The Saint had a better idea. He wound a piece of wire several times around Junior’s thumbs and twisted the ends tight.
“There,” he said, stepping back and beaming down at Junior. “He’s safe as houses. Besides, we may need the rope later to hang him.”
The captive remained silent, his thin, pinched face sulkily intent on the carpet. Aside from the fact that he rather strikingly resembled a rat, he had few distinguishing characteristics.
“All right,” the Saint said. “Keep an eye on him, Hoppy. Kick his protruding teeth in if he tries to get up.”
He moved to a side table and did things lovingly with ice and bourbon. But his eyes kept returning to the beggar woman.
She had come alive. There was no other word for it. Even under the patched and threadbare dress her body had shed thirty years. And her eyes were no longer dull.
She said, “You’re the Saint, aren’t you?”
Simon said, “You’re one up on me. I don’t know your name... yet.”
“I recognised you. That’s why I came along.”
“What will you have?”