“But Connie’s witness!”
“Of course. But Karl was drunk. He didn’t know what he was doing or saying. And he was kidding anyway. Karl’s a great little kidder. At least that’s what Spangler will say, and Karl will agree with him absolutely. Spangler may even fire him — in public anyway — for being a bad boy.” The Saint shrugged. “I wouldn’t bother about reporting it to the Commission, if I were you, Steve. Just go ahead and flatten the Angel. Tell the Commission afterwards.”
“No!” Connie cried. “Steve ought to report it first. Spangler shouldn’t be allowed to get away with it. He’s a crooked manager and it’s going to be a crooked fight!”
“I can take care of myself,” Nelson said irritably. “The fight’s going on, baby, come hell or high water. And I’m not going to get hurt. After all the good men I’ve fought, you have to worry about a stumble bum like the Angel!”
“Lookit, Champ,” Hoppy said proudly. “I got a idea.”
“What?”
“Whyncha tell de Doc you’ll take his proposition — cash in advance? Get de dough an’ den knock de fat slob for a homer. What’s wrong wit’ dat?”
“I’m afraid it would offer undesirable complications.” Simon vetoed amiably. “There are enough complications to straighten out as it is.” He pulled Mike Grady’s gun from his pocket. “This, for instance,” he said, and handed it, butt first, to Steve Nelson.
For the space of two seconds a startled stillness froze the room.
Then Nelson put out his hand slowly and took the weapon. He glanced at it, looked at the Saint a moment, then turned to meet Connie’s wide stare. Her eyes were dark with apprehension.