Dillon came in, looked at the food and grunted. He sat down at the table and began to eat. Gurney sat down.
“You gettin’ sick of things?” Dillon said. There was a tense threat in his voice.
Gurney slopped his coffee. “Me?… I ain’t squealin’,” he said hurriedly.
Dillon jerked his head to where Myra was sitting. “I figgered maybe you put her up to that.”
Gurney was round-eyed with innocence. “You got me wrong,” he said hurriedly. “You ain’t got to worry about her. She’s just mad at havin’ nothin’ to wear.”
Dillon cut the ham up in small squares. “You have a talk with her… she’d better watch her step. I ain’t standin’ any buck from her—get it?”
Gurney pushed his plate away and lit a cigarette. The food stuck in his throat. “Sure,” he said, “she’s just a kid… you know, she don’t mean a thing.”
Dillon said evenly: “You tell her… unless you want me to give her a rub-down. You want to handle that broad… what you scared about? Why the hell don’t you throw her on the bed?”
Pushing back his chair, Gurney got to his feet. He mumbled something and went over to fix the stove.
“I’m goin’ to take the car out,” Dillon said, finishing his food and getting up. “I’ve a little job I wantta case Maybe you can do somethin’ with it later.”