James Chase: The Dead Stay Dumb

George lumbered along the counter with the bottle and glass. He left it at Gurney’s elbow.

Freedman said, “Your boy okay?”

Gurney poured himself out a shot and tossed it down his throat. He said, “Sure, he’s all right.”

“I got my money on him,” Freedman said. “I’d like to see him win.”

“He’s goin’ to win, you see.”

Wilson lounged to the bar. “Franks ain’t so bad,” he said; “I guess I fancy Franks.”

Gurney looked him over. Just a small-town wise-guy he thought, maybe not so small-town. He said, “Hell, someone’s got to back him.”

The others laughed.

Wilson’s face reddened angrily. “Yeah?” he said. “Sankey’s gettin’ nerves. That guy’s goin’ to be stiff before he gets in there. Franks’ll beat hell out of him.”

Gurney turned to fill his glass. He thought this line of talk wouldn’t get him anywhere. He tapped Wilson on his coat-front. “Get wise, sucker,” he said. “Ain’t you heard of a front? Sankey’s full of tricks. This is one of ’em. Listen, Sankey could whip Franks blindfolded. He’s springing a surprise for that palooka. Get your dough on the right man.”

Wilson began to lose confidence. “That straight?” he asked; “that on the level?”

Gurney winked at Freedman. “He asks me it it’s straight? Me! Take him away someone an’ bury him.”

Freedman said, “I’d like your boy to push this Dillon around. That’s what that bastard wants.”

Gurney raised his eyebrows. “Dillon? Who’s he?”

They jostled one another to tell him. Gurney stood, his shoulders against the wall, a glass in his hand, and listened. He said at last, “Abe ain’t no fool This guy can’t be so bad.”

Freedman said, “He’s got Goldberg tooled.”

Gurney was getting sick of Freedman. He straightened his coat, leant forward over the counter, and adjusted his hat in the wall mirror. “I gotta see Abe; I’ll look this guy over.”

Freedman made as if to go with him. Gurney checked him with a look. “This is a little matter of business,” he said.

Freedman said, “Sure, you go ahead.” He said it hastily. He didn’t want to get in bad with Gurney.

Crossing the street, Gurney entered the store. It was the slack part of the day, and the place was empty. Dillon came out from the back, and stood with his hands resting on the counter, framed by two towers of tinned foods. He was wearing one of Abe’s store suits that fitted him in places, and his face was close-shaven. He didn’t look the hobo that had come into Plattsville a few days back. He looked at Gurney from under his eyelids. A cold, suspicious stare. Gurney thought he might be a mean sort of a guy.

“Abe about?” he asked.

Dillon shook his head. “He’s out,” he said briefly.

“Too bad. I wanted to see Abe.” Gurney fidgeted a little. Dillon made him a little uneasy.

“Will he be long?” he said after a pause.

“Maybe.” Dillon began to edge away into the darkness of the store.

Gurney thought he’d try a little probing. He said: “You’re new around here.”

Dillon rubbed his forearm. He still looked at Gurney from under his eyelids. “You’re the guy who’s runnin’ Sankey, ain’t you?” he said.

Gurney swelled a little. “That’s me,” he said.

“What’s the matter with him?”

“Matter? Nothin’. What d’you mean?”

“You know. That guy’s gone yellow. What’s eatin’ him?”

Gurney paused, uncertain. Then he said, “Listen, I don’t like that line of talk.”

Dillon wandered out from behind the counter, he still rubbed his forearm. “Don’t ‘big shot’ me,” he said. “I said what’s the matter with him?”

Again Gurney felt uneasy. The dangerous, savage power in Dillon conveyed itself to him.

“Franks got him jittery,” he said reluctantly.

Dillon nodded. “He goin’ to win?”

“Sankey? I guess not.” Gurney frowned. “I gotta lotta dough on that boy.”

“I guess I could fix it,” Dillon said, watching him closely.

“You?” Gurney looked incredulous.

“Sure, why not?” Dillon lounged to the door and looked into the street, then he came back again.

“What d’you know about fixin’ fights?” Gurney asked suspiciously.

“Plenty,” Dillon told him, then, after a pause, he added: “I’m lookin’ for a chance to break into the dough again.”

Gurney was getting more than interested. “Suppose you come on out an’ see Butch tonight? I’d like you to meet Butch Hogan.”

“Hogan?” Dillon thought a moment. “That the old ex-champ?”

“That’s the guy. He lives just outside the town now. Blind he is—a tough break for a guy like that.”

“Yeah,” Dillon nodded his head, “a tough break.”

“Will you be along?”

“I guess so. Any other guys interested in Sankey?”

“There’s Hank, he trains him, an’ there’s Al Morgan, who manages for him.”

“Tell ’em both to come. Not Sankey; he’d better keep out of it.”

Gurney said, “I’ll take you along tonight.”

Dillon shook his head. “I’ll be there,” he said; “you don’t got to worry about me.”

He walked back behind the counter, leaving Gurney standing uncertain in the middle of the store. Then Gurney walked out into the bright sunlight. This guy Dillon got him beat. There was somethin’ phoney about him. He was no hobo, he could tell that. This guy was used to handling men. He said a thing and expected the thing done. He scared Gurney a little.

He was so busy thinking about Dillon that he didn’t see Myra walking down the street. Myra hastened her steps, but Gurney was already climbing into the car, and before she could call to him he had driven away.

Myra was quite pleased he hadn’t seen her. She had taken some trouble in dressing. Her flowered dress had been washed and ironed. Maybe it had shrunk a shade, but that didn’t worry her. She knew it showed off her figure. Her thick black hair glistened in the sunlight, and was dressed low in her neck. The seams of her imitation silk stockings were straight, and her shoes shone. She was going to have a look at Dillon.

She’d heard about Dillon the day he had moved in, but she had purposely waited until he had seen all the women in Plattsville. She thought it was time now to give him an eyeful. Walking down the street, she knew she was good. She knew the men turned their heads, and she guessed that she was going over big with this Dillon.

She walked into the empty store, clicking her heels sharply on the wooden floor. Purposely, she stood in the patch of sunlight flooding the doorway. She’d seen that trick worked before, and with her thin dress she knew she was showing plenty.

Dillon looked up. “I’ve seen it before,” he said, “it ain’t anythin’ new. Come out of the light.”

If he had struck her she couldn’t have been more furious. Automatically she moved a few paces into the shadow, then she said, “What kind of a cheap crack do you think that is?”

Dillon shitted a wad of gum from one side of his mouth to the other. “What do you want?” he said.

“A real live salesman, ain’t you?” she said, gripping her purse hard. “If you want to keep your job you gotta do better than that.”

Dillon said, “Skip it. I ain’t listening to big-mouth talk from a kid with hot pants. Get what you want and blow.”

Myra took three quick steps forward and aimed a slap at Dillon’s face. She was nearly sobbing with rage. Dillon reached up and caught her wrist. “Be your age,” he said; “you ain’t in the movies.”

She stood there, helpless in his grip, loathing his hard eyes. “I’ll tell my Pa about you,” was all she could say.

He threw her arm away from him, spinning her into the centre of the store. “Scram, I tell you,” he said.