Verotti’s was a dive off Twenty-second Street, near the Union Station. Fanquist had a table in the corner. She was drinking a rye highball.
When Roxy came in with Dillon and Myra she waved excitedly to them. Roxy came up to the table and waved his hand. “This is Myra and Dillon,” he said. “They’ve got a room across the way.”
Fanquist had eyes only for Dillon. “What a hot-looking man!” she said. “Am I pleased to meet you, or am I?”
Myra’s face was cold. She sat down next to Fanquist, trapping her against the wall. Dillon sat opposite, with Roxy at his side.
Myra said, “It’s grand to run into a guy like Roxy. He’s been a real pal.”
Fanquist shot her a quick look. “Say,” she said, swiveling round so that she faced Myra, “what are you doin’ away from your Ma? Hey, hot man, you’re baby-snatching. That ain’t right.”
Myra’s eyes glinted. “Don’t embarrass him,” she cut in quickly. “He likes ’em young. This guy ain’t got time for broads who’ve got the grass worn off… you ask him.”
Fanquist leant against the wall. “Smart kid, huh?” she said, two bright-red spots on her cheeks. “Grass worn off, huh? That’s a nice crack from a kid.”
Myra turned her head. “Don’t we do anythin’ around here but talk?”
A waiter shuffled up and they ordered drinks. Roxy sat with his hat over his eyes, grinning to himself. Nothing pleased him more than to listen-in to two women clawing each other.