“For a pal,” Sammy said, waving his bottle, “anything in the whole wide world, as far south as Indianapolis. You don’t need to say a word. Since I bought this here place, I’m my own boss. Nobody bothers me. I can keep a guy under wraps here, but indefinitely.”
The Saint leaned back more comfortably. He nodded towards his prisoner.
“Ever seen Junior before?”
Sammy’s small eyes dug tiny holes in the specimen. “Uh-uh. He’s imported. Not one of the Chi boys. Though I could be wrong, at that, I guess. Where’d you blow from, bub?
“You go to hell,” Junior said unoriginally, but his voice cracked.
Sammy the Leg bellowed with laughter. “Tells me to go to hell! What a joker. Ja hear him?”
“A character,” the Saint said. “I’ve an idea he’s working for another character. Somebody called the King of the Beggars.”
“Look, pal,” Sammy said cautiously, “I don’t know from nothin’. I just rent rooms. Now I’m gonna take a walk. When you want me, ring that bell over there by you, Saint. Then I’ll put your chum under wraps for you. There’s more beer in the icebox.”
He grinned, and waddled out.
Simon listened to the tinkling of the beaded portière as it fell back into place. It jingled again as Sammy the Leg thrust his face back through it.