“I gave it to Whitey to get rid of,” she said. “I told him to drop it in the river!”
“I know Whitey,” said Mr Uniatz. “He’s a good trainer, Champ.”
“He’s my manager too, now,” Nelson said.
Simon stroked the ash-tray with the end of his cigarette, clearing the glowing end.
“Since when?” he inquired.
“We signed the papers yesterday.” Nelson turned back to Connie. “Whitey never said anything about you giving him the gun.”
“Why should he? I just told him to get rid of it and not say anything to anybody.”
“Whitey’s okay,” Mr Uniatz insisted, to make his point absolutely clear. “He can do ya a lotta good.”
“Sure,” Nelson asserted moodily, “and he’s honest — which is a damn sight more than you can say for most of ’em — not that your dad isn’t honest, honey,” he amended quickly. “We never quarrelled over that.”
The Saint drew his trimmed cigarette end to a fresh glow.