Joe fell back, his eyes glued to the gun. He couldn’t say a word.
Dillon forced him into the room and shut the door. “I’m on to you, you double-crossing sonofabitch,” he said. “Hand over that dough.”
Joe fumbled in his pocket and brought out the roll. He said in a quavering voice, “You got me wrong…. I know you’ve got me wrong.”
Dillon snatched it from him. “Where’s the rest of it?” he demanded. “You know, the thousand you said you lost?”
Joe’s eyes widened. “I did lose it,” he gasped. “I don’t get this… what’s it all about… ain’t you stayin’ at Ma’s no more?”
Dillon said, “Give me the rest of the dough or I’ll blast you… My finger is itching…. Snap to it!”
The Thompson was pointing at Joe’s vest. He gave a strangled gasp. “I’ll get it for you, Mister…” he whined. “Don’t you shoot… I’ll get it.”
He stumbled over to the table and took another roll of notes from the drawer. Dillon made him count it. “I got the car—” Joe began explaining.
Dillon cut him short. “Come on out,’ he said. “I still got somethin’ for you to do. You play ball, an’ you’ll come outta this okay, but you gotta watch your step.”
Joe went with him to the car. Roxy stared, but didn’t move. Dillon pushed Joe into the back of the car, then he said to Roxy in a low voice, “Get to the river… quick.” He got in beside Joe, and Roxy sent the car shooting forward.