They rode in silence for a mile or so, then Joe said, “Where… where you takin’ me?” He was suddenly uneasy.
Dillon looked for Joe’s face in the darkness, saw the white outline and swung his fist. Roxy heard the soft spat as his fist crushed into Joe’s face. Joe gave a muffled groan and slid forward in his seat. He ducked his head, holding his hands over his nose.
Dillon pulled his arms from his face slowly. He had to exert a little strength. Joe sobbed, “No… no….” Dillon said, “Here it is, you heel!” and swung his hand again.
Roxy slowed down. He peered ahead until he saw the glitter of water in the moonlight, then he stopped the car. “This is it,” he said.
Dillon got out of the car. He said to Roxy, “Get him out of there…. I don’t want to wash that heap again.”
Joe gave a scream. Roxy put his arms round him and half dragged, half pulled him out of the car. Joe couldn’t stand. He put his legs down, but they folded up, so that he fell down in the road.
Dillon said, “Move the car up a bit.”
Roxy got in the car and moved it forward. Joe lay in the red circle of the tail-lamp. Complete and awful panic seized him. He suddenly lost control of his sphincter muscle. Dillon shot him with the Thompson. Just one harsh roar of the gun and Joe was nearly cut in two, the slugs, like a steel knife ripped across his chest, killing him instantly.
Dillon said, “We gotta get him into the river.”
Roxy leant out of the car. “I don’t like touchin’ him,” he said. “I guess I just hate touchin’ that guy.”