Myra said, “Did we get much outta that bank?”
Dillon sneered at her. “You ain’t gotta worry about that,” he said. “You’re here to work, see?” He took some notes out of his pocket and tossed them across the table to Gurney. “That’s your split,” he said evenly, and went on eating.
Gurney looked at the notes as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. He poked at them with his finger.
Myra said, her voice very brittle, “Count ’em.”
Gurney couldn’t count them. He just sat and stared at them.
Myra leant forward and snatched up the notes. She counted them out on the table, slapping them down and counting aloud. She made it a hundred dollars.
Dillon went on eating, his eyes on his plate. There was a little circle of white round his mouth. He was getting mad all right.
Myra said with a little hiss of breath, “What’s this?”
Dillon looked up at Gurney. “You let this bitch talk too much,” he said. He tossed the knife and fork on to his plate with a clatter and sat back. His hands lay on the table, his ringers tapping.
Gurney said with a little rush, “A hundred bucks ain’t much.”