.
“You’re interested because he’s got somewhere. But the trouble with those guys is they don’t stay that way long.”
“No?”
“No. Hurst won’t stay much longer. He’s been in the racket too long.”
Myra took a sip from her glass. Her eyes were cloudy. “He looks big enough to take care of himself,” she said.
Roxy shook his head. “You wait an’ see. Little Ernie’s gunnin’ for him. An’ Little Ernie’ll get him all right.”
Myra moved restlessly. “Maybe he’ll get Little Ernie first,” she suggested.
“You ain’t got the lowdown to this burg.” Roxy spun his glass between his finger and thumb. “Hurst runs the Automatic racket. He’s been makin’ a pile of dough for some time. Little Ernie runs the Cat shops. He’s in a big way too. That’s the set-up. For years these guys ain’t overlapped. They’ve made their pile outta their rackets an’ kept to their side of the town. These guys are never contented, see? Maybe they pick up a couple of million bucks a year. Good money? Not to these guys. They want more. They’ve got big overheads. They’ve got a long list of retainers to pay off. So they always want more.”
Myra said softly, “A couple of million bucks?”
Roxy nodded. “Sure, that ain’t so much to guys like that,” he said. “Hurst is startin’ somethin’. He’s expandin’. He’s pushin’ into Little Ernie’s territory. That wop won’t stand for that. Hurst says it’s okay. Automatics can’t hurt Little Ernie’s Cat «hops. So he pushes ahead.” Roxy shrugged. “One day, mighty soon, Hurst’s goin’ to get a handful of slugs tossed into his guts. Then his million bucks ain’t goin’ to mean a thing.”
Myra lit a cigarette. “Maybe he’ll get the wop first,” she said.
“Yeah, maybe he will.”
Fanquist said, “So you ain’t taking Hurst after all?”
Myra shook her head. “I’ll take him a little later on,” she said.
Fanquist got up. “I guess we’d better get goin’,” she said to Roxy. “I gotta job of work to do.”
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
