Benny, in this case, being James Prather.
Maybe. In any case, it was vital to learn what these boys knew. What cares had they while sailing the seven (Seven? the Saint could think of nine, offhand) seas? What errands run, what messages carried? Where they unwitting or willing tools of — of whom?
That was the question.
And so the Saint said, in an effort to relax Sam Jeffries' upraised black brows and Joe Hyman's corrugated forehead: "Do you want to see my union card?"
This had not the desired effect on Joe's forehead, but Sam grinned sheepishly.
"That you're her agent? Naw, I guess not. Maybe I was a little quick on the draw, but I seen times when to be slow was to be too damned slow. Look, Mister, I'm sorry, I guess. What say we forget it?"
"Would you like to shake lefthanded," Simon asked pleasantly, "or would you like to put away that postage stamp pistol?"
Sam dropped it into his jacket pocket, grinned anew, and gave Simon a hand that was hard as iron.
"Less just have fun, Saint."
"A pleasure, Sam."