Dead Stay Dumb by James Hadley Chase Page A

The admiration in his voice pleased Dillon.
     “Listen, bozo,” Dillon said. “This country's nuts. Every goddam flatfoot has to buy his own rod. They give him everything else, but not his gun. He has to lay down cash for it. Okay; there comes a time when a sheriff gives over, see? Maybe he gives over 'cause he's too old, or maybe he's sick or somethin'. Well, that guy wants to buy a business or a farm or live on his savings. What the hell does he want with a gun? What's he to do then? Some guy blows in an' makes him an offer. He gets an offer twice as good as he'd get if he turned the rod over to a gunsmith. It ain't legal sellin' Thompsons to anyone, but what the hell? He's out for good, so he should worry.”
     Gurney said, “You got this from a sheriff?” His voice was incredulous.
     Dillon nodded. “Sure I did.” He reached forward and picked up the .45. “I went into town today an' got talkin'. Some guy said the sheriff in the next town was closin' down, so I grabbed the car an' went out to see him. That little lot set me back a good few bucks, but that ain't goin' to worry me. A Tommy talks any time.”
     Myra recognized this much. Dillon knew the ropes. Gurney wasn't in the same street with him for ideas. He knew where to-get things and how to get them. This guy could teach them something.
     She said, making her voice soft, “I guess that's smart.”
     Dillon looked at her hard, but Myra's eyes were wide with admiration. He grunted. “I guess I know my way around,” he said.
     “Can you work this?” Gurney said, tapping the Thompson.
     Dillon stood up. “Can I work it?” He picked it up and walked outside. “You watch me.”
     Myra and Gurney followed him out. They did not look at each other, but Myra put her hand on Gurney's arm, gripping his muscle. Gurney nodded his head, still keeping his eyes on Dillon's back.
     Dillon looked round thoughtfully, selecting a target. “You ain't got to worry about aimin' this gun, he said; “you spray it, see? You just gotta hold it steady an' bring it round slow in a sweep... like this.”
     He raised the gun, levelling it at the garage door, then he pressed the trigger. The shattering roar of the gun made Myra take an involuntary step backwards. Chips of white wood flew from the door. From where they stood they could see the holes spring up in the woodwork in an even line.
     Dillon stopped firing and turned to look at them. “See?” he said. “That's the way. This gun's goin' to stop anythin' on two legs.”
     Myra came over to him. “I bet I could do that,” she said.
     Dillon looked down at her, hesitating. Then his good-humour overcame his caution. He gave the gun to her. “You gotta hold her.”
     Myra pressed the butt into her side, her finger curling round the trigger, then she squeezed. The gun jumped about in her hand as if it were alive. The dry mud puffed up and the leaves from the trees overhanging the garage fell in a shower; she winged the door twice.
     Dillon said, “Take it easy... you gotta hold that gun.”
     Gurney was itching to try. He looked at Dillon, trying to catch his eye. Myra held the gun, looking at it thoughtfully, then she shoved it in Gurney's hands.
     Dillon scowled. “Hey,” he said, “those shells cost dough!”
     Gurney was not to be put off. He raised the gun and fired off a round. The wood splinters again spurted. He could see he'd drawn a line of holes almost as well as Dillon.
     Myra said, “You ain't so good as this guy.”
     That pleased Dillon. Anyway, that's why she said it. He took the gun from Gurney and walked back to the cabin Gurney followed close behind him.
     They both sat and watched Dillon clean the gun. Every now and then Myra would ask a question. She asked it in a way that touched Dillon's vanity. He talked all right. They