A tall, thin girl, with heavily rouged cheeks, was standing there holding a large tray, covered with a cloth. “Miss Benbow sent this up.” She had a nasal whine that put Myra’s teeth on edge.
Dillon stood back and let her in. Myra looked her over. The girl glanced at Dillon wide-eyed, and put down the tray. She again looked at Dillon, a sly side-look with a strong line of “come hither” in it. She went out, swinging her hips a little.
Dillon kicked the door shut. “I guess that street pushover thinks she’s good,” he said.
Myra took the cloth off the tray. “I guess dames don’t mean much to you,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady.
Dillon shrugged. “The reason why a dame don’t mean a thing is because they toss it in your face. The way most of ’em carry on, you’d think it wore out.”
Myra put her hands on the table and examined her nails.
She said, without looking up at him, “They could give a guy like you a pretty good time.”
Dillon turned and stared at her. “That’s what you think,” he said, a faint sneer on his mouth. “I think different.”
He sat down at the table and began to eat hungrily.
Across the landing, behind a locked door, Roxy was having breakfast. The Kansas City Times was propped up against the coffee-pot, and he read it carefully as he ate.