by Burl Barer
"That's when we became stereotypical fawning fans," explained the pudgy one with an honest and infectious smile, still delighting in Simon's treatment of his tummy.
The Saint originally intended disengaging from this fan club duo when reaching the lobby, but Simon Templar was never one to argue with fate and opportunity. It may have been the strong, assertive nature of the marine biologist, the mention of the Maritime Issues Forum, or the Saint's pleasure in performing for a favorably disposed audience. Then again, Simon's decision to include these two characters in the adventure's next phase may have been simply prudent strategic planning.
"So tell me, my nefarious new accomplices," asked the Saint, "what are we driving?"
Simon's new friends, identified in an earlier conversation not quoted verbatim as Daniel and Ian, gleefully responded in near unison as they led the Saint out of the Westin.
“The Saintmobile."
Chapter 2
How Simon Templar Sang on Broadway, and Diamond Tremayne Passed Her Audition.
The Saint opted for optimism. Walking eastbound up Olive Avenue, his eyes scanned the curbside for a restored Hirondel, Desurio, Furillac, or Bugatti 41 Royale. He saw no vehicle which would induce any sane individual to name it The Saintmobile, especially not the half-primer, half painted metallic copper Volvo GL station wagon, complete with luggage rack.
"We read in one of the books that you drove a Volvo," offered the tall Daniel, "and we figured we could really spiff this up and make it Saintly, for example..."
The Saint, conscious of time and appointments, cut Dan off while scooping the keys from his hand.
"Putting me behind the wheel will add a touch of authenticity," insisted Simon as they climbed aboard. A throaty roar, a cavalcade of rattles, and a lurching gear-catch later, Simon and his couplet entourage were on their way to the Sanitary Market Building. A glance at his watch assured him that he was running right on schedule. A quick phone call to Vi Berkman from his hotel room had rescheduled their meeting from morning to immediate. As he told her at their conversation's conclusion, "I might have to kill more than one man tonight after all."
"The difference between crime in fiction and crime in real life," explained the Saint to his enraptured passengers as they threaded through Seattle's downtown traffic. "is that writers give more thought to the structure, motive, and execution of crimes than do criminals, insisting every plot twist be logically motivated; every detail painstakingly dove-tailed. From my experience, which we can all agree is extensive," Simon elaborated as he slowed down the windshield wipers to match pace with the diminishing rain, "the ungodly are too self-centered to seriously consider the contingencies, conditions, or coincidences destined to rip their little webs to pieces. Take, for example, a peculiar little liar I encountered only this evening..."
The Saint amused Dan and Ian with essential exposition of the story thus far, concluding with a demonstration of his astonishing ability to parallel park a Volvo wagon in a space intended for an Izetta.
Vi Berkman arrived only moments earlier, stilled the ignition of her BMW, and waited behind secured doors and smoked glass for signs of the Saint. Even in the acoustically engineered silence of her vehicle's interior, she heard the distinctive cry of metal in despair as the Volvo braked without pads.
Viola Berkman emerged from the German import, hailed the Saint with a friendly wave, and shook her head in amusement. Simon waited while the exhaust system sputtered itself to a shaking expiration before pulling on the doorhandle.
"Hi, Vi," said the Saint cheerfully. He threw open the door, swung his feet to the wet pavement, and stood gentlemanly erect. "These two are Dan and Ian, the lost boys. I commandeered their car and dragged them along in a swaggering tribute to their swashbuckling fantasies. Besides," explained Simon, slamming the Volvo door behind him, "I felt less conspicuous driving Seattle's most common vehicle of choice than if I hailed a cab or wandered about the Westin's parking garage searching for my rented Chevrolet. "
"Less conspicuous?" Vi giggled, pressing finger tips to lips. "Look at the...," momentarily silenced by mirth, she delayed the sentence's conclusion, "passenger side."
Simon raised an accusing eyebrow at the two young men starring sheepishly at their shoes. The Saint circled the vehicle, and espying the impetus for Ms Berkman's amusement, covered his eyes, moaned, and peeked warily through his fingers.
The boys, abashed, remained in apologetic silence. Summoning his resolve, the Saint dropped his hands and stepped back to more fully appreciate the artistry of the large decorative addition to station wagon's passenger door: an iridescent red stick-figure topped by a rakishly tilted halo. Above it, equally iridescent and no less irritating, was painted the designation, "The Saintmobile."
"Simply displaying my initials on the license plate would have sufficed."
"We thought of that," admitted Ian proudly, his intended elaboration curtailed by a sharp elbow to the ribs.
"Even without this four-wheeled billboard," admitted the Saint, "it is only prudent to assume we've been followed." True concern captured the features of Viola Berkman, and a more subtle expression summoned the Saint to her side.
"Some material may not be...," Berkman trusted Simon knew the phrase.
"Suitable for children," completed the Saint, "but Daniel Long Noodle is a full grown marine biologist," he reasoned aloud, "and the other one," Simon realized he had no clue as to Ian's career, "eats peanut butter cups for a living."
"I heard that," said Ian, "and it's an avocation, not a vocation. But how did you know? "
"Candy wrappers in the car, chocolate smudges above your pockets," the Saint recited the litany's balance without emotion, his iron sight scanning intersections and alley entrances. Vi Berkman crossed to her car, removed a hefty black leather purse, and locked the BMW.
"C'mon," said Vi, "it’s time for your lesson in contemporary street reality."
The lesson began with a quick tour of Seattle's First Avenue in the vicinity of the Pike Place Market. It was nothing that the Saint had not seen before in Times Square or Soho, except on a more confined scale. The unescorted women, underdressed and overly made-up, attempting conversation with passing males; irrational street people babbling beside overstuffed shopping carts; vacant eyed men waiting at bus-stops but never getting on board; children too young to be out alone stepping into cars with strangers.
"Where do these kids live," asked Simon, although he could guess the answer.
"They don't," offered Vi ruefully. "If you mean where do they sleep, it could be anywhere, with anyone who'll also fill their stomach or feed their habits. They grow up without maturing, age without wisdom, and die too young - inside and out. And the real tragedy is," Vi said with a sigh that came from depths of caring, "they are tender little plants that have been denied shelter, exposed to the harshest elements our greatly vaunted civilization has to offer, and abandoned."
They walked without speaking, hearing wolfwhistles, car honks, and rude epithets mingling with the rinky-dink disco soundtrack accompanying the bikini-clad women with surgically augmented figures dancing in the window of "Uncle Elmo's Adult Emporium and Good Time Arcade."
"Those must be Elmo's nieces," commented the Saint as they passed the gyrating display of enhanced allure, "I'm sure they're a close family."
"Elmo died with a plastic bag over his head six months ago," stated Vi dispassionately. "They found his body in a White Center motel room."
"Suicide, no doubt," said Simon as if stating the obvious, "achieved after a failed attempt to fold himself to death in an ironing board."
"Of course," concurred Vi, "and now the Good Time Arcade is operated by a nifty little holding company called R.T. Enterprises, Inc.. Nothing illegal about it, but when I consider the `R' and the `T', it gives me the creeps."
The Saint didn't have to ask for an explanation.
"`R' stands for Rasnec," she continued, " as in Arthur W. Rasnec, attorney at law, and the `T' stands for Talon, a
s in Detective Dexter Talon of the Seattle Police Department."
They crossed back to the other side of First Avenue, reversing direction and heading north, stopping to summon Ian and Dan from their temporary fascination with two of Elmo's more demonstrably attractive relatives.
"And the reason `Elmo's' survives no matter how many Elmos go to the great arcade in the sky," remarked the Saint, "is because humans are such easy prey."
Vi Berkman stopped, shifted her black bag to the opposing shoulder, and looked Simon in the eye.
"Some prey are easier and younger than others." She dug into her bag, retrieved keys, and unlocked the door to the Sanitary Market Building.
"And," she said through her teeth, "I have the pictures to prove it."
Simon allowed Vi, Dan, and Ian to enter while he lagged behind to give the bustling street scene further scrutiny. The Saint's internal early warning system had already alerted him to the presence of the jungle cat, and the evening's cavalcade of interconnected, although seemingly unrelated, incidents convinced him that mayhem was imminent.
There was no sudden rush of footsteps on the street, no uncharacteristic slowing of nondescript cars. In maritime parlance, the coast was clear. Unless, the Saint reasoned, the ungodly were ahead of them rather than behind, or simply awaiting a more opportune moment to interfere.
Simon took the steps ahead of him with swift, easy, strides, and caught up with his entourage before Vi could enter her office.
"Allow me," insisted the Saint coolly, motioning the others aside. Simon opened the door as if anticipating an onrush of enemies.
"Something up, Mr Templar?" Ian spoke, his voice betraying a slight nervous tremor.
The Saint flicked on the overhead lights and crossed to the window, glanced out, and swiveling the latch, pushed it up and open.
Vi walked cautiously over to Simon, dropped her bag on the metal desk, and looked at him with questioning eyes.
"Is there something wrong, or is this `Paranoia for The Saint'?"
"I am simply being prudent," said Simon with a relaxed smile of assurance, "We Saints don't know the meaning of the word paranoid. Those who say we do are probably plotting against us."
Simon's easy manner instilled confidence, but internally the Saint was all steel -- his senses intensely acute; balancing probabilities with an agility that would leave a Las Vegas odds maker shaking his head in amazement.
As Vi slid open a file cabinet drawer and removed a manilla folder, the Saint helped himself to a pen and note pad from her desk.
"You boys are about to provide a valuable service," insisted the Saint, and the two young men snapped to almost military attention.
"First, I want that Volvo moved off the street, then I want you to follow these simple instructions. Here," he handed Daniel the note, "If you see any problem, tell me now, because this is an important assignment."
Dan shared the note with Ian while Vi, holding her folder, seemed a bit adrift.
"You want us to grocery shop and pick up your laundry while we're out?" joked Daniel.
"Yeah," interrupted Ian, "and you got us meeting a British Airways plane at Sea-Tac, besides."
The Saint refrained from commenting on Ian's sentence structure, and instead offered a partial explanation.
"I may be meeting up with you half-way through the scrawled itinerary, but Ms Berkman and I have things we must do before it gets much later. I don't want her rabbinical spouse to bar her from the house."
"My rabbinical spouse is used to me coming home at all hours with tales of sin and degradation—not my own, of course—besides, he is expecting Simon and me to join him in less than an hour."
"So, hop to it, my Cherubs. Complete this assignment and fame will be yours. I'll nominate Daniel as Maritime Man of the Year, and buy Ian a case of peanut butter cups. And," said Simon as he handed them an admirable amount of negotiable currency, "here's a little something extra for your efforts."
"This is what we get for choosing a life of outlawry," muttered Daniel in feigned exasperation as Ian and he headed back down toward the building's main entrance.
"Uh, one question Señor Saint," said Ian, "Did I hear you mention Thea Foss?"
Simon nodded.
"Cool," Ian said with approval as he descended the stairs.
"Thea Foss is cool?"
"Yeah, way cool," called out Ian. "You know, like Dolores Costello."
The Saint heard the main door open and close, then moved back to the window to watch the boys cross to the Volvo.
"You ready to look at this?" Vi, perhaps from impatience or anxiety, seemed again on edge as she placed the folder on the desk and began pacing about the room.
"As soon as our boys are in the car," said Simon, watching the lads cross First Avenue. Suddenly three men came up behind the boys, pushing them insistently towards the vehicle.
At the moment the Saint saw the triple threat advance, he instinctively turned determined to leap down the stairs, bolt through the door, and rescue his dutiful admirers. But before he could move, Berkman's office was enveloped in darkness. To be more precise, it was near darkness, a distinction not lost on the Saint. Yellowed reflected illumination drifted foggily through the open window, providing scant hints of sizes and shapes.
The size and shape of the individual suddenly storming across Vi's office was, to be polite, exceedingly generous. Were you to stuff an Alaskan brown bear into an ill-fitting ensemble of slacks and sweatshirt, and arm it with a length of pipe, you would have a fair approximation of the intruder's dimensions and dementia. The unwanted night visitor violently thrust Viola aside before she could scream, and made a determined attack on the Saint.
If this was all Simon had to worry about, he wasn't worried. The pipe wielding fashion plate with the lumbering gait was no jungle cat, and his offensive moves were as telegraphed as the standard repertoire of a television wrestler.
In the heightened reality of the moment, the Saint choreographed his own counter offensive, still hoping to intersect the Volvo before Dan and Ian were harmed, robbed, or kidnapped.
The bear swung the pipe with a wide round-house right, the type for which any boxer has a professional disdain, and it swished by without impact. It was still in its uninterrupted arc when the Saint launched his jack-hammer fist into the beast's solar plexus.
In the Saint's mind, the pipe wielding intruder was already collapsing, devoid of wind and consciousness. In reality, the rocket-launcher impact of Simon's fist didn't even slow him down. The Saint found this particularly disconcerting.
Unstoppable as a locomotive, the giant's bulk sent the Saint sprawling back across the desk, his arm entangled in the straps of Vi's leather bag, and propelled him over the desk's edge. Simon's head banged on the wooden seat of the swivel chair as he, the folder, and the contents of Vi's purse, spilled over on to the floor.
The pipe again descended, splintering the chair where the Saint's head had been an only instant before. With his shoulders on the floor and his legs flexed, Simon power-pumped his heels directly into an exceptionally sensitive area of his adversary's anatomy. Far more effective than the solar plexus punch, the kick inflicted immeasurable discomfort, sent the brute stumbling back against the filing cabinet, and temporarily forestalled a renewed attack.
Three distinct sounds merged in the Saint's mind - the giant's animal moan, the clang of pipe dropping to the floor, and cries from Vi Berkman.
"My purse!" screamed Vi, "My purse!"
While a woman's purse is often considered an inviolable and sacred item, the Saint rightfully decoded Berkman's high-pitched exclamations as directives rather than admonitions, immediately perceiving two fascinating items among those loosed from Vi's purse: a small canister and a long, thin, black flashlight. He didn't have to read the label to know the canister's contents. He reached for them both, but the canister rolled away under the desk. The Saint clutched the flashlight, spun his body, and kicked the canister across the floor to where Vi stood shriek
ing.
Before the Saint could stand, the giant's massive paws grabbed Simon's lapels, pulled him off his feet, and brutally banged him against the wall adjacent to the window frame.
In the amber illumination streaming through the window, the Saint saw the man's eyes. What Simon Templar saw in those eyes would not haunt him for years to come, nor would the image visit him unwanted in the midnight hour.
Simon Templar's instantaneous accurate appraisal of his assailant's ocular condition was, while not medically precise, operationally adequate. The eyes were wide, wet, and unnaturally dilated. Stripped of prolixity, suffice it to say, the giant's mental state was as artificially altered as Elmo's nieces' measurements.
The beast pinned Simon against the wall, one huge hand wrapped around the Saint's throat while he pawed at Simon's jacket with the other.
"Looking for something?" Simon spoke through a constricted larynx.
Slamming the flashlight's head against the giant's left eye, Simon fired the high-powered halogen bulb. The beast's reaction was sudden, violent, and perfectly predictable. He bellowed, recoiled, clutched his head, and turned directly into the path Viola Berkman.
Vi thrust the canister's nozzle into the beast's gaping mouth, pumped a stream of lung-scorching Mace down his throat, and stood aside while Simon Templar smashed the giant's contorted face with his right fist.
The ominous intruder's head snapped back as if attempting to escape his ham-like neck. Stumbling clumsily backwards, his arms whirling in wild concentric circles, he came to a gagging, choking standstill against the side wall.
It was, all things considered, not a pretty sight.
The Saint immediately turned to the open window, searching for signs of Daniel and Ian.
The Volvo was gone.
Vi, holding the canister at arm’s length in her tremulous hand, kept the nozzle aimed at the intruder's ugly face as she felt for the light switch. The flash of flourescence further aggravated the incapacitated attacker who stomped his booted foot in an ineffectual protest.