Free Dead Stay Dumb by James Hadley Chase Page B

feet. She held her hand to her head. The ground rose a little under her feet. She focused Dillon with difficulty. “You devil!” she said.
     Dillon hitched his trousers up and walked over to her. “Get out an' put some food together. You're here to work, see? I ain't havin' any hot air from you.”
     She looked over his shoulder at Gurney. “Think you're going to crawl in my bed after this, you yellow rat... you've got some chance.”
     Dillon said, “You shut up!”
     Gurney turned and went into the front room. He guessed Myra would give him hell for this. Dillon didn't take his eyes off Myra. He remembered the way she bounced Butch around. This dame was dangerous. Myra looked at him, her eyes hating him. “You ain't going to get away with this,” she said through her teeth. “I'll fix you, you dirty heel!”
     Dillon said, “Aw, can it!” He moved away, still keeping his eyes open.
     Myra hesitated, then walked into the front room. Gurney gave her a scared look, but she took no notice of him. She began to prepare the meal. She cut the ham into thick hunks, savagely sawing at the salty meat, and slapping the slices into the pan.
     Gurney expected her to cry. He guessed most dames would have folded up from a smack like that. Myra's face was white and set. A livid mark, where Dillon had hit her, burnt on her temple, and her eyes were stormy.
     Gurney said uneasily, “You ain't goin' to get nowhere, startin' to fight that guy.”
     Myra said nothing. She served the food, banging the plates on the table. Then, pouring herself out a cup of strong coffee, she went out into the sunshine and sat away from the cabin.
     Dillon came in, looked at the food and grunted. He sat down at the table and began to eat. Gurney sat down.
     “You gettin' sick of things?” Dillon said. There was a tense threat in his voice.
     Gurney slopped his coffee. “Me?... I ain't squealin',” he said hurriedly.
     Dillon jerked his head to where Myra was sitting. “I figgered maybe you put her up to that.”
     Gurney was round-eyed with innocence. “You got me wrong,” he said hurriedly. “You ain't got to worry about her. She's just mad at havin' nothin' to wear.”
     Dillon cut the ham up in small squares. “You have a talk with her... she'd better watch her step. I ain't standin' any buck from her—get it?”
     Gurney pushed his plate away and lit a cigarette. The food stuck in his throat. “Sure,” he said, “she's just a kid... you know, she don't mean a thing.”
     Dillon said evenly: “You tell her... unless you want me to give her a rub-down. You want to handle that broad... what you scared about? Why the hell don't you throw her on the bed?”
     Pushing back his chair, Gurney got to his feet. He mumbled something and went over to fix the stove.
     “I'm goin' to take the car out,” Dillon said, finishing his food and getting up. “I've a little job I wantta case Maybe you can do somethin' with it later.”
     Gurney looked at him uneasily, but said nothing.
     Myra watched the two men come out of the cabin and walk over to the shed where the car was garaged. She got up and went in, clearing the table and stacking the plates. She was still trembling with suppressed rage. She heard the car drive off, and she ran to the window. Dillon was sitting at the wheel.
     Gurney came in. “He's gone downtown,” he said.
     Myra sat down on the wooden bench under the window. “I want to talk to you,” she said, her words coming tense and harsh. “It's time you got wise to this guy.”
     Gurney scratched the back of his head. “I don't get this,” he said.
     “You ain't goin' to get anything from him. Don't you think it. He's got that scratch from Abe Goldberg... has he given you any? Not a chance! You're running around with him, an' he's