by me an’ like it.”
“What’s that to me?” Roxy asked cautiously.
Dillon looked at him hard. “The whole town’d be too big for me to handle. I gotta have a guy I could trust. You’d get in on this on the ground floor.”
Roxy said, “Maybe Hurst wouldn’t stand for it.”
Dillon got up and walked to the door. He opened it and glanced outside, then he came back and put his head close to Roxy’s. “Maybe what Hurst says won’t count any more.”
Roxy looked up into his black eyes. He shifted uneasily at the malevolence there. He hastily turned his eyes, and studied the grey ash of his cigar. “Got the mob at the back of you?” he asked.
Dillon nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Those guys out there see me all the time. I tell ’em to do this an’ that an’ they do it. Okay. When the time comes, an’ Hurst fades away, those guys ain’t asking questions. They’ll just go on takin’ orders from me… get it?”
Roxy thought a little, then he said, “You’ve got somethin’ there.”
Dillon nodded. “Yeah, I guess I got somethin’ there all right.”
Roxy said, “I bet Myra thinks that’s a good stunt.”
Dillon scowled. “That dame don’t count,” he said coldly. “She’s gettin’ big ideas, an’ she’s goin’ to get a surprise one of these days.”
Roxy looked startled. “I like Myra,” he mumbled. “She’s got what it takes.”
Dillon shrugged, and stood up. “When I’m ready, I’ll tell you,” he said. “Can I count on you?”
Roxy said, “Sure, you can count me in. I’ve been waiting for a break like this for some time. I guess I was too cautious when I was runnin’ around with Fan. You seen her, by the way?”
Dillon shot him a quick, suspicious glance. “I ain’t seen her,” he said.
Roxy sat down on the edge of the table. “Listen, Bud,” he said evenly. “Don’t let’s start this game with a double-cross. I ain’t sore you pinched Fan from me. I miss her just like I’d miss a deck of cards I got used to, but that’s all.”
Dillon clenched his fists. His eyes gleamed at Roxy. “You been checkin’ up on me?” he said, a gritty sound in his voice.
Roxy said hastily, “Hell! I wouldn’t do a thing like that. I just heard—”
Dillon said, “It’d better get no further. I don’t want that little bag Myra gettin’ ideas about Fan.”
Roxy shook his head. “She ain’t dumb,” he said thoughtfully. “You watch her. She’ll get on to it.”
Dillon began pacing the small office. “I’m gettin rattled with that dame. I guess she’s about washed up with me. She’ll have to get to hell out of it.”
Roxy touched the ash off his cigar into the tray. “You’ll have a little trouble,” he said. “I’d be careful how you handle that bird.”
Dillon shot him another cold look. “I can handle her,” he said. “You keep your nose clean on this. Anyway, suppose you get to work an’ wise yourself up on Little Ernie’s territory? What I want is a list of all the smalltime stores, hotels an’ suchlike who could take on automatic machine. You walk round an’ take a look at the ground. You’re on the pay-roll now, so you might as well get used to a little work.”
Roxy grinned. “I get it,” he said. “What you pay in’?”
“I’ll give you a couple of hundred bucks an’ ten per cent on the take when we get goin’.”
Roxy shrugged his shoulders. “I guess you’re right about gettin’ rid of the big shots. I could do with a little of their share.”
When he had gone, Dillon went over to the telephone and rang Fanquist. Her slow drawl floated to his ear. “Listen, baby,” he said, speaking close to the mouthpiece, “I’ve just had a word with Roxy. He knows, but that guy is shootin’ on the level. I’ve fixed him up to work for me, an’ he ain’t goin’ to start trouble.”
Fanquist started her old beef. “When are we really goin’ to get together? I’m sick of this jumpin’-in-an’-out- of-bed stunt of yours.”
Dillon said sharply, “It ain’t time yet. Myra wants handlin’.”
Fanquist said, “Why the hell don’t you toss that piece of ass out on her can?” Her voice was suddenly strident and furious.
“I tell you it ain’t time for that yet,” Dillon snarled. “Suppose you leave this to me?”
“Am I seein’ you today?”
Dillon looked round his office, a harassed expression on his face. “You gotta have patience—” he began.
“That’s another tune I’m getting sick of,” Fanquist said bitterly. “You make me tired. I guess I’m a sucker to stand for it. All right, if that’s the way you feel I guess you can stay away.” She hung up.
Dillon slammed the receiver down on the prong and mopped his face with his handkerchief. Women were hell, he thought. Before Myra had come along and he had started fooling with her, he just kicked women around; now they had him crawling. What the hell had come over him?
The door opened and Hurst walked in. For a moment Dillon was startled. Hurst never came to this place. He got to his feet. Hurst looked at him thoughtfully, then nodded. He walked over to a chair and sat down. “I was passing, so I thought I’d look in and hear how things were going,” he said.
Dillon sat down. “They’re all right.”
“No trouble?”
Dillon shook his head. He gave a bland smile. “Why, no, Mr. Hurst, I guess things are goin’ mighty smooth just now.”
Was Hurst looking at him in an odd way, or was he imagining things?
Hurst said abruptly, “What’s wrong with your girlfriend?”
Dillon raised his eyes. A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Myra? I don’t get it.”
Hurst shrugged. “She pulled me from a game last night asking where you were.”
Dillon suddenly went cold. Aw, she’s always like that if I’m a shade late,” he said carelessly. “I’ll tell her not to worry you.”
Hurst got to his feet. “That’s okay,” he said. “I just wondered.” He moved to the door. With the handle in his hand, he glanced back over his shoulder. “You ain’t causin’ Little Ernie any worries?”
Dillon knew now why he had come in. Since Little Ernie had sent two gunmen after him, Hurst was scared sick of any other trouble starting.
Dillon shook his head. “We’re leavin’ em alone,” he said quietly, and grinned to himself. This punk would have a tit if he knew what was going to happen.
Hurst nodded. “That’s it,” he said. “You leave those guys alone. We can get along without treading on their corns.
Dillon watched him go, and when the door had closed he stretched his neck and spat viciously into the brass spittoon by the desk.
The news that Myra knew that he wasn’t with Hurst the previous night infuriated him. He sat back in his chair and tried to reconstruct the scene between them. Myra was no sucker. She knew there was another woman. His brows came down. Just let her start something, he told himself. If she thought she could push him around, she’d got a surprise coming. Hurst and Myra. They both knew too much for his comfort. Maybe… He sat there thinking. Yeah, maybe… He’d have to watch those two. It looked like he’d have to do something.
His cold, sullen face became grimly set.
Myra waited until Dillon had left the apartment, then she began a systematic search. She knew Dillon had no head for addresses. Somewhere, she was sure, she would find a clue that would lead her to this broad. Her face hard and set and her hands impatient, she went carefully through Dillon’s wardrobe. She turned out every pocket, but she found nothing. She went through his drawers, careful not to disturb anything, but again she was unsuccessful.
She sat back on the bed thinking. This was getting her nowhere. He must have written the address down. She was certain of it. The only hope was he would be carrying it on him. That would make things difficult. She went once more to his compact room. Three soiled evening shirts caught her eye, hanging up on a peg. He’d been too lazy to throw them out for the wash.
On the cuff of one of them she found what she was looking for. Scribbled in pencil was an address—158 Sunset Avenue.
She stood there, holding the shirt in her hand, a cold fury sweeping over her. “You see, you two-timin’
