Dead Stay Dumb (3 page)

     Very softly he walked across to Myra and kissed her. Kissed her right under Butch's nose. Myra didn't dare stop him, but she went so white that he held her arm for a second.
     “What you doin'?” Butch asked. He stood there, his head on one side, straining his ears.
     “I'm on my way,” Gurney grinned. “'Bye, Myra; take care of your Pa.”
     He went away, grinning.
     Myra slipped into the kitchen. Her heart was thumping hard against her ribs. The crazy loon, she thought, to do a thing like that. She stood quite still, in the middle of the untidy kitchen, holding her breasts tightly, her eyes half closed, thinking of him.
      
     The town took an interest in Dillon. Abe noticed that trade picked up when Dillon was in the store. The women came in to look at him. They had heard about Walcott. A guy who could hit like that must have plenty of steam. Any guy with steam made the women in Plattsville a little light-headed.
     They got a shock when they saw Dillon, but they wouldn't admit they were disappointed. They had hoped to see a Clark Gable, and Dillon's clay-like face and cold expressionless eyes startled them. They told one another that he was a bad man, and they kept on coming in to have another look at him.
     The men in Plattsville got sour about it. They said anyone could have smacked Walcott down; he was a cheap punk and didn't amount to anything.
     They were talking about Dillon in the saloon when Gurney came in. They broke off. Gurney stopped most talk wherever he went. They wanted to know how Sankey was shaping.
     Freedman pushed his way forward. “H'yah, Nick,” he said, “what you havin'?”
     Gurney was used to this sort of thing. He couldn't place Freedman, but that didn't worry him. He said, “Rye, straight.”
     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.
     She screamed at him: “You dirty sonofabitch! My Pa will bash you for this!”
     Abe stood in the doorway, his eyes popping out of his head. “What's going on?” he asked.
     Myra spun round. “You're crazy to have that bum in here. He's been insulting me—”
     Dillon came round the counter with a quick shuffle. He took hold of Myra and ran her to the door, then he swung his arm and smacked her viciously across her buttocks, sending her skidding into the street. Myra didn't stop— she ran.
     Abe tore his hair. “What the hell do you think you're doing?” he squeaked. “That's Butch Hogan's daughter. The old man'll raise the dead about this.”
     Dillon came back into the store. “Forget it,” he said. “I'm about sick of these goddam bitches starin' at me. Maybe they'll leave me alone for a while.”
     Abe, bursting with impotent fury, forgot his fear of Dillon. He spluttered, “An' what about my business? What are people goin' to say? They ain't comin' here to be roughed around. This is goin' to ruin me.”
     Dillon pushed him away and walked into the kitchen. Abe followed him, still shouting.
     “Aw, forget it,” Dillon snarled. “This ain't goin' to hurt your business. I bet that little chippy is as popular in this burg as a bad smell. This ain't goin' to get round the town. A kid like that ain't goin' to let on she's just had her fanny smacked.... Forget it.”
      
     They all sat on Butch's verandah and waited for Dillon to come. The moon was just appearing above the black silhouetted trees, throwing sharp white beams on the windows of the house.
     Upstairs, Myra crouched by the window, also waiting for Dillon. Her eyes, red with weeping, remained in a fixed stare on the road beneath her. Her whole being curled with hate. Her mind seethed.
     Butch shifted a little in his chair. “Who the hell's this fella?” he asked suddenly, asking the same question that the others were pondering about in their minds.
     “I don't know,” Gurney said. “Maybe he can get us outta this jam. I thought it might be worth tryin'.”
     Hank said from the darkness: “Sankey's in a terrible state. He don't say anything, but just sits around an' broods. Franks's got him tied up.”
     Out of the darkness Dillon came up the verandah steps. Even Myra, who had been watching the road, hadn't heard him or seen him.
     The four men sat still, looking at him. Then Gurney said, “This is Dillon.”
     Butch got to his feet. He moved round the small table, on which stood a bottle and glasses. He held out his hand. “So you're Dillon, the fight-fixer?” There was a faint sneer in his voice.
     Dillon looked him over, looked at his hand and ignored it.
     Butch moved his great paw impatiently. “Gimme your hand,” he said. “I wantta see what kind of a guy you are.”
     A gleam came into Dillon's eyes. He put his hand in Butch's. Then Butch squeezed. The tremendous muscles of his forearm swelled as he put all his strength into a crushing grip. The sweat suddenly jumped out of Dillon's face. He shifted his feet, then swung a punch at Butch with his left, coming up and hitting. Butch in his thick throat. It thumped into Butch like a cleaver into beef. Butch reeled back, making a croaking sound. Gurney sprang to his feet and saved him from going over.
     Dillon stood flexing his ringers. “That's the kind of a guy I am,” he said evenly.
     Butch put his fingers to his throat. He sat down a little heavily. No one had hit him so hard since he left the resin. He said, when he got his breath, “This guy's okay, he can punch.”
     Dillon came a little nearer. “Suppose we get inside where I can see you.”
     They went inside without a word. Dillon stood by the window. He said, “Sit down.”
     Gurney said, “There's some booze outside, want any?”
     Dillon looked at him. “I don't use it. Forget it! This is important. Franks has got your boy on the run. You're all backing Sankey for a win. Sankey ain't goin' to win unless Franks is so goddam bad that a child could push him around. That right?”
     Gurney nodded. “I guess that's about it.”
     “Any of you guys got any dough?”
     They looked at Morgan, a thin, cruel-faced little man who looked like a jock. He said, “Maybe I could find some.”
     “I'll fix this fight for five hundred bucks,” Dillon said. A little sigh went round the room. Gurney shook his head. “That's too much,” he said.
     Dillon rubbed the back of his neck. “You mugs dumb?” he said. “I said I'd fix this fight, and I mean fix it. Your man'll win You can back him for any money You can't lose.”
     Morgan leant forward. “I guess I'd like to know just who you are, mister,” he said.
     Dillon looked at him under his eyelids. “Maybe you'd like to know a lot of things... you ain't got to worry about me. I've done this sorta thing before What's it to be?”
     Morgan looked at the other three. Butch nodded. “We'll come on in with you,” he said.
     Morgan shrugged. “Okay,” he said. “I'll pay the money when Sankey's won.”
     Dillon showed his teeth. “You'll bet that five hundred bucks on Sankey for me. An' you'll lay the dough when I tell you.”
     Morgan thought a moment, then said, “Fair enough.” The four men began to catch some of Dillon's confidence.