“For crize sake! Hoppy Uniatz!”
They practically fell into each other’s arms.
“Well, well, well,” the Saint drawled. “Old Home Week. Perhaps you two would like to be alone?”
“Are you de Masked Angel?” Hoppy burbled with hoarse delight. “You?”
“Yea, sure, Hoppy, dat’s me!”
“Boss, dis is Barrelhouse Bilinski. Barrelhouse, meet de Saint!”
“Ged oudda here!”
Karl’s voice rose half a decibel, his right hand sliding toward a pocket.
“I wouldn’t if I were you, comrade.” The Saint smiled deprecatingly, a glint in his eyes like summer lightning in a blue sky. His hand was thrust negligently in a pocket of his beautifully tailored sports jacket. “I’d hate having to put a hole through this coat, but your navel is such a tempting target.”
Karl’s hand dropped to his side.