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?”
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
