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.”