Dillon began pacing the small office. “I’m gettin rattled with that dame. I guess she’s about washed up with me. She’ll have to get to hell out of it.”
Roxy touched the ash off his cigar into the tray. “You’ll have a little trouble,” he said. “I’d be careful how you handle that bird.”
Dillon shot him another cold look. “I can handle her,” he said. “You keep your nose clean on this. Anyway, suppose you get to work an’ wise yourself up on Little Ernie’s territory? What I want is a list of all the smalltime stores, hotels an’ suchlike who could take on automatic machine. You walk round an’ take a look at the ground. You’re on the pay-roll now, so you might as well get used to a little work.”
Roxy grinned. “I get it,” he said. “What you pay in’?”
“I’ll give you a couple of hundred bucks an’ ten per cent on the take when we get goin’.”
Roxy shrugged his shoulders. “I guess you’re right about gettin’ rid of the big shots. I could do with a little of their share.”
When he had gone, Dillon went over to the telephone and rang Fanquist. Her slow drawl floated to his ear. “Listen, baby,” he said, speaking close to the mouthpiece, “I’ve just had a word with Roxy. He knows, but that guy is shootin’ on the level. I’ve fixed him up to work for me, an’ he ain’t goin’ to start trouble.”
Fanquist started her old beef. “When are we really goin’ to get together? I’m sick of this jumpin’-in-an’-out-of-bed stunt of yours.”
Dillon said sharply, “It ain’t time yet. Myra wants handlin’.”
Fanquist said, “Why the hell don’t you toss that piece of ass out on her can?” Her voice was suddenly strident and furious.