“De doity lowsers,” he rumbled. “Who wuz it, boss?” The Saint had no answer, but if he had, it would have been interrupted by the yelp of the curly-haired young man peering pallidly from behind the edge of the pawnshop doorframe.
“Get the hell away from here!” he bawled, with a shrill vibrato in his voice. “Get yourselves knocked off some other place.”
Hoppy turned on him redly, like a buffalo preparing to charge, but Simon grabbed one beefy bicep and yanked him back on his heels.
“Stop it, you damn fool!” he snapped. “Don’t take it out on him!”
He stepped to the doorway, drawing the knife strapped to his forearm.
From within the pawnshop Ruby’s voice, strident with fear, screeched, “Come in here and so help me God, I’ll blast ya!” Simon spotted him crouching behind a counter, goggling over the sights of a sawed-off shotgun. He thrust out a knee as a barrier to Hoppy’s impulsive acceptance of the challenge, and began working quickly.
He was aware of the scared faces starting to peer out of windows, of people moving out of doorways and peeping around corners. A crowd seemed to be converging from every direction, drawn by the shots and the wildfire smell of excitement. In a few seconds he cut out one of the bullets imbedded in the doorframe. He dropped the scarred slug in his pocket and moved away.
“Let’s get out of here,” said the Saint, taking Hoppy’s arm. “I still think it would be a social error to be arrested on Sixth Avenue, even if they have tried to change the name to ‘Avenue of the Americas.’ ”
Chapter ten
“Who done it?” Mr Uniatz asked once more, his neanderthaloid countenance still furrowed with the remnants of rage.