“I know,” Simon nodded. “And you put him back on his feet; gave him a job at the Queensbury Gym.”
“The best damn masseur I ever had!”
“Very likely. He was an MD before they took away his licence for peddling dope.” Simon consulted his cigarette ash. “Mike, you even advanced him money to go into business as a fight manager, didn’t you?”
Grady stirred impatiently.
“Well, what of it?” he demanded. “When I got this job here at the Arena I gave up the gym. Doc didn’t want to work there without me, so I loaned him a couple of grand.”
“For which he gave you a share in Barrelhouse Bilinski as collateral.”
“Well—” Grady chuckled, but his humour was laciniated with unease. “It didn’t seem like much collateral at the time. He wasn’t the Masked Angel then, you know.”
“I know.”
“Well, then,” Grady said, spreading his square freckled hands expressively, “you know how good Spangler is. A great fighter he’s made out of a broken-down stumble bum.”
The Saint shook his head sadly.