Dillon said coldly, “Come on in, an’ shut the door.”
Roxy closed the door and sat down. He ran his fingers over the stove-pipe furniture. “Hot, ain’t it?” he said admiringly. “This is some joint.”
Dillon opened a drawer and took out a box of cigars. He pushed them over to Roxy. “You wantta join up?” he said.
Roxy selected a cigar, bit the end off and spat it from his mouth. “Yeah,” he said. “I’d like to get into somethin’ steady. My racket is gettin’ shot to hell.”
Dillon looked at him thoughtfully. “What I’m goin’ to tell you ain’t to go further,” he said, keeping his voice low.
Roxy looked a little startled, but he nodded. “Sure, I don’t talk,” he said. “You should know that!”
Dillon hitched his chair closer. “I’m figgerin’ you’re the guy I’ve been lookin’ for,” he said. “Maybe I’m wrong, but I don’t think so. Listen. At the moment I’m runnin’ this automatic racket an’ I’m picking up around fifteen grand a week. Nice, but nothin’ to rave about. Hurst’s got a grand organization. He’s got protection. He’s got a real tough crowd workin’ for him. This Hurst guy gets so far, but he don’t go the limit. With his organization, he could go the limit.”
Roxy drew on his cigar, letting the heavy smoke slide from his mouth. “What’s the limit?” he asked.
Dillon said very quietly, “Little Ernie’s the limit.”
Roxy’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t get that,” he said.