Dillon said, “Skip it. I ain’t listening to big-mouth talk from a kid with hot pants. Get what you want and blow.”
Myra took three quick steps forward and aimed a slap at Dillon’s face. She was nearly sobbing with rage. Dillon reached up and caught her wrist. “Be your age,” he said; “you ain’t in the movies.”
She stood there, helpless in his grip, loathing his hard eyes. “I’ll tell my Pa about you,” was all she could say.
He threw her arm away from him, spinning her into the centre of the store. “Scram, I tell you,” he said.
She screamed at him: “You dirty sonofabitch! My Pa will bash you for this!”
Abe stood in the doorway, his eyes popping out of his head. “What’s going on?” he asked.
Myra spun round. “You’re crazy to have that bum in here. He’s been insulting me—”
Dillon came round the counter with a quick shuffle. He took hold of Myra and ran her to the door, then he swung his arm and smacked her viciously across her buttocks, sending her skidding into the street. Myra didn’t stop— she ran.
Abe tore his hair. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he squeaked. “That’s Butch Hogan’s daughter. The old man’ll raise the dead about this.”
Dillon came back into the store. “Forget it,” he said. “I’m about sick of these goddam bitches starin’ at me. Maybe they’ll leave me alone for a while.”