“Don’t you stand for this,” Myra shrilled, pushing the notes away from her. “He’s double-crossing you.”
Dillon stood up, kicking over his chair. His eyes glittered. “I’ve told you,” he snarled at Gurney, “I ain’t standin’ any more of it. That bitch gets outta here, see? You’re crazy to have her here… well, this finishes it… she’s out!”
Gurney looked up at him, his face drawn and glistening, but he knew he was up against Myra. “Say, listen,” he said, “somethin’ is wrong. You don’t mean this’s all I get out of the stick-up?”
Dillon eyed him. “You gone nuts?” he demanded savagely. “What the hell d’you think you’re goin’ to get out of it?”
“A hundred bucks is peanut money.”
Dillon sneered. “Sure it’s peanut money. What of it? You didn’t case the job, did you? You didn’t fix the plans, did you? You didn’t know where to find the bank, did you? Like hell you didn’t. You just went in there and picked the dough outta the safe. A goddam monkey could’ve done it.”
Gurney dropped his eyes. Dillon had him.
“I’m givin’ you that hundred bucks, an’ you can like it. When you’ve used that nut of yours an’ pulled somethin’ good, then we’ll split even, but not before.”
“You double-crossing rat!” Myra screamed at him. “What do I get out of it? Didn’t I drive the car?”
Dillon looked at her. “You ain’t nothin’ to me,” he said, his lips grinning. “That punk brought you. It’s up to him to give you somethin’.”