Dillon said, “Get goin’, you big-mouthed doll.”
She walked over to the door and Dillon crowded her into the darkness outside. The two attendants stood against the wall, their hands held high.
The Packard shot away and ripped into the darkness. Dillon shoved his gun away. “Suppose you keep that trap of yours shut?” he said from the blackness.
“You ain’t got to worry… I’m buildin’ you up.”
“If there’s any buildin’ up, I’m the guy to take care of that,” Dillon returned.
Myra held the wheel. She didn’t say anything. Her eyes were intent on the road. As the car lurched to the bends she let her body swing against Dillon. She could feel the hardness of him under his coat, and it sent a flicker through her that made her blood sing in her ears.
This guy was tough, she thought, but he was a man. He had muscles and sinews and she began to ache for contact with him. Dillon, suddenly sensing her physical feeling for him, moved away, leaning well into the corner of the seat. She went limp with her frustrated longing for him.
Back at the apartment, they mounted the stairs silently and shut their door. Myra flicked on the light, walking slowly into the centre of the room, pulling her hat off as she did so, shaking her hair free.
Dillon stood by the door, rubbing his chin. He felt a vague urge towards her, but he ignored it. That urge made him a little uneasy.
Myra emptied the sack on the table and turned the money over with her finger. “Ain’t a great deal here,” she said, “but it’ll do to get on with.”