Hurst said abruptly, “What’s wrong with your girlfriend?”
Dillon raised his eyes. A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Myra? I don’t get it.”
Hurst shrugged. “She pulled me from a game last night asking where you were.”
Dillon suddenly went cold. Aw, she’s always like that if I’m a shade late,” he said carelessly. “I’ll tell her not to worry you.”
Hurst got to his feet. “That’s okay,” he said. “I just wondered.” He moved to the door. With the handle in his hand, he glanced back over his shoulder. “You ain’t causin’ Little Ernie any worries?”
Dillon knew now why he had come in. Since Little Ernie had sent two gunmen after him, Hurst was scared sick of any other trouble starting.
Dillon shook his head. “We’re leavin’ em alone,” he said quietly, and grinned to himself. This punk would have a tit if he knew what was going to happen.
Hurst nodded. “That’s it,” he said. “You leave those guys alone. We can get along without treading on their corns.
Dillon watched him go, and when the door had closed he stretched his neck and spat viciously into the brass spittoon by the desk.
The news that Myra knew that he wasn’t with Hurst the previous night infuriated him. He sat back in his chair and tried to reconstruct the scene between them. Myra was no sucker. She knew there was another woman. His brows came down. Just let her start something, he told himself. If she thought she could push him around, she’d got a surprise coming. Hurst and Myra. They both knew too much for his comfort. Maybe… He sat there thinking. Yeah, maybe… He’d have to watch those two. It looked like he’d have to do something.