“Christ, no! Why should he? Annew know something? You know what I’d do if any cop came near me?”
“What would you do?”
“I’d poke him right in the eye!”
“Let’s have another drink,” said the Saint.
Flane picked up his drink when it came and focused on it with intense deliberation. He held it rather like a binnacle holds a ship’s compass, rocking under and around it but holding it in miraculously isolated suspension.
“That son of a bitch,” he said. “I coulda fixed him.”
“How?”
“I coulda put him right in the can.”
“What for?”
“For quail!”