“No papers, no licence. Ten bucks and no questions asked is pretty good these days.”
“I haven’t been following the market lately,” Simon confessed. “Where did you hock it?”
The trainer lifted his derby and thoughtfully massaged the bald spot in his straw-coloured hair with two fingers of the same hand.
“It’s a place off Sixth Avenue, as I recall,” he said finally, dropping his chapeau back on its accustomed perch. “’Neath Forty-Fourth. The Polar Bear Trading and Loan Company.”
The Saint picked up the gun again.
“Thanks. I may need this a bit longer — if nobody minds.” He slipped it into his pocket and glanced at Nelson. He said inconsequentially, “I wouldn’t do any boxing until that hand heals, Steve.”
Whitey’s eyes flashed to the hand Steve Nelson had been carrying palm upwards to conceal the raw gash along its back. He swore softly as he examined it.
“It’s just a scratch,” Nelson scoffed. “I was going to take care of it before we left.”
“The next time our friend Karl visits you,” Simon advised him, “don’t give him a chance to touch you. That finger jewellery he wears is more dangerous than brass knuckles.”
“Karl!” Whitey turned with outraged incredulity. “He was here.”