The Saint shrugged.
“He still might have made it. I figure that Karl got some of his pals together in a hurry after he left Steven’s place, and followed Hoppy and me when we left. I wouldn’t give him an alibi unless he punched a time clock. You certainly weren’t in shape to time everything to the minute.” He glanced at Whitey. “We’d better drop you off at a doctor’s so you can get that fixed up. How do you feel?”
“Oh, I’m okay, Saint,” Whitey minimised. He felt his blood-dotted head gingerly. “The slug took a li’l hair off, that’s all. Just drop me off at Kayo Jackson’s gym. I’ll wash up there.”
“It’s your noodle.” Simon swung the wheel to his left and cut westward towards Sixth Avenue.
“Did you mean it,” Whitey asked after a moment, “when you said you’d work with the Champ?”
The Saint fished a cigarette from his breast pocket and punched the dashboard lighter.
“You’re the trainer, Whitey.”
Whitey found a match in his pocket and struck it with his thumb, cupping the flame as he held it to the Saint’s cigarette.
“Kayo’ll go nuts when I tell him,” he grinned. “Wit’ you and the Champ workin’ out here together, we’ll pack ’em in.”
“At two bits a head,” Mr Uniatz mentioned, rather quickly for him. “So whaddas de boss get out of it?”