Swinging the door open, Dillon ran across the pavement and entered the bank. The Thompson was under his coat. Gurney came in at his heels. There was a fat woman wedged against the grille, arguing with the teller. Gurney could hear her voice putting up a squawk. His brain was stiff. He couldn’t get what she was saying.
A thin, lanky man got off a stool at the far end of the bank and wandered down when he saw Dillon.
“Stand by the door,” Dillon said to Gurney.
The lanky guy said, “We’re closin’ down right now,” he sounded as if he were bored to hell with the bank.
“Grab some air,” Dillon yelled, pitching his voice high, “this is a stick-up.” The Thompson showed its black barrel.
The two guys behind the counter stiffened into waxworks.
The fat woman turned her head. Dillon was right behind her. She took one look at him and her big mouth opened. Gurney nearly dropped his gun. “That dame’s going to yell the roof off,” he thought.
Dillon shifted the gun a little and swung his fist. He hit the woman across her mouth with his knuckles. There was a lot of steam in that punch. She was right up against the counter, so she couldn’t ride the punch. It made a real mess of her face. She flopped down on her knees and then spread out. A whistling sound dribbled from her throat. Without taking his eyes from the other two, Dillon kicked at her head. He kicked her just once. The woman’s head bounced away from his boot. She stopped making any noise.
The lanky guy suddenly went green, and vomited on the floor in front of him. He didn’t lower his hands, but just bent his head forward.
Dillon said to Gurney, “Hey! This bastard’s been eatin’ ice cream.”