Roxy shook his head. “Yeah, it’s a grand chance all right—for a swell funeral. Little Ernie’s mob know how to handle a rod. I ain’t riskin’ my hide for a punk like Hurst.”
“He’s right,” Myra said. “Forget it, can’t you?”
Dillon went over and took the Thompson gun out of the cupboard. “Where’s this guy meet the dame?” he asked.
“It’s a corner place on Seventeenth and Central. Apartment 364.” Roxy moved to the door. He seemed anxious to go. “I guess I’ll be movin’ along. Take my tip, pack your bags and scram. This burg ain’t goin’ to be too healthy after they’ve put this Hurst guy in a wooden overcoat.”
Dillon waited until he had gone, then he wheeled round on Myra. “You’re comin’,” he snarled at her. “This is our big break. We let Hurst get knocked off an’ the bulls’ll either make a pinch or run us out. We go down there an’ pull Hurst outta this jam an’ he’s goin’ to take notice.”
Myra shook her head. “Forget it,” she said stubbornly. “If you think I’m goin’ to stick my neck out an’ get it sapped, you’re crazy.”
Dillon jerked up the Tommy. The thin barrel pointed directly at Myra. “Listen,” he said evenly. “This is the chance I’ve been waitin’ for. If you think I’m goin’ to let a rotten-gutted monkey like you get in my way, you got another think comin’. You back out of this an’ I’ll make a sieve out of you. Get it? I can go into the street an’ get some other punk who’s got enough guts to work with me any goddam time I want to. So get this right, now and for keeps. You play ball the way I want it or else…”
The vicious look in his eyes made her mouth go dry. “You ain’t got to get mad,” she faltered. “I’ll come. I didn’t think you felt that way about it, that’s all.”
Dillon lowered the gun. “Maybe you’ll get into your skull one of these days that when I tell you what to do you do it quick.” His eyes were hard and suspicious.
Myra walked to the door, snatching up her hat and putting it on. “Come on,” she said, “I’m ready.”