Capture the Saint

1

The beast tightly twisted her hair, and she clenched her teeth to keep from screaming.

The Saint heard a car door slam to his right, and his peripheral vision glimpsed another bulky skinhead lean against a late model fender. A scurry of small footsteps on blacktop indicated Alisdare, breathless and agitated, was coming down the drive. By now, Simon reasoned, Salvadore had either found the shotgun or reloaded the .45.

“Tell you what, Snookums,” offered Simon generously, “I’ll make you a trade — your life for the lady. Either that or I shoot all three of you and be done with it. Personally, I would opt for the latter, but multiple bodies are so hard to explain to the authorities now days, and what with the rising costs of iron clad alibis...”

“Enough!” It was Alisdare, dripping with perspiration and leveling a re-loaded shotgun. “What’s going on here?”

The little man’s piggy eyes bounced back and forth between the captive Viola and the armed Saint.

“This young lady is obviously taking her gorilla out for an airing,” answered Simon, squinting dramatically down the sight of the .38, “apparently unaware of the bounty on exceptionally ugly gorillas.”

Alisdare stared at Viola, studied her face, and understood the unsavory implications of her disarray.

“What the hell have you done to this woman?”

“Nothin’, honest,” objected Snookums, “I didn’t do nothin’ like it looks. She’s that Berkman dame, the one with the street kids, we found her hangin’ around the edge of the property. It’s just that she fought like a tiger when we grabbed her.”

Alisdare turned to the two overweight back-ups.They each nodded uncomfortable confirmation.

“Put away the knife, stupid,” Alisdare ordered and the giant reluctantly complied.

The sweat-drenched oligarch pointed the shotgun directly at Simon’s head and cocked the hammers. Simon’s finger increased tension on the .38’s trigger.

“We can stand here like this all night if you like,” murmured Simon. He glanced down the long barrel of Alisdare’s weapon into the eye’s of drug-fueled madness and delusions of grandeur.

“I could call the Sheriff and report those boys of yours as intruders and vandals, you know,” insisted Salvadore, prodding the twin barrels at the Saint’s face. “I could have them arrested and prosecuted for trespassing. I’m a respected businessman around here. People trust me.”

As Alisdare believed himself to be absolutely inerrant, Simon felt it best under the circumstances not to contradict him.

“Of course people trust you. Who can blame them? You can also trust me to fire every last round in this 38 before you figure out how to take the safety off that shotgun.”

Alisdare’s eyes immediately locked on the stock, searching for the safety release. His attention thus diverted, Simon’s left hand soared suddenly from his hip and snatched the weapon from Salvadore’s pudgy hands.

“Thank you,” said the Saint graciously, and he deftly allowed two shotgun shells to drop in the dirt before handing the empty weapon back to his astonished would-be captor. “We all feel much safer now.”

Vi, delighted at the sudden turn of events, dashed to his side.

“Let’s get out of here, Saint,” Vi was pulling at his sleeve, prompting him to enter the BMW.

“We’re not going anywhere,” said Simon, and his emphatic inflection surprised her. “No, we’re not going anywhere at all. You see, Mr Alisdare and I still have unfinished business regarding your pal Talon.” The Saint turned his attention and the .38 towards Salvadore, “Isn’t that right, partner?”

Alisdare’s vocal cords felt akin to stale beef jerky, but he managed to rasp out a rough affirmative response and contort his mouth in an abstract interpretation of a conciliatory smile.

The Saint stepped back slightly and considered the situation’s dynamics. Alisdare sweated on his left, Snookums and an unnamed accomplice stood silhouetted in front of him, and the fourth man leaned lazily against his car’s fender attempting to appear invisible. Milo and the two injured thugs were nowhere in sight.

“I have a wonderful suggestion,” offered the Saint happily, “In fact, its a brilliant suggestion. Let’s all go back to the house and have a cup of hot cocoa.”

“I beg your pardon?” Alisdare was incredulous.

“Simon...” Vi spoke his name out of reflex and nothing more.

The Saint spun the .38 as would a cowboy hero and smiled broadly at the confused assemblage.

“Here we are, a delightful group of adults with similar concerns. Why should we terrorize each other in the moonlight when we can consult comfortably back at the house?”

Simon tossed the question out to the group as if they were top-level executives at a respectable board meeting.

“Do I hear a second to the motion?” Simon stopped spinning the gun and leveled it at Alisdare.

“You have a point, Mr Templar,” acknowledged Salvadore reluctantly. He shook his impotent shotgun. “Besides, for the moment you seem to have more power of persuasion.”

The Saint walked over to Alisdare, threw his left arm around the little man’s shoulders, and gave him an affectionate squeeze while poking the revolver into his ribs.

“I knew we could all get along,” said Simon victoriously, “Now, let’s toodle over to the enclave and swap motivations, shall we?”

Salvadore squirmed his poochie tummy away from the .38.

“Can’t we dispense with this gun business?” asked Alisdare nervously. In a worthless gesture, he tossed the empty shotgun to the ground.

The Saint, still hugging his duck-like prisoner, loosed a joyous laugh and turned to the bedraggled Viola.

“Whatcha say, Vi? Shall we let bygones be bygones, mend fences, forget the past, bury the hatchet, embrace these malcontents as if they were our dearest friends?”

Vi blinked against the glare of her BMW’s headlights. She had no idea what Simon was up to.

“Very well,” pronounced the Saint, and he suddenly tossed the .38 over Vi’s head towards the fender-warming skinhead. There was a collective gasp of disbelief as all eyes followed the weapon’s tumbling mid-air arc and precision descent into the silent thug’s outstretched hand.

“Nice catch,” Simon commented appreciatively, “given an opportunity, you could have been major league instead of minor character.”

Vi Berkman bit her lip and all but burst into tears. Had she caught the gun, she would have been tempted to shoot Simon herself.

“Come now, Salvadore,” prompted the Saint as he pulled Alisdare towards the BMW, “I’ll drive you and the bedraggled damsel back to the house in Germanic luxury; Snookums and the crew can ride with Mr Major League. Of course, you’ll explain to Milo and the boys that a cease fire is in effect.”

With the Saint unarmed, Snookums and the beefy henchmen glanced at each other in confusion. Alisdare, equally caught off-guard by the Saint’s sudden discarding of the .38, had yet to make response. Vi, however, immediately headed for the passenger door. The giant temporarily blocked her way, but as he was incapable of independent thought in the presence of Salvadore Alisdare, she brushed him aside, entered the idling auto’s back seat and began reaching for her purse.

Snookums, although slow to respond, had painful memories of her purse’s more acerbic contents. Prompted by the recollection, he yanked the door open behind her and clasped his strong grip on her thin wrist.

“Not so fast, lady.”

Vi considered struggling, but she was as familiar with futility as Snookums was with the contents of her canister.

“I’ll ride here,” announced the beast, and he managed to fold himself into the backseat’s confines.

When Simon and Salvadore approached the vehicles’s front, Alisdare separated himself from the Saint and directed the remaining men to take the other car.

Major League spun the .38’s cylinder and uttered his first line of dialog — an elongated expletive of one sylable stretched to imply several, followed by the disclosure that Simon Templar, alias the Saint, had held them at bay with an empty revolver.

“Oh, you finally noticed,” chirped Simon, “I guess we’re all about as disarmed as we can be, except for the .45 under Salvadore’s shirt.”

Alisdare was fumbling for the automatic even as Simon spoke, but the Saint slid behind the wheel with charactistic self-assurance.

“Put that away before you hurt yourself,” advised Simon, “Get in and sit down.”

Viola Berkman, through a veil of tears, saw Salvadore Alisdare do exactly that. The BMW’s dome light remained on as Alisdare entered, and when she looked desperately at the Saint, his smile was the one reassuringly resplendent ray of sunshine in what was for her a most dark and depressing situation.

The way Vi Berkman tells it, Simon Templar’s performance that evening was nothing short of astounding. It was not, however, a performance. Simon Templar was simply being the Saint — maddeningly mischevious, mercurially manipulative, and ultimately heroic.

He remained disconcertingly untroubled during the brief transport back to Alisdare’s domicile. Even the obligatory shoves by Snookums on the way into the house didn’t phase him. Arraigned before his unsavory host, there was nothing but mocking laughter in those clear blue eyes and hell-for-leather delight in his radiant countenance. Despite recent forays into rough and tumble fisticuffs, his clothing appeared as fresh and unruffled as his demeanor.

The Saint in a tight corner had even been the most entrancing and delightful sight in the world, and not a shadow of uneasiness darkened the Saint’s brow as he crossed the threshold into Alisdare’s informal dining room. The two damaged thugs were at the small kitchen table doctoring their wounds while Milo spat blood into the sink. They growled like dogs on chains when Simon gave them a friendly wave.

The agitated host paced back and forth with a grandiosity which, considering his unimpressive physical attributes, seemed strangely reminiscent of any number of would-be tin-pot dictators who’s egos and ambitions towered over their morality.

In this alternate reality of armed order-takers, lackeys, and drug manufacturers, Salvadore Alisdare reigned with Napoleonic presence. But both men were standing, and Simon was taller.

The Saint’s poise had never been more easy and debonair, nor the chilled steel masked more deceptively in the mocking depths of his sapphire eyes, than it was as he stood there smiling as if he were an honored industrialist accepting an award from the Chamber of Commerce.

Salvadore Alisdare’s dilated pupils fixed steadily on the Saint. He didn’t like what he saw.

“Sit down,” he ordered, and the Saint glanced at Viola, flanked by Snookums and Major League, before sliding out one of the straight back chairs from the table and offering it chivalrously.

Alisdare winced and allowed Vi to join Simon at the table before walking over and positioning himself above the Saint. He enjoyed the view, and Simon watched a twisted snarl distort the little man’s lips. Alisdare’s ears turned crimson when the Saint smiled warmly and fluttered his eyelashes.

Snookums and the two others hung back against the wall smirking as their commander continued to pace.

“Take a load off your tiny feet and join me in conversation,” suggested the Saint, “I think an honest evaluation of our mutual positions will bring us once again to conclusions not far from those previously outlined.”

His captor stopped pacing and sat down at the head of the table.

“Who’s in control now, Mr Saint?” gloated Alisdare. “Where now are your threats and bravado?”

Simon flicked a piece of lint from his immaculate trousers and smiled the smile of the unconcerned.

“Right in front of you as before,” responded the Saint honestly, “I don’t see how anything has changed, except your ears seem to be losing their rosy glow.”

Salvadore banged his fist on the table in a weak show of intended strength. His hand hurt, but he concealed his discomfort.

“I am in control,” asserted Alisdare, “that’s what’s changed. I have captured you, outwitted you...” the little man’s mastery of verbiage exhausted itself quickly.

“Poo-poo,” stated Simon, “I would characterize the situation differently. Here we sit, two businessmen with similar interests. Why, earlier tonight you were extolling my virtues and insisting we could work marvelously together. Now, I admit to being somewhat pushy when I first arrived, but let’s ascribe that to my haphazard upbringing. Had you not raised such a ruckus and been so reticent to release those two boys, we would be toasting our profitable friendship by now. After all, I could have left your lovely estate had that been my intention, so don’t think I only hung around because of her.” Simon pointed towards Vi without bothering to watch her reaction. “The contents of your safe are still with my gang, Talon remains my primary target, and that .22 with your prints on it will soon be joining the archives. You have me, but I also have you. In a way, we’re even. There is no reason why we cannot reach an amicable arrangement.”

Alisdare eyed the Saint with contempt.

“You storm into my house, terrorize me, kick down doors, smash windows, shoot people, and all this after I have paid you ten thousand dollars. Where is your gratitude, Mr Templar?”

“Beneath the waves of Neah Bay,” answered the Saint.

Alisdare smoldered before spitting out his next sentence.

“I’ll take back my ten thousand dollars. That should cover the damage you’ve inflicted on my house and amend for your rudeness.”

“The damage has yet to begin in earnest,” advised Simon helpfully, “and my rudeness is worth far more than ten grand. I really must put in more time on the pistol range,” remarked Simon as he glanced toward the kitchen, “I can’t believe I only clipped such a large and ugly target. Besides, I can’t hand back the loot, old fruit, I gave it to Little Buzzy to pay for a new hair style. Although,” the Saint looked Alisdare directly in the eye as if what he was about to say was meant for him alone, “even with that haircut, she looks like a good deal of fun, and I have always been an outspoken advocate of old fashioned fun as an accompaniment to newly acquired wealth.”

Vi choked and Snookums laughed either at the off-color implications or Simon’s blatant bravado. The Saint’s smile was now neither mocking nor insulting, it was the sly grin of a man whose moral fabric was cut from lesser cloth than his wardrobe. Salvadore’s face flushed slightly and his eyes wandered. Simon could see the chemically greased wheels turning. Talon’s proclivities, encouraged and photographed by Alisdare, put the adipose detective directly under his thumb. If the Saint were subject to similar temptations and unsavory pastimes, he could be similarly ensnared or creatively distracted.

Alisdare attempted deep thoughts, but his success was spotty at best. His brow furrowed and eyes narrowed.

“Yes, Little Buzzy,” said Salvadore coldly. His attention suddenly snapped to Snookums. “Where is Buzzy? I told you to bring her here. Where is she?”

“She wasn’t where she usually hangs out,” explained the giant, “not the donut shop by Elmo’s, or the old Penny’s building, none of em, maybe Talon’s got her...”

Vi’s voice, trembling with anger, sliced through their conversation.

“What do you perverts want with that girl? Haven’t you done enough damage to her already? She’s just a child and you’re filthy scum.”

Major League guffawed crudely behind her.

“Hell, she didn’t act like no little kid with me,” he bragged offensively, “give her enough dope and she’ll do anything, anything that is except stop bragging about her imaginary rock-star father.”

Vi erupted out of her chair and turned like a cobra at the foul-mouthed henchman. The Saint made no attempt to restrain her as she loosed a revelatory tirade.

“Sometimes fantasies are all a kid has, and that’s why you’ll never find her tonight, not in a crowd of fifteen thousand, because that traumatized child foolishly believes she’s got a famous father who’ll save her from the living hell you’ve put her through,” Vi’s voice rang with power and authority, and no one dared speak, “That’s why I’m here, I’m the one who got the Saint involved. He’d never heard of Talon, Buzzy, Rasnec, or any of you until tonight. He’s here because I asked him if he still... if he still...” and Vi came to the end of her emotional reserve and stopped mid-sentence. Overcome with anger, frustration, and grief, she turned away and sank back into the chair. “Damn!”

She banged her fists on the table and fought back a fresh flood of tears. The air nearly crackled with emotional energy, but Alisdare and his men seemed immune to its influence. There were a few uncomfortable snickers from Snookums and Major League, but Salvadore stared at Vi as if reading hidden words.

“The Coliseum,” said Alisdare succinctly, “she is at the Seattle Center Coliseum. And knowing that nervy brat, she’ll have no problem doing whatever it takes to get backstage after the show to...”

“Have her heart broken and her illusions shattered,” completed Vi angrily.

“Or run off with the band,” laughed Major League.

“Or the road crew,” added Snookums.

“Or better yet, the caterer,” completed Salvadore with a smug grin. “Thank you, Mrs Berkman, for solving the mystery of the missing Little Buzzy. As Emerald City has the contract for tonight’s event, a simple phone call will put two more of my men backstage — men more concerned with grabbing Buzzy than serving cold cuts.”

Vi drew breath to empower an insult, but it was the Saint who spoke. His voice was a whip-crack of assured authority, drawing all attention unto himself.

“You should thank Mr Alisdare, Viola. If you understood what he was doing, you’d clasp him to your bosom. Of course, you’d have to lift him up to do it.”

2

Vi reeled as if slapped in the face with a wet towel. She turned to stare at him, and Salvadore, Snookums, and the other two men stared as well. Simon Templar was leaning back in his chair, his polished footwear propped upon the table. As he spoke, he nonchalantly pared his nails with the bright blade of Snookum’s stiletto.

Alisdare’s eyes almost shot from their sockets; Snookums lodged an expletive in Simon’s general direction.

The Saint swung his long legs to the carpet and stood up. Balancing the blade on the tip of his index finger, Simon Templar addressed the diverse denizens of Salvadore Alisdare’s dining room.

“It’s all about balance, Vi. Even something sharp and deadly, handled correctly, can become a plaything. Correspondingly, a plaything like Little Buzzy can be deadly to one’s career if allowed to get either out of hand or into the wrong hands.”

“How did he get that knife?” Alisdare demanded of Snookums, but the giant had no answer.

“Oh, be easy on the poor fellow, Salvadore. I lifted this lovely item during a brief game of shove and swear on the way into the house. You didn’t even miss it did you, Snookums?”

“The name is Barry,” interjected the giant.

“Your’s or mine?”

Barry grunted.

“Well, you’ll always be Snookums to me,” sang the Saint.

Viola watched the Saint stroll about the dining room, the bright razor-edged blade perpendicular to his outstretched finger.

“As I was saying,” continued the Saint, “It is all about balance. Everything in Alisdare’s life, until recently, seemed perfectly balanced. He was a respected event planner for a prosperous catering company, he had a fun and rewarding social life involving a variety of party girls and high-level party pals, plus two semi-lucrative side-lines: legal pickles and illegal drugs. And then he added two more volatile element to the mix: blackmailing Talon over his immoral relationship with Little Buzzy, and a platonic yet perdiferous relationship with an intoxicating beauty named Diamond Tremayne.”

Alisdare, fascinated by the Saint’s behavior and well-delineated narrative, held up his hand as warning for his men to not interrupt.

“And what do you know of Miss Tremayne?” asked Salvadore calmly.

“Only enough to be entranced,” responded the Saint honestly, “and while I assume that she’s in this soup up to her rather attractive cheekbones, we have more immediate concerns.”

Simon noticed Alisdare’s ill-concealed relief at the setting aside of any further discussion of the enigmatic Ms Tremayne.

“You see, Vi,” continued the Saint, “everything was fine for Mr Alisdare and his rather boisterous companions here until someone started throwing around the name ‘Simon Templar.’ Then things began to tip,” Simon tilted the blade precariously as he spoke, “suspicions became aroused, plots began to be hatched, threats were made, and all the while the real Simon Templar was simply doing his best to promote a Hollywood film. And then...” Simon propelled the stiletto straight upward. It turned sharply in mid-air and descended point first. He caught it deftly by the handle, spun on his heels, and sent it flying with astonishing speed and precision. The point buried itself into the wall only inches from Major League’s left ear. “The Saint steps in: you beg me to save Little Buzzy from Dexter Talon and the creeps who are exploiting her. I agree. Alisdare comes to me with a story about the treasure of Dolores Costello, wanting me to leave town at the same time I’m supposed to meet you. I agree, and see you tonight instead. Detective Talon, not to be left out, requests a heart-to-heart over a filthy ashtray and a bad beer. One thing leads to another, and the next thing you know, everyone is all in an uproar, people are pulling guns and... oh yes,” the Saint paused as if he suddenly remembered something important. He reached back and pulled a .45 out of his waistband and tossed it to the dumbstruck Alisdare.

“I think it fell out in the BMW while we were driving in,” offered the Saint innocently, “but who knows where the clip is?”

Salvadore stared at the empty automatic and looked up blankly at the Saint.

“But even if he had the clip,” continued Simon pleasantly to Vi, “Alisdare is not in the business of killing people. In fact, the thought of his property being littered with bodies strikes him as overwhelmingly distasteful. He only wants to blackmail Talon and have us all leave him alone to do it. But I won’t, Vi, and he knows it. We discussed this situation before your arrival. Remember, our host is no dumbbell,” and the Saint said it as if he were affirming an historical fact, “he didn’t achieve his position of power and influence, especially among men as bright as these, by accident.”

Alisdare puffed up like a blowfish, held the empty .45 at his side, and centered his concentration on the Saint’s monolog.

“He wants to get his hands on Buzzy for at least two good reasons, if you discount a third distasteful one. First: to save her life.” Simon allowed reason number one to hang impressively in the air. Alisdare was as surprised to hear it as was Vi, but he nodded in complete agreement.

“He knows that Talon may decide that one more dead streetkid is safer than one live child to testify against him if she ever gets up the nerve, or if Salvadore’s more detailed photos ever become public. Talon knows that the game is on, and he could get to her backstage at the coliseum as easily as if she was in the backseat of his car.”

Vi knew Simon was not rattling this off for her benefit, and if it was part of a Saintly scheme, it was currently beyond her ken. It didn’t matter. She trusted him.

“Oh, I see,” said Vi thoughtfully, and she convincingly added a tinge of appreciation to her tone.

“Reason number two,” elaborated the Saint, “is that Buzzy can be easily manipulated via the application of the proper condiments. Were Salvadore to assure Buzzy of complete protection should she come forward against Talon, and pressure her to do so if Talon stops the cash flow, he could make sure that his name and endeavors were absent from the minutes of the meeting. In fact,” added Simon with an appreciative glance at Alisdare, “he may have lodged these concepts into her little mind already on more than one occasion. Perhaps another crank-fuelled reverie tonight would only reinforce her allegiance and obedience.”

Although Snookums and his compatriots seemed only moderately interested in Simon’s soliloquy, Milo and the two bandaged henchmen crowded in the doorway. At the conclusion of the Saint’s previous paragraph, Milo stretched forth his arm and pointed an accusing finger. Whatever unpleasant and inconsequential utterance he considered appropriate for the audience was, by virtue of Alisdare’s interdiction, relegated to terminal obscurity.

Salvadore, sensing an intermission in the Saint’s presentation, approached the door-way contingent and surveyed them with mild disdain. The overweight man with big beard and bandaged arm was none the worse for his encounter with wayward lead, and the second had suffered no greater indignity than a perforated boot, a heat-seared toe, and minor facial bruises from his encounter with Ian’s anger.

“You said not to kill them,” Simon reminded him, and Alisdare understood that the Saint could have easily killed them had he so chosen.

Salvadore sighed and seemed to slightly sag. The unnatural fuel on which he’d been running for hours was beginning to dissipate.

“You three get to work in the shed. I’m tired, Milo. Get me some refreshment. And here,” he said, handing the empty automatic to Milo, “put this somewhere.”

The three tumbled out the back door and Salvadore turned his attention to his house guests.

Viola, a disheveled mess, sat stern-jawed at the table; Simon Templar, astonishingly self-assured and debonair, stood in the middle of the room as if surveying his dominion; Snookums, Major League, and the other non-descript thug leaned back against the wall. All were looking expectantly at Salvadore Alisdare, and Salvadore Alisdare was not a happy man. Stress and exhaustion seemed to soak him. His dapper shirt was sticking to his back, the collar felt wet against his neck, and his eyes were beginning to ache. The Saint, he decided, was giving him a migraine. Maybe there was a simple way out of all this. Maybe Templar had the best idea after all.

As for the Saint, had Alisdare’s thoughts been spelled out in balloons above his head, they could not have been more easily perceived. Simon turned slightly to Vi, brushed two fingers against his cheek, and raised his eyebrows. She got it.

“Excuse me, Mr Alisdare, but I look like hell and feel worse,” said Vi “may I please...”

Salvadore wiped a hand across his damp face, and felt a twinge of unexpected guilt.

“Yes, yes, certainly... Barry, show the lady where she can freshen up. And let her have her purse, for God’s sake.”

The Saint tossed Vi an inappropriate kiss capped by a wicked wink, and she regarded him curiously.

Alisdare seemed to lose himself in contemplation of the carpet for a moment, then raised his eyes to Simon’s brilliant gaze. The Saint motioned towards the remaining men with a nod of his head, and addressed Salvadore directly.

“Can we talk, just us,” he asked with the slightest hint of secretive advantage, suggesting two great minds merging in private could accomplish more if relieved from the pressure of performing before a studio audience of divided allegiances.

Alisdare, at this point, appreciated any inference of reduced pressure and increased advantage.

“In a moment,” responded Salvadore thoughtfully, and he walked to the beige telephone hanging on the wall near the kitchen. He picked it up, dialed, and easily made arrangements for additional back stage access to the Seattle Center Coliseum.

Replacing the handset back in its silver cradle, he stretched his lips across his tiny teeth and gave instructions to Major League and Nondescript regarding appropriate subterfuge and their mission’s essential purpose — securing little Buzzy.

Major League laughed and snorked.

“Take the car you came in,” instructed Alisdare, “and don’t make a scene. All I want is for you to get her and take her to the Tropicana Motel on Aurora. Take some of the new batch with you, tell her it’s the best batch she’s ever had. That ought to do it.”

Alisdare leaned against the doorway, looked wearily at the Saint, and watched the two men head for the shed before aiming their vehicle towards the Seattle Center. He closed his eyes for a moment as if eight hours of sleep could be compressed into four seconds, then slurred out a conversational question.

“What was this Berkman woman up to? She really is a big, stupid, nuisance.”

“She is neither big nor stupid,” corrected Simon, “for an example of each, look in the shed. No, she is the attractive and adventurous wife of a studious and respected Seattle Rabbi. She is also a trained counsellor and humanitarian comfort to Seattle’s children of the night, and a close confidant to America’s Sweetheart, Little Buzzy. She despises Dexter Talon, had never heard of you until tonight, met Snookums... I mean Barry, when he danced into her office to demonstrate the duplicity two-step, and is only guilty of two things,” elaborated Simon, who was not above taking creative liberties with the realities of a situation, “having an intense and perfectly understandable attraction to your’s truly, and operating a taxi without a license. All she did was give me a lift and then she was supposed to go home. Apparently, her more adventurous nature got the best of her. And,” added Simon wickedly, “before the night is over, I might also.”

Alisdare heart beat a little faster at the thought of such impropriety.

“And how were you supposed to get back to Seattle?”

“I figured I’d ride back with you when you went to meet Talon,” Simon answered honestly, for it was one of his options at the time. “I had no idea you’d object to my brilliant plan of immediate profit sharing — a plan I hope you will seriously reconsider. And, I want you to understand, I had no idea those two boys were your ‘guests’ until I arrived — let’s just say that was an unfortunate coincidence. Also, if I may take a moment to point out the obvious...”

Salvadore granted permission to continue.

“I inflicted no permanent harm on any of your men, and have disarmed myself on more than one occasion for your benefit. Believe it or not, your interests and mine have become intertwined.”

Alisdare motioned for them to be seated, and Simon joined him at the dining room table.

“You see,” continued the Saint affably after looking over his shoulder to confirm that Viola had not yet returned, “Mrs Berkman knew me years ago and has an image of me that’s far more, shall we say, ‘straight laced’ than I have since become. An image, I happen to believe, she would enjoy having displaced by one more in harmony with... well, let’s simply say I think the woman has possibilities, if you catch my drift.” The little man, familiar with immoral drift, smirked an implication of understanding.

“I promised her I’d stop Talon. If you go ahead and meet up with him, and my gang loots his hideaway, and Buzzy agrees to leave you out of it and simply lodge a complaint with the police about Talon’s inappropriate behavior, we’ll all be happy. Talon has nothing on you except maybe your meth lab, and you can have that baby moved to another location in twenty-four hours. I know I can get Berkman to turn a blind eye to your activities because she’s been giving me the glad eye all night, especially if some of Talon’s loot goes to her humanitarian activities.”

Simon, even when fabricating sand castles of improbability, was blessed with every successful salesman’s secret weapon: an absolutely victorious attitude. Alisdare, rattled and weary, was beginning to see radiant light at the end of his alley. What he really wanted to see was Milo returning from the shed with his required refreshments. The Saint, however, was determined to make progress convincing Salvadore of appropriate action before a fresh dose of drugs reactivated the paranoia and devious excitability.

Simon Templar knew he was taking risks, but risks were as much part of his arsenal as they were a fact of life. Of all the risks he had taken this evening, the next was the most tenuous.

“We both know you gave me $10,000 advance to search for the Costello Treasure. What did you really have planned for me, Mr Alisdare? Why did you give me $10,000, and how does Diamond Tremayne fit into all of this?”

Salvadore’s tiny eyes became two squinted Chiclets before he gave reply.

“In a way, if you must know, you’re ruining everything. You’re a fool. You could have had more than ten thousand dollars if you stayed out of this Talon business,” said Alisdare dispassionately. “Hell, you probably would have stolen the whole thing yourself, taken Rasnec to the cleaners, and run off with Tremayne, knowing your reputation.”

Simon was mystified by Alisdare’s comments, but found them fascinating.

“In order to steal the whole thing, and take Rasnec to the cleaners,” improvised the Saint, “I would need to know more than I know now.”

“That’s why you’re such a fool,” insisted Salvadore flatly, “We gave it to you on a silver platter.”

“That’s consistent with your catering background,” admitted the Saint, “but what exactly did you give me?”

Alisdare opened his mouth to reply, but stopped when Snookums and Viola returned from down the hall.

Vi Berkman looked surprisingly fresh, and only her tattered nylons referenced any previous unpleasantness. She noticed the men’s attention drawn to her hosiery, and looked askance at Barry before she muttered a muted, sarcastic request.

“How about a few bucks for a pair of panty hose.”

Alisdare, curiously chagrined, put his head in his hands as Barry fished a handful of crumpled ones out of his pocket and offered them to Viola. She took them, without so much as a thank you, and stuffed them in her bag.

The back door loudly banged and Milo the gap-toothed gimp limped into the kitchen, sat at the table, and summoned his superior.

“Excuse me,” said Alisdare, and he stood to exit.

“Uh, Salvadore,” interrupted the Saint, “may I?”

The implication was obvious — Simon wanted a taste of Alisdare’s refreshments. Surprised, Salvadore, for the first time that evening, honestly smiled.

“And how about a drink for the lady,” added Simon with a grin.

“Yes, of course. Barry, get out a bottle of wine and some glasses from the cabinet.”

Alisdare stopped momentarily at the doorway, and turned back towards the giant.

“Be a gentleman, Barry. The nature of our relationship with these people is undergoing a profitable transformation.”

Vi stared in disbelief as Simon trotted into the kitchen after their little host, and Barry began fetching glasses and a bottle from a small liquor cabinet. Vi noted the white handled stiletto was still stuck in the wall, serving as grim reminder of the evening’s earlier festivities.

In the kitchen, Milo cringed when he saw the Saint standing above him. To put the fellow at ease, Simon spoke words of reassurance.

“Don’t worry, old chum,” said the Saint, “I’ll forget about you strangling that boy if you can forgive me knocking you down the stairs.”

“Buh wuh abou’ muh tee’h,” objected Milo.

“Oh, we’ll find them in the morning,” replied Simon jovially, “and whack ’em back in with a hammer.”

Milo cringed again.

“Please, Mr Templar,” interrupted Alisdare, “Milo was only doing his job, a job that comes with certain risks, right Milo?”

There was no further comment from the scrawny fellow who excused himself after unfolding a triangle of white paper on the kitchen table. Alisdare sat down on a green plastic covered chair and bent over to examine the contents. Simon did likewise. It smelled strongly of ammonia, strong enough to make Simon involuntarily shake his head. Alisdare laughed.

“Cry baby,” said Salvadore with a malevolent chuckle.

“Cry baby?”

“Burns like hell,” said Alisdare with pride, “but works so well.”

And with that comment, he stuck his finger into the yellowish powder, pulled it out, motioned for Simon to do the same, thrust the finger into his absurdly small right nostril, and sniffed as hard as he could.

What transpired next was something Simon Templar considered penultimate testimony to the remarkable ability of human beings to inflict pain and discomfiture upon themselves in pursuit of transitory pleasure.

Alisdare burst bolt upright from the plastic chair with a yelp of agony, threw himself against the white Kelvinator refrigerator and, while hitting his forehead with his hands, stomped his foot loudly on the floor.

Vi jumped from her seat in the dining room, but Barry held up one huge hand. She sat back down.

Alisdare was now squirming against the refrigerator, tears streaming from the corners of his scrunched-up eyes.

Simon quickly tore the corner off a nearby napkin, dumped a major portion of the remaining powder into it, folded it tightly, placed it in his pocket, and began a thoroughly believable mimicry of Alisdare’s demonstrative behavior.

When Snookums and Viola dared peek into the kitchen, they saw two men bleating, wailing and stomping like wounded water buffalo. As Alisdare’s outcries began to subside, Simon allowed his to do the same.

“Oh, jeeze, that hurts,” wept Alisdare, “it’s like pouring Drano down your sinuses.”

Simon moaned believably and smashed his hand against the kitchen wall as if it could beat back the pain racking his head.

Alisdare watched Simon through misted eyes, and laughed through his own pain.

“Good stuff, right?” Alisdare was actually bragging.

“Oh, yeah,” agreed Simon with appreciative but winded enthusiasm.

Barry poured Vi a glass of wine and muttered under his breath.

“Stupid, if ya ask me,” confided the bent-nose Snookums as he set the bottle on the table, “I put it in my coffee and be done with it. Only show-offs do it like that. Who wants pain, anyway?”

Not wanting to engage the giant in a philosophical conversation, Vi simply sipped her off-brand wine and admired the Saint’s wondrous abilities. Every psychological ploy, educated gambit, and proven technique for bonding with the damaged and distressed — methodologies she learned at great cost and expense at an East Coast University — were being deftly implemented, layer upon layer, by the amazing and mercurial Simon Templar. The Saint, of course, did not acquire his insights by long hours in a collegiate study hall, nor were they honed to a master’s perfection after repetitive hours of role play or respectable residency at an accredited clinic. The major portion of the Saint’s insight into human behavior was purely intuitive, and the balance was based upon years of interaction with those of diverse thoughts and devious temperaments. As for Simon’s seeming indulgence in dangerous drugs, Vi did not doubt for a moment that it was an act, and one worthy of a sold gold statuette and international accolades.

And then a beeping began to be heard. A tiny, insistent beep coming from the depths of Viola’s large black bag.

“Wassat?” Barry demanded, looking around as if expecting an invasion of flying saucers, “Wheredat comin’ from?”

Alisdare, still wiping his tear-soaked eyes, rolled into the dining room like a wind-up duck.

“Who’s beeper is that?”

Viola began digging through her bag and pulled out the small black device which had interrupted Salvadore’s absurd indulgence. She pressed a button and the beeping stopped, then she examined the newly illuminated numerals.

“My husband,” she explained apologetically, “he probably wonders where I am and what I’m doing. I usually check in with him by now.”

Alisdare, who now seemed to be vibrating in rhythm to an unheard aggregate of drummers, stared intensely at Vi’s beeper.

“Talon’s got one of those too,” he remarked incongruently.

“Well, this one isn’t his,” Vi clarified, “Its mine and that’s my husband calling.”

Salvadore turned to Simon as if only someone in a similar mental state could offer relevant advice.

The Saint, now projecting an aura of near overwhelming energy, began pacing the floor in an impersonation of Alisdare which, in a previous age, would have qualified him for top billing in any vaudeville revue.

“No problem at all, ladies and gentleman. The young lady simply uses your cute little beige telephone, calls hubby, and tells him that she is at a wild party of rampant immorality with a man called the Saint,” said Simon, and his amplified frivolity was joyously contagious. “Here,” the Saint held out the phone to Vi and his voice softened, “call your beloved and tell him you’ll be home in an hour or so.”

Alisdare started to become tense and his face revealed renewed disorientation.

“Its OK,” Simon reassured him gently, “you don’t want her spending the rest of her life in your dining room, and I already told you that she’ll play ball. Isn’t that right... sweetheart?” Simon gently pulled Vi close to him in a manner surprisingly romantic and she realized that the Saint was about to kiss her. For the briefest micro-second, she was unsure what response he expected. When their eyes met, she knew the game.

It looked impassioned and genuine from a distance, as did her initial reluctance to respond and her eventual overtly enthusiastic submission to what Alisdare and Barry interpreted as drug inspired activation of Simon’s libidinous nature.

The stage kiss complete, Vi clung to the Saint while she dialed her home number.

“Hi, honey,” said Vi, looking into the Saint’s eyes and doing her best to stay in character and ignore the stares of Alisdare and Barry. “Oh, I’m just fine. I’m with the Saint.”

As Vi held the phone to one ear, Simon appeared to be nibbling the other and whispering sweet nothings. Alisdare, delighting in the display, suppressed a giggle. The Saint, however, was not nibbling anything, nor were his whispers tinged with off-color implications.

“How about we blow this entire place to hell?” murmured the Saint seductively, and Vi nodded at him in complete agreement.

“I think he want’s me to do something with him for a while, honey, then I’ll be home,” intoned Vi distractedly, seeming far more interested in planting cold but convincing kisses lightly on the Saint’s cheek.

“Nat wants to speak to you, Simon.” She handed him the phone but did not loose herself from the Saint’s embrace.

“Hullo, Rabbi, how’s everything biblical?”

“Vi sounds strange, she’s not making any sense.” answered a concerned Nat, “I told Vi that she just had a call from someone named Diamond Tremayne, and she put you on the phone. Where are you anyway?”

“That’s a swell idea, Nat. A late night cheesecake sounds wonderful.”

“You can’t talk, can you?” Nat was now becoming agitated.

“Of course not, but think nothing of it, honestly. We’ll all be together soon. Vi is even going to let me drive her BMW,” Simon punctuated his last sentence by giving Vi an obvious squeeze for the benefit of Alisdare and Barry.

“Tell me the truth, Saint, is everything alright? Are you in control of the situation?”

“Absolutely, positively, beyond the shadow of a doubt,” confirmed Simon. “We’ll see you later.”

The Saint hung up the phone with one hand and held Vi close with the other.

3

Alisdare stared at the couple, a stupid grin adorning his flushed face. Snookums, perhaps feeling left out, pulled his stiletto out of the wall, folded it up, and put it away. He then ambled off into the kitchen to see what was left in the white triangle of paper.

Simon, with Vi as an inseparable attachment, walked over to Salvadore. Vi leaned her head dreamily against the Saint’s strong shoulder. Whatever he was up to, she was with him all the way.

“Listen, Salvadore, I’m sure you understand the situation,” advised the Saint with a confidant’s smile.

Alisdare didn’t understand much of any situation, but he nodded.

“So, let’s do exactly as you planned — you call Talon or beep Talon or whatever you do to get hold of him and arrange to meet him at 14th and Madison. And you’re right, Salvadore, we want to catch him before he makes a play for Little Buzzy.”

Before the little man could recall exactly who suggested this plan in the first place, or unravel the reasoning behind it, he was making a call.

Simon sat down at the table and poured himself a glass of wine. Vi sat on his lap, feigning near adolescent affection. She nuzzled his neck and offered a whisper of her own.

“If he pulls out a camera, I could be blackmailed,” growled Vi with plucky derision. “But at least I can find out something I always wanted to know.”

“What’s that?” asked the Saint, watching Barry lick the remaining vile powder from the white triangle. Viola reached up and playfully tousled Simon’s hair.

“Gee,” she giggled girlishly to mask her anxiety, “you can have a hair out of place.”

Simon, although appearing engrossed in Vi’s displays of affection, was focusing is entire attention on the behavior of Salvadore Alisdare.

The phone was jammed tight against one wet, red ear, and his shoulders were hunched. He spoke in staccato rhythms through clenched teeth, and Simon had to strain to make out the essence of the conversation.

“Oh, but I do insist,” hissed Alidare, “and bring an extra five hundred dollars while you’re at it, unless you want an eight by ten full color photo of you and your under age paramour on the front page of the morning Post-Intelligencer.”

Salvadore hung up the phone, drew another deep breath, and came over to the table to pour himself a drink. He stood, glass in hand, with a faraway look in his shrunken eyes until Simon’s wink caught his attention.

“You’re good, Mr Alisdare. Positively the best. I wish you and I could have teamed up years ago.”

Alisdare re-focused on Simon and Viola intertwined and seemed unsure of his next move.

Realizing that this lesser mind of crime was becoming progressively derailed from his train of thought, Simon unwrapped himself from Vi’s elaborate embrace and came over to give Alisdare’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. It was the consistency of damp putty.

“Thanks to you, Talon is right where we want him,” delineated the Saint, “Buzzy is on her way to where you want her, and...” Simon smiled smarmily, “I’ve got a woman here who wants me.”

“Obviously,” Alisdare noted with a light laquer of envy.

“So, how about you allow the lady and me a private interlude while you head back to Emerald City. By the time you step out the door to meet Talon at 14th and Madison, she’ll be on her way home and I’ll be looting a condominium hideaway belonging to a nonexistent Tex Nolan. We can re-convene at the Tropicana, split the loot, re-fuel, and you can show me what there is to Little Buzzy besides that silly haircut.”

Salvadore seemed to regain a sense of purpose, and began glancing nervously around the room.

“My keys,” stammered Alisdare, “where did I put my keys.”

Simon seemed to pull a set out of the air and jingled them next to his ear.

“I was holding them for you,” said Simon truthfully, and Alisdare eyed him as if he wasn’t quite sure if he was being given the bum’s rush or a supportive send-off.

Alisdare gulped down his warm wine, pulled a light jacket out the hall closet, and was about to recap his understanding of upcoming events when the bell inside the beige wall phone pealed out an auditory interruption. Snookums, being closer, grabbed the receiver in his meaty paw and barked out an unpleasant hello before extending the receiver to his smaller superior.

“It’s for you, Boss. It’s Diamond.”

Alisdare was so stunned by Barry’s indiscretion that he literally listed back on his heels. Tipping back to proper balance, Salvadore peddled across the rug and snatched the phone away.

“Why don’t you just tell Templar and this woman everything, you idiot! No, Diamond, I wasn’t calling you an idiot. Yes, you heard right — we have company here tonight: Simon Templar and a lady friend of his who’s also tight with Buzzy. Now, calm down... let me explain...” Alisdare pressed the phone tight to the side of his sweat-drenched head and pulled the long coiled cord with him into the small alcove around the corner from the dining room. He spoke sotto-voce, but the alcove’s acoustics and Salvadore’s emotion made it possible for Simon to discern almost every nuance as the little man recounted each aspect of the night’s cavalcade of circumstances from his unique perspective.

At length, Alisdare stopped talking and started listening. He paced nervously back and forth, in and out of the room, his eyelids flapping wildly and his face occasionally turning the color of beet borscht. The entire time, he obsessively wrapped and unwraped the coiled phone cord around his finger.

“Templar and I have everything worked out,” Simon heard him say, “but yes, it would have been better if he spent a relaxing night in his hotel room and simply showed up at the airport in the morning.”

Vi looked dismayed and confused, Snookums appeared unamused, and the Saint, having adjusted his hair, was absolutely perfect.

“You want to what?” Alisdare was incredulous. “You can’t be serious. Yes, he wants Talon, but we made a deal, he and I. And this Berkman woman...” Diamond cut him short, and he stammered for a moment. “If you think that’s smart, but I think its crazy. OK.”

Alisdare stopped pacing, came out of the alcove, held the phone down to his side like a vanquished warrior, and reluctantly held it out towards the Saint.

“She wants to talk to the famous Simon Templar,” announced Salvadore, and it was obvious that he was not impressed.

Simon strolled lazily to Alisdare and cheerfully took the call.

“Good evening, Ms Tremayne,” he began chattily, “did you enjoy La Vaca Espana?”

The warm breathy laugh on the other end of the line conveyed more than amusement.

“I’m rather surprised to find you there, Saint. I need you well rested.”

“Oh?”

“Didn’t you guess?” chided Diamond, “I’m part of the search party. In fact, I’ve made reservations for you and me at the most delightful bed and breakfast in Neah Bay. A friend of mine owns it — he owns a lot of valuable real estate all over Washington.”

“I think I’ve met him,” responded the Saint airily.

“I’m sure you can take care of yourself and Mrs Berkman without hurting innocent people,” she put the emphasis on innocent, and Simon was aware that all eyes in the room were on him.

“You’re not as predictable as I imagined, Saint. You’ve moved farther on the game board than I anticipated. But you always were the best of the buccaneers.” Her inflection was an aural caress.

“Am I giving you a run for your money?” asked Simon.

The laugh on the other end of the line was almost intoxicating.

“Its not my money you’ve got to run for, at least not yet,” and she phrased the final four words as if they were puzzle pieces. And then she was gone.

The Saint gave no indication of a severed connection, continuing with pleasant, if one sided, banter.

“Yes, Alisdare and I have become closer than Hart, Shaffner, and Karl Marx. We had a meeting of the minds and half of them showed up, so I have a half a mind to spend the evening carousing with Salvadore and dancing with Dexter Talon to Grand Theft’s Greatest Hits. Yes, I’m sure what Salvadore and I have planned will bring documented performance. Well, you have a good night too, Ms Tremayne, and we’ll all dream of Dolores Costello.” Alisdare stared at him intensely.

“What the hell was that all about?”

Simon raked him with a mocking glance, but spoke in tones completely non-threatening.

“She’s beyond my comprehension,” said the Saint, and he wasn’t being facetious. “I don’t know how you managed to get her on your side, but she certainly wishes us all the best.”

Perhaps, in retrospect, Simon Templar may confess that his choice of words at that moment was ill-advised, but as he had taken advice from no one concerning those words, any attribution of error must be firmly placed at its point of origin. Something Simon said pushed an unpleasant button deep in the convoluted consciousness of Salvadore Alisdare, and the Saint realized it immediately. There were no verbal outcries from the tiny fellow, neither insults nor sarcastic remarks, but a stiffening of posture and tightening of the jaw, not dissimilar to the physical changes Simon witnessed outside the Westin Hotel, were sufficient indications of Alisdare’s anger and internal agitation.

Salvadore’s face flashed with the crimson insistence of a railroad crossing. Vi looked at Simon, Simon looked at her, and Snookums looked larger and more dangerous than ever.

It was Simon who confronted the atmospheric instability head on.

“Is there a problem of which we are unaware?”

“No,” responded Alisdare evenly, “not at all. I think everything will proceed perfectly, or at least passably. You’ve already seen the upstairs rooms, Mr Templar. I assume one of them will allow you and the lady to have your private moments before you leave. Barry will make sure you’re taken care of, won’t you Barry?”

A tingle of apprehension crawled up Simon’s spine and spread its tendrils along his scalp.

Salvadore walked to the front door and stopped momentarily to issue one last instruction to his oversized henchman.

“The boys will call from the Tropicana. We may want to move farther from the Seattle Center and more towards... the other.”

And then he was out the door, down the steps, into the late model sedan, and driving off down the black top driveway towards the secondary road. Barry watched the two red taillights grow dim in the distance before turning from the window.

Simon was gathering up the wine bottle and two glasses, giving every indication that he and Viola were about to slip upstairs for private romance.

Snookums squared his shoulders and gave loud voice to a concern obviously harbored in silence for some time.

“Ya broke my nose, and she sprayed something horrible down my throat.” It was as much threat as it was statement of fact.

“Yes, we recall that quite well, Barry. It was one of the highlights of the evening,” said the Saint pleasantly as he placed himself between Vi and the giant “but we all decided to be friends and not kill each other any more, remember.”

“You’re part right,” agreed Barry as he began to walk toward them, “Alisdare can’t stand the thought of seeing people get killed.”

“And what’s the other part?” Asked Simon as would a disinterested third party.

“I kill ’em so he don’t have to see it.”

“How thoughtful of you,” admitted the Saint, “I’m sure the sight of Uncle Elmo with a plastic bag over his head would have distressed him no end.”

The giant stopped in his oversized tracks.

“Hey, even Alisdare doesn’t know I’m the one who did that. It was a contract job, pure and simple. How did you know?”

“Just a lucky hunch. Now, if you don’t mind, all this talk of murder is infringing upon our previously established mood of conviviality.”

Barry glowered at the Saint, and Simon placed the wine bottle and glasses back on the table.

“Listen Snookums,” said the Saint as if reasoning with a ten-year-old, “if you plan on killing me, or her, or both of us, I have a favor to ask first.”

“Favor?” Barry cocked his head sideways as if Simon would make more sense looked at differently.

“Well, sort of, but not really. You see...” Simon stopped and looked back at Vi as if she shouldn’t be hearing this conversation. “Wait here a second Vi, Barry and I need to chat.”

Barry was not aware of any need to chat, but the Saint’s carefree manner was remarkably authoritative and the giant’s curiosity was equalled only by his height.

Simon approached the beast as if conferring with an old pal, and motioned that they should step into the alcove.

Vi watched the two men disappear, realized she had been holding her breath for an eternity, and laboriously exhaled.

Alone with Barry, the Saint posed a pertinent question.

“Who first had the idea of partying with Little Buzzy? Alisdare or Talon?”

“Why do you care?”

“I may never get the opportunity to join the fun, but a good idea certainly deserves credit.”

The giant clamped his left hand around Simon’s chin and lifted him up against the wall. The white handled stiletto snapped to deadly attention, its blade poised under the Saint’s heart.

“Neither,” rasped Barry, “Talon has always loved little girls and boys, but I was the first to spot her, the first to drug her, and the first to...”

And those were the last words ever to cross his lips. The remaining intended verb and noun drowned in a rising tide of blood. Snookums’ grip waned in intensity, he stumbled stupidly backwards, and crashed noisily to the floor.

“Grab the wine bottle, Vi,” called the Saint, “We’re getting out of here.”

Vi snapped up the bottle and ran into the alcove. When she saw Snookums dead on the floor, she almost fainted.

“Oh, God.” Vi turned white. “That’s... that’s...”

“Yes, I know,” said the Saint, pulling a long blade out of Barry’s chest and wiping the blood on the giant’s shirt, “its your cutlery. I took it from your kitchen earlier tonight when I was tidying up and secured it with duct tape.”

Vi stared blankly at the large body sprawled on the floor. “I wondered why you asked for that,” she said softly. “He’s dead isn’t he?”

“Permanently,” stated the Saint succinctly as he returned the knife to its makeshift sheath, led the way into Alisdare’s kitchen, turned on the gas oven and doused the floor with a liberal amount of Alisdare’s wine.

“Is that safe?” Asked Vi, and she felt self-conscious posing the question.

“Of course not. When the Saint plays with fire, the ungodly burn in hell — we’re going to blow this entire operation off the face of the earth.”

Simon ripped a sheet of paper towels from a roll on the counter, stuffed it into the bottle’s neck and scooped a few plain kitchen matches from a metal bin above the stove.

“Your car is out front and your keys are in the ignition,” said Simon, “get out there, start ’er up and head for the end of the road.”

“But what about you?”

The Saint set the wine bottle and matches on the counter before stepping out on the back porch, reaching up, and wiggling the hatchet free from where Ian embedded it.

“Just keep an eye on your rearview mirror,” he advised, “and maybe you’ll get that big bang you were asking for. Now, gather up your stuff and scoot.”

Vi scooted.

4

The Saint quickly perused the contents of Alisdare’s cupboards and kitchen drawers, retrieved a bottle of cooking sherry, constructed a second Molotov cocktail and affixed to it a slightly longer, tightly wound fuse. In the process, he helped himself to an array of burglar’s perks: a few rubber bands, thumbtacks, and another helping of old-fashioned, plain kitchen matches.

As Viola closed the front door behind her and headed for the BMW, Simon opened the door to the posterior porch, used the sherry bottle as a door stop, and lit the fuse. He slid the hatchet in his belt, stepped out into the dark, and headed towards the wood shed.

There was no way of knowing what final words or warnings passed between Major League, Milo, and the meth lab’s remaining men. It was entirely possible that Vi and he could simply drive away unhindered, but if the late and unlamented Snookum’s behavior was any indication, immediate destruction was not only manifest justice, it was their best protection. It came as no surprise to the Saint that the smooth firing of the BMW’s ignition triggered an immediate response from Alisdare’s chemically inclined minions. As the first rays from Vi’s headlights swept the driveway, the bearded thug in bib overalls lumbered out to investigate. His curiosity shifted almost immediately to the sudden appearance of a white handled stiletto protruding from his chest approximately 1/4 inch from his left bib button. While the knife was one with which he was familiar, he was not used to seeing it embedded in his own ample body. Before he could give this conundrum further serious consideration, the ability to consider anything beyond the last fleeting moment vanished in eternal silence. His body teetered back and forth as if grappling with a life or death decision. The decision made, the body crashed backwards in the doorway.

The recently deceased’s sightless eyes perceived not the lovely starlit sky, the Molotov cocktail sailing over his head, nor the all consuming flames that soon reduced his fatted form to indistinguishable ashes. Vi Berkman, however, saw the first of two fireballs blast yellow illumination in her rear view mirror. The second woe came quickly — a thunderous explosion of ground shaking intensity shooting flames hundreds of feet in the air. In the sudden flare of fire and flame, she glimpsed the silhouetted form of Simon Templar fleeing the conflagration towards her bright red tail-lights.

And there was a ball of fire spinning behind the Saint — a ball of fire with a pronounced limp, to be exact. Milo, by a miracle of nature or an unpleasant twist of fate, emerged from the caustic combustion smoldering to the bone, his anger hotter than hell itself. Spared the near instant death of his companions, Milo erupted from the destruction as would a wiry yet vengeful phoenix. Better trained in fire safety than his melted co-conspirators, Milo threw himself in the dirt and rolled back and forth with valiant determination. The outward flames died in the dust, but the searing heat and acrid chemicals continued sizzling through his skin’s remaining layers. Whatever thoughts of self preservation motivated him to extinguish the external blaze were his final reserve. All that remained in his barbecued brain was a burning desire for unrelenting retaliation.

The vibration under Simon’s feet and the intense heat at his back gave him no reason to doubt the effectiveness of his incendiary inventiveness. He needn’t look back for verification of the meth lab’s vaporization, nor for confirmation that Alisdare’s domicile was engulfed in a maelstrom of destruction. There was only the clear path before him, the blacktop beneath him, and the bright brake lights of the BMW as his immediate goal.

Vi, however, knew what the Saint did not: a smoking form emerged from the dust, flailing its arms in wild concentric circles, throwing itself at the 4X4 whose paint blistered from the intense heat generated by the twin blasts. Milo, propelled past the brink of madness, felt no pain when grasping the red hot door handle and throwing himself behind the wheel. He pawed the driver’s side visor and an ignition key plopped into his scalded palm.

Viola Berkman leapt from her car, waving and yelling warnings at the Saint. Simon couldn’t hear her, but her body language bore sufficient augury. The Saint turned to witness the big wheel’s twin beams blast through the smoke and see the spin of enormous tires on gravel.

The Saint ran towards Vi’s car, she raced to the passenger side, and Milo slammed a seared foot on the accelerator. The 4X4 lurched, spun, and charged towards the blacktop, its heavy tread seeking and finding sure footing on the hard, dark pavement. Through heat baked vision and dirt caked windshield, Milo considered Simon Templar as a miniscule figure fleeing from certain death.

“Under my wheels!” Yelled Milo, “Under my wheels!”

The Saint could not hear Milo’s rants, and had he heard them he would not have been impressed. What Milo perceived as Simon’s unavoidable doom, the Saint considered simply another of the evening’s avoidable inconveniences.

The BMW idled in anticipation, Vi secured her seat belt, and well before Milo was halfway down the blacktop, the Saint was behind the wheel, in command, and projecting an air of irrefutable confidence. For Viola, the sight of the monster truck bearing down on them served as adequate impetus for anxiety, and the ease with which the Saint launched the BMW from warmed standstill to tachometric intensity did little to alleviate her understandable internal tension.

The dark road vanished under their headlights with increasing rapidity, but Milo’s massive tires and lead footed approach to night driving gave his pursuit a roaring dragonian ambiance of such ferocity that Viola could almost sense the sinister hiss of an overheated radiator steaming at her neck.

The Saint’s fingers skimmed the black steering wheel with deft precision and characteristic disregard for inferences of danger. A signature whistle melodically eased through his lips and his piratical visage was wreathed in smiles.

“He wants to kill us, you know,” said Vi.

“He won’t live that long,” stated the Saint optimistically, “and don’t look back, it only encourages him.”

Vi looked back anyway; the truck was gaining. She turned to the reckless and unperturbed gentleman piloting her conservative family sedan as if qualifying for a stock car competition and wished she’d taken her husband’s sportier model. Vi had no choice but to surrender her trust to Simon’s rakish features and mocking blue eyes gleaming like chips of crystal. If she retained any hope for a happy ending to the night’s shenanigans, such faith was best invested in the durable desperado with the might of angels aligned in his favor.

“Before I forget,” said the Saint conversationally, “I want to tell you how impressed I was with your performance back there. Had you not become a public spirited rescuer of abandoned off-spring, you could have had a career in theatrical improvisation.”

“I minored in drama,” she admitted with distraction. Her fingers trembled, and her voice quavered. The night’s avalanche of relentless anxiety was not the stuff of which her evenings traditionally consisted, and for her to maintain an attitude of relaxed nonchalance while being pursued by a madman would be expecting a bit much.

Indeed, the ground pounding 4X4 with the singed and sinister driver weaved wildly behind them from lane to lane, attempting to gain advantage and pull either in front or along side.

The Saint shot the BMW through the intersection where the Woodinville/Duvall road met the miniscule heart of the second city and pumped it full throttle. The sizzling saboteur in the hydraulically heightened road beast banged a peeling fist on the dash board as if violence in the cab translated into increased speed on the road. There was some truth to this superstition, for the high-riding vehicle was cutting the distance between itself and the import. This fact of unfortunate logistics was not lost on the Saint.

“He must have one hell of an engine or German engineering isn’t what it used to be,” said Simon dryly and Vi felt obligated to offer a weak, if not particularly comforting explanation.

“Maybe I’m past due for a tune-up.”

Simon cocked an eyebrow at her self-deprecating comment, squinted at the reflection of Milo’s headlights in the side mirror, and eased his foot off the gas peddle. The BMW slowly decelerated as the truck accelerated. Milo, enthused at his high-speed progress, expelled a smokey whistle through his ugly gapped teeth and aimed his charred grill into the oncoming lane. In a moment he would be along side, determined to fling his 4X4 full force against the sleek sheet metal of the German import. Even though the mighty vehicle was not his personal possession, he was familiar enough with it to be aware of its more unique accessories. He reached down under the driver’s seat and snapped up a decidedly illegal and fully loaded sawed-off shotgun.

He laughed a crazed coughing cackle and spat black grit on the dashboard. The road ahead was clear, and a spasmodic jerk of his scorched head allowed him an inspiring view of the glowing red stain spreading like a billow of spilled blood on the night sky’s black velvet backdrop.

The Saint monitored every miniscule movement of Milo’s high-rise motorized would-be weapon, calculating speed, distance, and strategy. Milo’s madness was factored into the equation, along with his stupidity and forgetfulness.

For Milo, it was if the enormous tires were infused with demonic power — each tread a rapacious talon grasping hungrily at the asphalt, every inch of rubber a hard-skinned reptile — seeking their prey with remorseless resolve. He was riding the back of the beast, a pilot of death wielding fire and retribution. He could hear the distant howl of hell-hounds rising in his ears, see the swirling pyres of Hades licking the road ahead.

The Saint perceived the same audio and visual cues as Milo, but decoded them accurately — the distant howl, an approaching siren; the swirling pyres, a Snohomish County firetruck. Simon eased the hatchet out of his belt, lowered the window, and checked the side mirror to ascertain Milo’s proximity.

The two vehicles screamed around another bend, Vi did the same, and when the 4X4 pulled along side, Simon saw manifest madness, armed and dangerous, behind the wheel.

Milo extended his blistered arm full length towards the open window, his charred fingers tightening on the trigger. In one abrupt movement, the Saint threw the hatchet and slammed on the brakes. Although Simon Templar was more experienced in the art of hatchet throwing than the average Seattle tourist, the particular hatchet in question was neither of perfect balance nor was it manufactured with throwing in mind. It is adequate testimony to the Saint’s strength and aim that the hatchet, while not directly terminating Milo’s existence, sailed through the truck’s cab with sufficient force to painfully slice away the topmost portion of Milo’s right ear before disappearing out the opposite window.

The sudden shock had a profound effect on the 4X4’s erratic pilot. For a brief moment, the wild fog around his eyes and the swirling mist inside his head seemed to evaporate in a bright crimson light. For the first time since the meth lab burst into flames, the gap-toothed lackey saw things as they were. Sadly, they were not to his liking — most especially the enormous oncoming firetruck.

There was one icy moment of panicked indecision before Milo’s left hand desperately cramped the steering wheel far to the right.

The truck’s speed, the narrow road, and the sudden swerve united in a coldly coordinated conspiracy to capsize Milo’s metallic monster. The squeal of tires and screams of sirens drowned out similar noises made by Milo himself as the 4X4 tipped treacherously on its wheels, left the road in a sideways launch, and crashed end over end. Before the first horrific impact with terra firma, a relatively small, bright flash illumined the cab’s interior. The shotgun in Milo’s grip followed the same over end trajectory as the vehicle itself. When Milo saw himself looking down the wrong end of the weapon, he wondered who could possibly by trying to shoot him. In an understandable act of intended self-defense, Milo pulled the trigger.

The fire engine clanged undetered towards Duvall’s acre of flames, and the alert firefighters summoned reinforcements when the 4X4 launched itself from the road and disappeared down a ravine.

As for Simon Templar and Viola Berkman, the firefighters were sufficiently occupied avoiding head-on impact with the 4X4 that they never noticed a sleek black import turn casually off onto 173rd, circle the residential cul-de-sac, re-emerge far behind them, and drive away in the opposite direction.

Vi stared out the back window, watching the firetruck’s flashing lights diminish in size and intensity.

“He’s gone. The man in the truck, I mean,” said Vi with amazement and gratitude, “I thought he was going to...” She shuddered and leaned wearily against the head rest.

“He gave it his best shot, so to speak,” Simon commented pleasantly.

Vi looked at him while her mind replayed vivid memories of the evening’s more recent and lurid highlights.

“How can you be so damn calm?” Vi objected with healthy animation, “Crazy people trying to kill us, explosions, fires, gunfights, and you act like were out for pleasant moonlight drive.”

“I find that fact that we’re still alive very pleasant,” offered Simon honestly, “and you must realize that I’ve been in situations similar to this on enough occasions to view them with a certain degree of good natured detachment.”

“Detachment?” Vi was only moderately incredulous. “That nut in the truck wanted to detach your limbs, and there was nothing good natured about the way he was chasing us.”

The Saint easily ascertained Vi’s needs.

“Did I ever tell you about the time I chased myself through the Bavarian hills?”

“Well, considering we have only met twice in our lives, and the first time was when I was a child, and the second time is tonight,” said Vi forcefully, “and you’ve never mentioned Bavaria at all, I shall have to confess that you’ve never told me about the time you chased yourself through the hills of Bavaria. But,” she added, showing her first honest grin of the hour, “I bet I’m going to hear about it now.”

And she did. The Saint spun an astonishing tale of daring do, miraculous getaways, and, in the process, revitalized Vi’s positive, joyous, and victorious attitude. By the time her BMW whipped up to the dual phone booths near the 405 on-ramp, Viola Inselheim Berkman’s emotional condition was back on a solid and self-assured footing.

“We’re really in it now, aren’t we Simon? I mean, are we, that is... will they...”

The Saint smiled compassionately as he set the hand brake.

“No, we’re not going to be arrested. You are not going to jail, and should anyone attempt to link you with tonights festivities, you have an air-tight alibi.”

“An alibi is an excellent idea,” she agreed. “And what, may I ask, is my air-tight alibi?”

“Your alibi,” explained the Saint, “is that you were with me.”

She stared at him, not quite sure if he were having fun or being serious. When she realized he was doing both, she began to laugh. Neither a carefree, melodic manifestation of mirth, nor a tense cackle prompted by nervous hysteria, her weak laughter was born of complete, willful resignation to the improbable and uncontrollable vagaries of the situation. She had asked for big bangs, and the Saint delivered; she summoned the hero of her childhood and he swept her away into the wildest and most exhilarating night of her life — a night she knew was far from over.

“You call Nat and tell him we’re on our way back to Seattle,” instructed the Saint, “while I call your old pal, Dexter Talon.”

“My pal, my...” Vi spat the expletive on the pavement.

Moments later the jingle of falling change rattled the Woodinville GTE phone system to life. Vi assured Nat that all was well; Simon spoke less lovingly to Dexter Talon.

“Howdy, Tex, its your old saddle-pal Simon Templar calling. Listen up, cowboy — before you toddle off to whack Alisdare, I’ve got something important to give you. I know Madison Park, so here’s the plan: sit your bulbous behind down in the bar just up from the corner, guzzle a few beers and smoke three or four packs of coffin nails. Give me forty minutes or so, and by the time your first attack of emphysema kicks in, I’ll be right there to moan and groan over the body. Yeah. Same to ya.” The Saint clanged the receiver back in the cradle, checked the coin return box for change, and whistled his way back to Vi and the BMW.

“Nat was worried as hell,” said Vi, “but he’s calming down. I told him to have a cup of tea and a cinnamon roll.”

“That’ll fix him, alright,” said the Saint.

The black BMW flashed to life, Simon and Vi fastened their seat belts, and the Saint peeled out of the parking lot with all the enthusiasm of an incorrigible adolescent.

“Some men never grow up,” observed Vi, and the Saint was all smiles.

Simon Templar, despite his carefree veneer, was seriously calculating the viability of the evening’s diverse possible scenarios. In mid-thought, a disturbing question came to mind which he asked in a relaxed, off-hand manner.

“Your story about Buzzy at the Seattle Center searching for her long-lost daddy, was that part of your improvisation?”

“No, why?”

“I was rather hoping you concocted that bit of business to throw them off.”

There was a moment of awkward silence, and Simon sensed her embarrassment.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t think,” sighed Vi. “I was angry and upset. It’s true — she’s convinced that she’s the offspring of a useless ex-groupie and a famous musician — a fantasy shared by about half the girls like her. With fifteen thousand kids at that concert, and considering the security,” she added hopefully, “do you really think those men could ever get their hands on her?”

Simon prefaced his answer by increasing pressure on the accelerator.

“What was it Alisdare said? ‘Knowing that little brat, she’ll have no trouble getting backstage’?”

Vi’s throat felt dry.

“Yeah. That’s what he said, alright.”

Simon changed lanes, aiming for the 520 interchange. Vi noticed a fleeting expression of displeasure momentarily cloud his countenance.

“Midnight mayhem and daredevil rescues are my meat and potatoes,” declared the Saint, “but the thought of suffering through three minutes of Grand Theft is almost enough to turn me into a vegetarian.”

Vi eyed him with renewed wonderment.

“And that, of all things, is your main concern?”

In truth, the Saint’s mind was not totally untroubled. Talon, Alisdare, and Little Buzzy were not entirely peripheral, but his concentration was keyed primarily to the cryptic comments and buccaneering bravado of Diamond Tremayne. Viola Berkman gazed at the serene skyline of the Queen City — an appreciative appellative bestowed upon Seattle by virtue of Queen Marie of Rumania’s historic visit several decades earlier — and watched one of Boeing’s signature homegrown aircraft arc across the starlit sky.