“Yeah?” Dillon sneered. “Suppose you get wise to yourself. We ain’t nobody here. Look how that Federal dick shoved me around. Think we’re goin’ to get anywhere without an in? Not a chance. You keep your trap shut an’ let me do the thinkin’. When I run outta ideas I’ll give you a buzz. An’ believe me, it’ll take a long time before I’m screwy enough to take ideas from a dope like you.”
Myra flushed. Her eyes grew stormy, but she didn’t start anything. She said, “Maybe a smart lie-down like that Fanquist moll could give you ideas.”
Dillon stared at her. “Your mind runs on one track,” he said. “She don’t cut meat with me. You dames are all alike, ain’t you? There’s nothin’ new about you, is there? I’ve seen it all before… so what the hell?”
Myra thought savagely, “I’ll get under his skin one day. I’ll fix him.”
Dillon got up. “I’m takin’ some air,” he said. “This line of talk gives me a pain in my tail.”
She followed him into the street. The sun was hot, and they walked along, keeping in the shade.
Dillon said, “I gotta get me a car—I guess I’ll get it now.”
“A car?” Myra was startled. “Where’s the dough comin’ from?”
“Suppose you keep your mind on your bed and your nose outta this?” Dillon snarled at her.
Off the main street they found a large garage with a dilapidated showroom, full of second-hand cars. A tall, thin guy, with a bobbing Adam’s apple, came out and nodded to them.