Dillon moved jerkily, but Roxy put out his hand. “Wait a minute,” he said.
Dillon shook his hand off. “This guy ain’t goin’ to start skinning me,” he snarled. “A grand? You’re crazy!”
An oily smile went over Joe’s face. “It came over the radio ten minutes ago,” he said softly. “You three are wanted by the Department of Justice for pinching a car, and the State police are after you for the murder of Hurst.”
There was dead silence in the room. Myra ran her fingers through her hair. She shot a look of hatred at Dillon, but she said nothing. He started it and it was up to him to see it through.
Dillon stood up. “So what?” he said.
Joe spread his dirty hands on the table. He nodded his head. “You three are hot. You’re too damned hot. I know Roxy…. I’m a friend of his, so I take risks, but I guess I gotta get well paid for takin’ ’em.”
Dillon wandered over to Joe. “You’ll get well paid, but you ain’t gettin’ a grand a week. You’ll take five hundred bucks an’ like it, get it?”
Joe shook his head. “That ain’t any use to me, mister…” he began.
Dillon reached out and gripped Joe’s shirt. “Listen, punk,” he snarled. “I’m booked to sit on the end of a stream of hot juice—one more guy to get knocked off don’t help me anyway, see?”
Joe turned a dirty white. “You’re the boss, mister,” he said hoarsely. “My ma’ll look after you. We gotta farm in the hills. Roxy knows it. They won’t find you there.”