Dead Stay Dumb (10 page)

     “I guess so,” Miss Benbow said. “They knew how to get in. He's called Dillon.”
     “Dillon? Why, that guy's been out of the game for a long time. You remember Dillon?” Roxy looked over at Fanquist.
     “Sure, I remember hearin' of him. A mean guy. A guy who don't smoke or drink or have a girl is a mean guy.”
     Roxy grinned. “That's what you say.”
     Miss Benbow moved a little restlessly. “There's something about those two I don't like. The broad is just a kid, but she's bad. She's got a cold little face that I wouldn't like to wake up an' find on my pillow. The guy's big an' tough. He makes me uneasy.”
     Fanquist looked interested. “This guy, is he handsome?”
     Roxy laughed. “You oughtta have a cold bath, Fan,” he said. “Ain't she a hot momma?”—to Miss Benbow.
     Miss Benbow grinned some more. “I like to see it,” she said. “There're too many cold-blooded broads around to please me.”
     Fanquist pouted. “Come on, you big lump,” she said. “Don't keep a girl waitin'. What's he like?”
     Miss Benbow nodded her head. “Sure, sure,” she said. “He's got it all. Dressy kind of a guy. Big, strong and hard. Good in bed, he'd be.”
     Fanquist looked over at Roxy. “Ain't you jealous?” she asked.
     Roxy grinned. “Sure I am... I'm burnin' up.”
     “I'd leave that guy alone,” Miss Benbow cautioned. “That little bag don't look like she'd stand for much interference.”
     Fanquist shrugged. “Aw! To hell with her,” she said. Then, glancing at the clock, she dragged off the bedclothes. “My Gawd!” she said. “I gotta get my hair fixed at ten.”
     Miss Benbow moved to the door. “I figgered you'd like to hear about those two,” she said.
     Roxy nodded. “I'll look 'em over.”
     He sat down in the overstuffed chair and watched Fanquist dress. “You ain't in such a goddam hurry you can't wash,” he said, when she started to pull her clothes on.
     She took no notice. She adjusted the straps of her hold-up. Roxy looked with raised, eyebrows. “You be careful,” he said. “Some guy's going to trip over your chest one of these days.”
     Fanquist giggled. “The things you say,” she said, doing things to her face.
     Roxy switched his mind. “I guess I'll take a gander at those two,” he said, picking his teeth with a match-end. “Maybe they'll be interestin'.”
     “Watch yourself with the broad,” Fanquist warned him. “I'll hook her eyes out if she starts on you.”
     “Okay,” Roxy waved his hand. “You know me. I ain't got the strength to take on two dames at once. You watch Dillon.”
     She paused at the door. “Say, if these two ain't dumb, bring 'em along to Verotti's. They might amuse me.”
     Roxy nodded. “Yeah,” he said, “if they are bright I'll do that.”
     Fanquist shut the door behind her and ran downstairs. Roxy picked up the paper again and studied the police news.
     Roxy was a heistman. He wasn't very spectacular, but he made a nice living on the side. He specialized in car hold-ups. Gangdom considered him smart, and they had a certain respect for him. He had kept clear of the cops, he'd never been mugged or finger-printed, and he wasn't a killer. His stick-ups brought him in on the average a grand a week, and he was doing pretty well for himself.
     Fanquist helped towards the weekly contribution by dipping pockets. She seldom came back without a piece of jewellery or a pocket-book in her bag.
     Roxy and Fanquist had teamed up about eighteen months ago. They liked each other well enough, but there was no real affection there. Fanquist thought he was a bit of a wop, and Roxy considered she was a little tramp. They kept their opinions to themselves and broke no bones. They slept together as a matter of physical convenience, and they ate together for company. They shared a room for economy, and they got on pretty well.
     When Roxy had finished the newspaper he got up, put on a black fedora, looked himself over in the long wall-mirror, and sauntered on to the landing. He took a packet of gum from his pocket and peeled off the wrapper, then he put the gum in his mouth and clamped on it thoughtfully. All the time he did this he was listening.
     He knew it would be dangerous to tap on the door; he remembered hearing things about Dillon. He'd seen a guy take some hot lead through his belly, just tapping on doors. He leant up against the doorway and waited, hoping someone would come out. He waited some little time, then he shrugged his shoulders. He went back to his room, leaving his door open.
     The big Spanish guitar gave him an idea. He reached over and began playing. He went right into the Prologue of Pagliacci. Roxy had a smooth voice; a nice rich tenor. With the Prologue he knew he was good. He could reach the E Flat and he could swell up on it until the windows rattled. He liked tossing this high stuff off, but Fanquist wouldn't stand for it.
     He guessed no dame would remain long behind a door with this hot Italian stuff going on, and he was right. Myra put her head round the door and came out.
     Roxy wallowed in the sobs, made himself miserable with the last bars, then closed down hurriedly with a few showy chords.
     He grinned at Myra. “I bet you thought it was a cat-fight.”
     She stood looking at him admiringly. “Say, that was swell,” she said.
     “You like it?” He tried to look surprised. “That's just classic stuff. Wantta hear me do 'Stormy River'?”
     She nodded, her hands clasped in front of her. Roxy thought she was easy on the eye. Her figure was subtle, not like Fanquist's curves that reached out and tried to snap at you. Her big eyes made Roxy glad that she couldn't read his mind. He ran his fingers over the strings. Roxy could certainly handle that guitar.
     Out came Dillon. His face was cold and suspicious. Roxy nodded to him, but kept on playing, then he began to sing. It wasn't for nothing he had listened to every record Bing Crosby had ever made. Roxy hadn't enjoyed himself so much for years.
     He finished off with a real tricky ending, and put the guitar down on the couch. “Come on in,” he said: “I guess I owe you two a drink.”
     Myra walked in quite at ease. She sat down on the arm of the couch and looked round the room. Dillon leant against the doorway. He watched Roxy closely.
     Myra thought Roxy looked like George Raft. She liked him. He didn't strike her as being a big shot, but she thought he'd do to be getting on with.
     Roxy fixed three highballs and passed them round. Dillon put his glass on the table, shaking his head.
     Roxy raised his eyebrows. “What's wrong with it?”
     Dillon said sourly, “I don't use it.”
     Myra said, “Come on in an' shut the door—there's a draught.”
     Dillon came in and shut the door. There was a second's silence. Then Myra and Roxy started to speak. They looked at each other and laughed. “I'm Myra... this is Dillon,” she said.
     Roxy nodded. “I'm pleased to know you both. I guess you two wouldn't be here if you weren't in the game.”
     Dillon said coldly, “What's your racket?”
     Roxy took a pull at his glass. He glanced at Myra. “I'm known as Roxy around here,” he said. “Maybe we'd better get more acquainted before we get down to rackets.”
     Dillon shrugged. “That don't suit me,” he said. “You may act dumb, but I bet you know who I am, so I guess a little info from you might ease things.”
     Roxy tipped his hat over his eyes. This guy had a mean look, he thought. He tried to remember some of the things he had heard about him. It was too long ago. He could only remember he was a killer.
     “Sure,” he said at last, “I know you. I guess I'm just in a small way. My line's stickin' up cars. I make a little dough now an' then. My girl's a dip.”
     A sneer went across Dillon's face. Real small-time stuff, he thought. “I gotta get back into the racket,” he said. “I've been out too long.”
     Roxy went over and lay on the couch. He studied his cloth-top boots. He had very small neat feet, and he liked to admire them. “Yeah,” he said, “I guess you're forgotten.”
     Dillon flashed a look at Myra—signalling her to be quiet. He said, “I wantta contact someone big.”
     “I like you two,” Roxy said thoughtfully, “so I'll deal it off the top deck. You don't stand a chance 'musclin' in on anything big in this burg until you got yourself a reputation again. The old mobs are washed up and the new crowd just think there's no one who can show 'em anythin'. You try to horn in there an' you're goin' to run into plenty of grief.”
     Myra said in a quiet voice, “Well, that's talkin'.”
     Roxy looked up and grinned. “Sure, that's the way it is, sister. You gotta go slow, see? I can give you an openin' here and there. I'd be glad to, but you gotta build your set-up slow.”
     Dillon said, “We're as good as the rest of the punks in this dump.” The cold light in his eyes escaped Roxy.
     Roxy rambled on: “You ain't met the big shots yet,” he said. “I've been in the racket for ten years, an' I'm glad not to know them, see? The big shots stick out, an' they're the first to get their ears slapped down. You gotta get protection, an' you've gotta pay for it, if you're a big shot. You get G-heat smeared over you. Look at Floyd an' Bailey an' Nash or any of 'em, They're on the nun an' they'll keep on the run. I ain't got anythin' to worry about, I'm smart.” Again he missed the look in Dillon's eyes.
     The telephone whirred suddenly, startling them. Roxy got off the couch and took the receiver off the cradle. A husky voice came over the wire. “There're a couple of hard-lookin' guys casin' the street. I guess they're Feds. They're headin' your way.”
     Roxy said, “Thanks, pal,” and put the receiver back. He looked at the other two. “You better park your rods,” he said quietly. “A couple of Federal dicks are on their way up.”
     Dillon got to his feet quickly and silently. “They got nothin' on me,” he said.
     Roxy pulled his coat away from his shoulder-holster and undid the buckle. He slipped off the harness. “If you got a rod, you better park it,” he said; “these guys get tough if they catch you toting a gun.”
     Myra said in a little flurry of panic, “Where can we hide them?”
     Roxy walked over to the fireplace and knelt down. He pushed the tiled hearth back like a drawer and dropped his gun into the narrow hollow beneath. “The old girl's got this in every room. Use it.”
     Dillon left the room and went to his apartment. He collected his two guns and the Thompson and stowed them away. He came back silently. “What's the idea?” he snarled. “I thought this place was okay?”
     Roxy nodded. “Sure it's okay. You can't keep the Feds outta any place. The bulls leave it alone, but not the Feds. You ain't wanted by no G-man, are you?” There was sharp anxiety in his voice.
     Dillon didn't say anything. He stood by the table, a little tense. With eyes like chips of ice he stared at Roxy. The expression in his eyes quite startled Roxy.
     Myra broke in. “I guess not,” she said.
     Roxy relaxed. “Okay, just you go on drinkin' an' say nothin'. I'll do the talkin' if there's any talkin' to be done.”
     “Hell!” Dillon said savagely. “That black cow's goin' to lose some of her rent. She's nuts thinkin' I'm payin' all that dough, when the Feds can come in here.”
     Roxy nodded his head. “Sure,” he said. “I guess she's been stringin' you along. You fix her. It's been comin' to her for a long time.”
     Suddenly they heard a commotion going on downstairs. They stiffened involuntarily. “Here they come,” Roxy said, putting his feet up on the couch. “Now don't let those guys stampede you. They'll try all right.”
     They could hear Miss Benbow protesting on the stairs. They, heard her say, “You dicks ain't got anythin' on me. You can't come bustin' in like this. I tell you this is a respectable house.”
     Someone said in a gritty voice. “Take it easy, Coon, we're just lookin' the place over.”
     A heavy step sounded outside then the door was kicked open. The three in the room turned their heads and looked. Dillon was cool, but Myra's nerves were jumpy. Two big men stood in the doorway, their eyes watchful. Dillon thought they looked a couple of real tough birds.
     “Hello, boys,” Roxy said from the couch. He kept his hands in his lap. “I guess you ain't lookin' for me?”
     One of them wandered into the room, leaving the other by the door. He said. “Get up when you talk to me.”
     Roxy got up quickly and took off his hat. He looked hard at the Federal and grinned a little uneasily. “Why, if it ain't Mr. Strawn,” he said. “Ain't seen you for a long time.”
     Strawn went over to him and patted his pockets. “Where's your rod?” he asked.
     Roxy shrugged his shoulders. “You got me wrong,” he said. “I don't tote a rod. You know me, boss; I wouldn't do a thing like that.”
     Strawn said, “That line don't get you nowhere, so lay off it.”
     He looked at Dillon. Then he glanced over to the other dick. “Seen this monkey before?” he asked.
     The other dick shook his head.
     Strawn walked over to Dillon. “Who're you an' what you doin' around here?”
     Dillon looked at him impassively. “Just havin' a drink with a pal of mine,” he said. “What's wrong with that?”
     Strawn looked him over, his face hardening. “Where you from?” he snapped.
     Dillon shot a look at Myra. Strawn swung his fist. He smacked Dillon on the jaw. Dillon was off balance—he went over with a thud.
     Roxy yelled, “Don't start anything!” His eyes were popping.
     Dillon looked up at Strawn, his eyes black with hate. He came slowly to his feet, rubbing his jaw with his hand. Beyond the look in his eyes he remained impassive.
     Strawn said, “Listen, you melon-headed monkey, when I ask you somethin' you answer quick Where are you from an' what's your name?”
     The other dick looked bored, but he had got a gun in his hand.
     Dillon said between his teeth, “I'm from Plattsville. Name's Gurney... Nick Gurney.”
     Myra stood very still. She put her hand to her mouth.
     “Just a big farmer's hick, huh?” Strawn sneered. “Well, listen, hayseed, you better keep outta this town. We don't like punks like you. You better go right back to Plattsville an' stay there. Do you get it?”
     Dillon just stood there hating him with his eyes. Strawn clenched his fists. “Answer me, will you? By heck! You get snotty with me, you goddam bohunk, an' I'll tear your guts out an' beat you to death with 'em!”
     Dillon said, “I get you.”
     Strawn looked Myra over. “Well, sister, an' who're you?” he asked, eyeing her thoughtfully.