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.