Hurst got to his feet. He controlled himself with an effort. “You’re drunk,” he said. “You haven’t the brains to run any business. You want protection, an’ you ain’t got it. You’re nobody. The cops would close you up damn quick without me right behind you.”
Dillon sneered. “Do you think I’ve been in this game an’ not got the lowdown to it? You ain’t got any pull; you’ve got dough. I know how much you give the cops to lay off you, an’ I’ll give ’em more. The guy that pays the most gets the best service.”
Hurst turned to the door. “You’re washed up,” he said shortly. “Get out and stay out!”
Dillon jerked his gun from inside his coat. “Just a minute, Mr. Hurst,” he said between his teeth.: Hurst stood, frozen. Then he put out his hands like a blind man groping. “What are you doing with that gun?” he gasped, his face going suddenly flabby.
Dillon didn’t bother to get to his feet. “You talk too much,” he said. “If we’re goin’ to break, I guess we’ll break the way I want it.”
While he was speaking, his finger curled on the trigger, gently squeezing. The gun suddenly boomed, jerking a little in his hand.
Hurst took a step forward, his hands pressed to his chest. Then his knees gave, and he sank down. Leaning forward over the desk, Dillon shot him again. The heavy slug made a big hole in Hurst’s head.
Dillon stayed there, leaning over the desk, his gun still pointing at Hurst, his lips off his teeth.
“Now, you bastard,” he said, “you can stay dumb!”
Roxy tipped his hat back and stared. “Hey,” he said, “you’ve spoilt your rug.”