Dillon explored his teeth with a match-end. He said nothing. Abe got to his feet and walked into the store.
Walcott was leaning over the counter, glaring at Rosey. His thin, boney face was red.
Abe said nervously, “What is it?”
Walcott shouted, “What’s up? I’ll tell you what’s up, you goddam Kike. She ain’t givin’ me no more tick, that’s what’s up.”
Abe nodded his head. “That’s right, Mister Walcott,” he said, going a little white. “You owe me too much.”
Walcott saw he was scared. He said, “You gimme what I want, or I’ll bust you.” He closed his hand into a fist and leant over the counter, swinging at Abe. Abe stepped back hastily and banged his head hard against a shelf. Rosey squealed again.
Dillon shuffled slowly out of the kitchen into the store. He looked at Walcott, then he said, “Lay off.”
Walcott was drunk. The corn whisky still burnt in a fiery ball deep inside him. He turned slowly. “Keep out of this, you bum,” he said.
Dillon reached forward and hit Walcott in the middle of his face. The blow came up from his ankles. A spongy mass of blood suddenly appeared where Walcott’s nose had been. Walcott reeled away, holding on to his face with both hands.
Dillon stood watching him. He rubbed his knuckles with his other hand. He said, “Scram… get the hell outta here!”