Ruby flinched instinctively as Mike Grady’s revolver appeared in the Saint’s fist, held for an instant with its muzzle pointed at the pawnbroker’s midriff, before Simon laid it on the counter.
“This gun,” said the Saint, “was pawned here a few days ago. Remember?”
The pawnbroker studied it a moment. His delicately curved brows lifted slightly, the tailored shoulders accompanying them upwards in the mere soupçon of a shrug.
He looked at Simon with eyes that had the blank unfocused quality of the blind.
“Whitey Mullins hocks it,” Hoppy amplified. “Ya know Whitey.”
“However, he didn’t claim it himself,” Simon went on. “Someone else did — a few days ago. I want to know who.”
“Who are you?” Ruby asked in his flat monotone. “What gives?”
Hoppy grabbed his shoulder in a bone-crushing clutch and, with his other hand, pointed a calloused digit directly under Simon’s nose.
“Dis,” he explained unmistakably, “is de Saint. When de boss asks ya a question, ya don’t talk back.”
Ruby shook off Hoppy’s paw and flicked imaginary contamination from where it had been. He looked back to the Saint.