Dillon growled, “Suppose we come in an' talk? I'm gettin' wet.”
The negress hesitated, then stepped to one side. “Come in,” she said.
They stepped into the dark shop and waited in the darkness until Miss Benbow had shot the bolt, then she turned on the electric light, and they blinked at her.
“Now then,” she said suspiciously, “where you from?”
“Plattsville,” Dillon said.
“Who sent you here?”
Dillon said softly, “You heard of a guy called Nelson?”
Miss Benbow nodded. “Sure,” she said, “I knew Nelson.”
Dillon pushed his hat back. “Okay: I toted a rod for Nelson. I'm Dillon.”
Miss Benbow moved uneasily. “I guess most of Nelson's boys are dead,” she said.
“This one ain't.” Dillon grinned mirthlessly. “We want a room an' some grub.”
Miss Benbow hesitated, then she said, “Fifty bucks a day.”
Myra said, “For Gawd's sake... this ain't the Belmont Plaza.”
Dillon broke in sharply. “Shut up! We're floppin' in this joint... who's payin', anyway?”
“Let's see your money.” Miss Benbow held out her hand. There was a cold look in her eyes.
Dillon grinned wolfishly. He pulled out his roll and let Miss Benbow feast her eyes on it. She drew her thick lips off her teeth. There was plenty of grease in that smile of hers. “Like the look of that?” he said.
Miss Benbow said, “You can have a room all right. I guess I want a week's rent now, mister.” Her voice was well shot with oil.
Dillon stripped some notes off the roll and slung them on the table. Miss Benbow picked up the money and counted it carefully. Then she jerked her head. “I'll take you up,” she said.
They followed her up a narrow stairway to a big landing that could have been a lot cleaner. There were four doors leading on to the landing. She plodded over to the farthest one and unlocked it.
“How's this?” she said.
The room was big. Two beds divided by a small table faced the window. The carpet was thick, and the chairs overstuffed. It looked good to Myra after Butch's shack.
“This'll do fine,” she said.
Miss Benbow shot her a contemptuous look. Her eyes rolled inquiringly at Dillon.
“Yeah,” Dillon said, dumping the suitcases down. “What about some chuck? My belly's flappin'.”
Miss Benbow put another pound of grease in her smile. She could well afford to feed these two. “I'll send somethin' up right away,” she said, “you bet.”
When she had pulled the door to after her Myra shot a look at Dillon. “You're playin' a fancy hand, ain't you?” she said. “Fifty bucks a day! That's some dough.”
“Pipe down,” Dillon said coldly. He gave her a hard look. “Can't you use your head? This joint means a lot to me. I can meet the big shots here.... I gotta hunch I can pull somethin' big... ain't that worth payin' for?”
He tossed his fedora on a hook on the door and walked over to Myra. They looked at each other.
“I've been out of this game too long,” he said, speaking very slowly, choosing his words. “I gotta get an in before I get goin'.”
Myra put her hand on his sleeve. “You're goin' to be the biggest shot of them all.” There was a soft yielding tone in her voice.
Dillon curled his lip. “Yeah?” he said. “Who says?”
Her face, no longer the face of an adult child, was hard with determination to the point of ruthlessness. “I say so. You're goin' to show all these little mobsters just where they get off. You're gonna think an' act big. No one must get in your way... you understand that? No one must get in your way.” She spoke slowly, emphasizing every word.
Dillon reached out and gripped her arms. His steel-like fingers bit into her muscles and she suddenly went weak inside for him. “You got it right the first time,” he said. “And you're trailin' along right behind me.” He paused, then went on, “Thought of the cops?”
She laughed at him. “What did Nelson do with the cops? He'd enough dough to straighten things. Didn't he get protection? Okay, that's what you're goin' to get.”
Dillon shook his head wisely. “Sure he got protection—an' look at him now. They dug twenty-four slugs outta that guy when they put him on the slab.”
“G-men,” Myra said tersely. “You ain't got any worry. You keep clear of the G-men an' you'll be okay.”
Yeah I'll keep clear of the G-men.” There was a hard note of menace in his voice.
A knock sounded on the door. They stiffened, then Dillon said crossly, “Relax, can't you?” He went over to the door and jerked it open.
A tall, thin girl, with heavily rouged cheeks, was standing there holding a large tray, covered with a cloth. “Miss Benbow sent this up.” She had a nasal whine that put Myra's teeth on edge.
Dillon stood back and let her in. Myra looked her over. The girl glanced at Dillon wide-eyed, and put down the tray. She again looked at Dillon, a sly side-look with a strong line of “come hither” in it. She went out, swinging her hips a little.
Dillon kicked the door shut. “I guess that street pushover thinks she's good,” he said.
Myra took the cloth off the tray. “I guess dames don't mean much to you,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady.
Dillon shrugged. “The reason why a dame don't mean a thing is because they toss it in your face. The way most of 'em carry on, you'd think it wore out.”
Myra put her hands on the table and examined her nails.
She said, without looking up at him, “They could give a guy like you a pretty good time.”
Dillon turned and stared at her. “That's what you think,” he said, a faint sneer on his mouth. “I think different.”
He sat down at the table and began to eat hungrily.
Across the landing, behind a locked door, Roxy was having breakfast. The Kansas City Times was propped up against the coffee-pot, and he read it carefully as he ate.
Fanquist still lay in bed, her flaxen hair spread out on the pillow, a cigarette in her lips. She watched Roxy sleepily.
“A blue-nosed bishop is puttin' up a squawk about the number of unfortunate women he's been runnin' into lately on Main Street. Says it's a disgrace,” Roxy announced with a grin. “What you think, Fan?”
“Search me,” she said with a Southern drawl. “Maybe he forgot his dough, or maybe he's got beyond it.”
Roxy shook his head. “Those guys never get beyond it,” he said. “I guess he hadn't any dough. And listen to this, Fan; Some guy found his wife two-timin' an' set about her with a meat-cleaver. There's a picture of the guy here... wantta see it?”
Fanquist shook her head. “I don't like horrors... lay off it, will you?”
Roxy tossed the paper on the floor. He finished his coffee and lit a cigarette. “Got any ideas for today?” he asked hopefully.
“I'm havin' a finger-wave.” Fanquist stretched her arms and yawned. “Ten o'clock. It'll take the best part of two hours... meet me for lunch?”
Roxy nodded. “Yeah, I'll do that,” he said. “I'll pick you up at Verotti's.”
A tap came at the door. Roxy looked over at Fanquist, his eyebrows raised. Then he put his hand inside his coat and loosened the gun in its holster. “Who is it?” he asked.
“It's okay,” came Miss Benbow's hoarse whisper.
“What the hell does she want?” Roxy said, walking to the door and jerking it open.
Miss Benbow came in. Her white teeth glittered like piano keys. Roxy shut the door and turned the key again. “What's the trouble?” he asked, tossing the cigarette-butt into the fireplace.
Miss Benbow nodded to Fanquist. “You've got neighbours,” she said. “They're new... I ain't seen 'em before.”
Roxy looked a little startled. “They okay?” he asked sharply.
“I guess so,” Miss Benbow said. “They knew how to get in. He's called Dillon.”
“Dillon? Why, that guy's been out of the ga
me for a long time. You remember Dillon?” Roxy looked over at Fanquist.
“Sure, I remember hearin' of him. A mean guy. A guy who don't smoke or drink or have a girl is a mean guy.”
Roxy grinned. “That's what you say.”
Miss Benbow moved a little restlessly. “There's something about those two I don't like. The broad is just a kid, but she's bad. She's got a cold little face that I wouldn't like to wake up an' find on my pillow. The guy's big an' tough. He makes me uneasy.”
Fanquist looked interested. “This guy, is he handsome?”
Roxy laughed. “You oughtta have a cold bath, Fan,” he said. “Ain't she a hot momma?”—to Miss Benbow.
Miss Benbow grinned some more. “I like to see it,” she said. “There're too many cold-blooded broads around to please me.”
Fanquist pouted. “Come on, you big lump,” she said. “Don't keep a girl waitin'. What's he like?”
Miss Benbow nodded her head. “Sure, sure,” she said. “He's got it all. Dressy kind of a guy. Big, strong and hard. Good in bed, he'd be.”
Fanquist looked over at Roxy. “Ain't you jealous?” she asked.
Roxy grinned. “Sure I am... I'm burnin' up.”
“I'd leave that guy alone,” Miss Benbow cautioned. “That little bag don't look like she'd stand for much interference.”
Fanquist shrugged. “Aw! To hell with her,” she said. Then, glancing at the clock, she dragged off the bedclothes. “My Gawd!” she said. “I gotta get my hair fixed at ten.”
Miss Benbow moved to the door. “I figgered you'd like to hear about those two,” she said.
Roxy nodded. “I'll look 'em over.”
He sat down in the overstuffed chair and watched Fanquist dress. “You ain't in such a goddam hurry you can't wash,” he said, when she started to pull her clothes on.
She took no notice. She adjusted the straps of her hold-up. Roxy looked with raised, eyebrows. “You be careful,” he said. “Some guy's going to trip over your chest one of these days.”
Fanquist giggled. “The things you say,” she said, doing things to her face.
Roxy switched his mind. “I guess I'll take a gander at those two,” he said, picking his teeth with a match-end. “Maybe they'll be interestin'.”
“Watch yourself with the broad,” Fanquist warned him. “I'll hook her eyes out if she starts on you.”
“Okay,” Roxy waved his hand. “You know me. I ain't got the strength to take on two dames at once. You watch Dillon.”
She paused at the door. “Say, if these two ain't dumb, bring 'em along to Verotti's. They might amuse me.”
Roxy nodded. “Yeah,” he said, “if they are bright I'll do that.”
Fanquist shut the door behind her and ran downstairs. Roxy picked up the paper again and studied the police news.
Roxy was a heistman. He wasn't very spectacular, but he made a nice living on the side. He specialized in car hold-ups. Gangdom considered him smart, and they had a certain respect for him. He had kept clear of the cops, he'd never been mugged or finger-printed, and he wasn't a killer. His stick-ups brought him in on the average a grand a week, and he was doing pretty well for himself.
Fanquist helped towards the weekly contribution by dipping pockets. She seldom came back without a piece of jewellery or a pocket-book in her bag.
Roxy and Fanquist had teamed up about eighteen months ago. They liked each other well enough, but there was no real affection there. Fanquist thought he was a bit of a wop, and Roxy considered she was a little tramp. They kept their opinions to themselves and broke no bones. They slept together as a matter of physical convenience, and they ate together for company. They shared a room for economy, and they got on pretty well.
When Roxy had finished the newspaper he got up, put on a black fedora, looked himself over in the long wall-mirror, and sauntered on to the landing. He took a packet of gum from his pocket and peeled off the wrapper, then he put the gum in his mouth and clamped on it thoughtfully. All the time he did this he was listening.
He knew it would be dangerous to tap on the door; he remembered hearing things about Dillon. He'd seen a guy take some hot lead through his belly, just tapping on doors. He leant up against the doorway and waited, hoping someone would come out. He waited some little time, then he shrugged his shoulders. He went back to his room, leaving his door open.
The big Spanish guitar gave him an idea. He reached over and began playing. He went right into the Prologue of Pagliacci. Roxy had a smooth voice; a nice rich tenor. With the Prologue he knew he was good. He could reach the E Flat and he could swell up on it until the windows rattled. He liked tossing this high stuff off, but Fanquist wouldn't stand for it.
He guessed no dame would remain long behind a door with this hot Italian stuff going on, and he was right. Myra put her head round the door and came out.
Roxy wallowed in the sobs, made himself miserable with the last bars, then closed down hurriedly with a few showy chords.
He grinned at Myra. “I bet you thought it was a cat-fight.”
She stood looking at him admiringly. “Say, that was swell,” she said.
“You like it?” He tried to look surprised. “That's just classic stuff. Wantta hear me do 'Stormy River'?”
She nodded, her hands clasped in front of her. Roxy thought she was easy on the eye. Her figure was subtle, not like Fanquist's curves that reached out and tried to snap at you. Her big eyes made Roxy glad that she couldn't read his mind. He ran his fingers over the strings. Roxy could certainly handle that guitar.
Out came Dillon. His face was cold and suspicious. Roxy nodded to him, but kept on playing, then he began to sing. It wasn't for nothing he had listened to every record Bing Crosby had ever made. Roxy hadn't enjoyed himself so much for years.
He finished off with a real tricky ending, and put the guitar down on the couch. “Come on in,” he said: “I guess I owe you two a drink.”
Myra walked in quite at ease. She sat down on the arm of the couch and looked round the room. Dillon leant against the doorway. He watched Roxy closely.
Myra thought Roxy looked like George Raft. She liked him. He didn't strike her as being a big shot, but she thought he'd do to be getting on with.
Roxy fixed three highballs and passed them round. Dillon put his glass on the table, shaking his head.
Roxy raised his eyebrows. “What's wrong with it?”
Dillon said sourly, “I don't use it.”
Myra said, “Come on in an' shut the door—there's a draught.”
Dillon came in and shut the door. There was a second's silence. Then Myra and Roxy started to speak. They looked at each other and laughed. “I'm Myra... this is Dillon,” she said.
Roxy nodded. “I'm pleased to know you both. I guess you two wouldn't be here if you weren't in the game.”
Dillon said coldly, “What's your racket?”
Roxy took a pull at his glass. He glanced at Myra. “I'm known as Roxy around here,” he said. “Maybe we'd better get more acquainted before we get down to rackets.”
Dillon shrugged. “That don't suit me,” he said. “You may act dumb, but I bet you know who I am, so I guess a little info from you might ease things.”
Roxy tipped his hat over his eyes. This guy had a mean look, he thought. He tried to remember some of the things he had heard about him. It was too long ago. He could only remember he was a killer.
“Sure,” he said at last, “I know you. I guess I'm just in a small way. My line's stickin' up cars. I make a little dough now an' then. My girl's a dip.”
A sneer went across Dillon's face. Real small-time stuff, he thought. “I gotta get back into the racket,” he said. “I've been out too long.”
Roxy went over and lay on the couch. He studied his cloth-top boots. He had very small neat feet, and he liked to admire them. “Yeah,” he said, “I guess you're forgotten.”
Dillon flashed a look at Myra—signalling her to be quiet. He said, “I wantta contact someone big.”
“I like you two,” Roxy said thoughtfully, “so I'll deal it off the top deck. You don't stand a chance 'musclin' in on anything big in this burg until you got yourself a reputation again. The old mobs are washed up and the new crowd just think there's no one who can show 'em anythin'. You try to horn in there an' you're goin' to run into plenty of grief.”
Myra said in a quiet voice, “Well, that's talkin'.”
Roxy looked up and grinned. “Sure, that's the way it is, sister. You gotta go slow, see? I can give you an openin' here and there. I'd be glad to, but you gotta build your set-up slow.”
Dillon said, “We're as good as the rest of the punks in this dump.” The cold light in his eyes escaped Roxy.
Roxy rambled on: “You ain't met the big shots yet,” he said. “I've been in the racket for ten years, an' I'm glad not to know them, see? The big shots stick out, an' they're the first to get their ears slapped down. You gotta get protection, an' you've gotta pay for it, if you're a big shot. You get G-heat smeared over you. Look at Floyd an' Bailey an' Nash or any of 'em, They're on the nun an' they'll keep on the run. I ain't got anythin' to worry about, I'm smart.” Again he missed the look in Dillon's eyes.
The telephone whirred suddenly, startling them. Roxy got off the couch and took the receiver off the cradle. A husky voice came over the wire. “There're a couple of hard-lookin' guys casin' the street. I guess they're Feds. They're headin' your way.”
Roxy said, “Thanks, pal,” and put the receiver back. He looked at the other two. “You better park your rods,” he said quietly. “A couple of Federal dicks are on their way up.”
Dillon got to his feet quickly and silently. “They got nothin' on me,” he said.
Roxy pulled his coat away from his shoulder-holster and undid the buckle. He slipped off the harness. “If you got a rod, you better park it,” he said; “these guys get tough if they catch you toting a gun.”
Myra said in a little flurry of panic, “Where can we hide them?”
Roxy walked over to the fireplace and knelt down. He pushed the tiled hearth back like a drawer and dropped his gun into the narrow hollow beneath. “The old girl's got this in every room. Use it.”
Dillon left the room and went to his apartment. He collected his two guns and the Thompson and stowed them away. He came back silently. “What's the idea?” he snarled. “I thought this place was okay?”
Dead Stay Dumb Page 9
