Capture the Saint

by Burl Barer

  Rabbi Berkman almost dropped his saucer.

  The Saint cleared his cup from the table, carried it into the kitchen, and called out a request for Vi to summon a taxi.

  "I'd borrow your BMW, but I having it riddled with bullet holes might harm the finish," remarked Simon as he ran water in the sink and made clattering noises with the cutlery.

  "Bullet holes?" Rabbi Berkman was still recovering from the syncronicity of Talon's call for the Saint; Vi was already detailing their address to the cab dispatcher.

  Simon excused himself to freshen-up before departing to meet Talon, but paused to make one admittedly unusual request.

  "Would you happen to have either duct tape or an ace bandage?"

  3

  "Judas ain't."

  "I beg your pardon," said the Saint.

  "Judas ain't," repeated the cabbie as the Grey Top taxi turned East on Mercer and headed towards Capitol Hill.

  "Judas ain't what?"

  "Judas ain't diguydigits dibageyes," explained the driver with conspiratorial glee, "sawyon afer disoaps."

  "You’re absolutely right," confirmed Simon after searching his memory bank for a neumonic Rosetta Stone to America's diverse accents and intonations, "I am the Saint, the guy that gets the bad guys. And yes, you saw me on on after `the soaps'."

  Temporarily trapped in traffic directly in front of the Seattle Center Arena, Simon witnessed roving packs of denim clad teens and leather jacketed adolescents herding across the street to queue up under a marquee reading "Grand Theft -- Conquest of America Tour."

  The driver spoke again, and Simon activated his mental decoder.

  "This concert’s a big deal, I guess. Read about it in the paper. You into that stuff?"

  The Saint shook his head and laughed.

  "No, not at all. Whatever vices I have, being addicted to rock 'n' roll is not one of them. I do admit, however, to following some of these characters' more colorful escapades. If my memory serves me well, this particular thieves’ picnic had quite a spread in the newspaper."

  In truth, the only reason Simon Templar scanned the Seattle Times' Grand Theft profile was because of its adjacency to more important articles about the Saint in Seattle, the premier of ‘The Pirate’, the love life of Emilio Hernandez, and the anticipated international attendees of the Maritime Issues Forum.

  "This is Grand Theft's big comeback tour," the cabbie said sarcastically as the taxi began to make progress on Mercer, "they're old enough to have fathered half the audience, and from what I've read about 'em, they probably did. They split up several years ago, but Lord knows why."

  Simon studied a gaggle of affluent youths preening, posing, and pretending to do neither as they acted out their pop culture rituals.

  "It was probably a combination of interpersonal malaise, managerial condiments, and the group’s digression into out-of-body aerobics," offered the Saint. "Personally, I wouldn't buy a ticket if they were giving them away."

  "Naw, me neither," admitted the driver, "they ain't my style, but some of those kids would do anything to get in. Jeez," added the cabbie, pointing to one rather colorful grouping, "these kids today. Just look at 'em."

  The Saint had been looking for some time. A young girl with a heretical haircut paced in front of the Arena wearing only a lightweight denim jacket, tank top, torn jeans, and tattered tennis shoes. Unlike the majority of youngsters crowding the concert's doors, no caring parent dropped her off with a pre-paid ticket, an extra twenty bucks, and assurances of a safe ride home. Perhaps the frail young teen was not Viola's Buzzy, but her street-weary aura pierced the crowd's festive atmosphere like a lighthouse beacon, illuminating Simon Templar's sense of purpose.

  The two men traveled in silence as the cab dipped under the Aurora overpass, and at precisely the intersection of Mercer and Fairview the Saint vowed with iron resolve that Dexter Talon would not escape his justice.

  Ernie Steel's Checkerboard Room, the alcohol serving adjunct to what is best described as a diner rather than a restaurant or cafe, was comprised of two overlapping seating sections: smoking and chain-smoking. Had Simon Templar not long ago abandoned the harmful habit, he would have barely noticed the thick blue haze discoloring the wine-stained backdrop of false front comraderie demonstrated by Detective Dexter Talon.

  The Saint had encountered all manner of detectives in his adventurous career, most of whom sought reasons for either his arrest or extradition, and he often derived delight from tweaking their collective noses. Simon did not want to tweak Talon's nose. Punching his nose, for that matter, would be insufficient punishment for a representative of law and order whom Templar found totally insufferable and blatantly offensive. And while suppressed hostility is almost always perceived, the Saint had long ago perfected the uncanny ability of appearing benignly agreeable to those he thoroughly despised.

  "So you're the famous Simon Templar," said Talon as if it were a joke.

  "Yes, a pleasure to meet you, Detective," Simon answered as if he meant it, extending his virile grip to Talon's fleshy palm.

  The detective recognized the Saint the moment Simon Templar walked through the door. It would have been difficult not to spot him. He was the only celebrity in Ernie Steel's, and the singular gentleman in attendance who could, by any amplitude of perception or imagination, be termed elegant, refined, piratically handsome or dangerously picaresque. As the customers' vocabularies were limited to the recitation of brand name bottled spirits and the mascot nomenclature of collegiate and professional ball teams, none of them would have applied analogous edifying phrases had they considered describing him at all, which they did not.

  Talon, to be courteous in our appraisal, rather resembled a rolled boneless ham. His waxy flesh appeared sloppily glued to his rubbery sinews, giving the impression that creational improvisation, either by design or oversight, deprived him of a standard-issue skeletal frame. His adipose abdomen flopped over his waistband while his chin attempted obscuring the knot of his necktie.

  "I know all about you, Saint," said Talon, "and I know you've got a thing about detectives."

  "I'm not quite sure, under the circumstances, exactly how you mean that," Simon said, his face giving a flawless impersonation of a friendly smile as the two sat at Talon's dark corner table.

  "I've read about you, even heard your ol' pal John Fernack of the NYPD go on about ya once at one of our cop conventions back east some years ago. Beer?"

  "Sure, the house brand will do," answered the Saint, and Talon seemed to smirk while his dark little eyes swiveled in their sockets like greased ball-bearings.

  "Yeah, right. Here's the deal, Templar. Listen, we got a problem."

  "We? We've only just met, and we have a problem?

  Talon fished into a crumpled pack of short, non-filtered cigarette, pulled one out, lit it, hacked out the first puff, and poked the pack with a stubby forefinger.

  "Help yourself if you want one."

  "That's OK," said Simon politely, "I'll just breath yours."

  Talon glanced around the room as if what he was about to say required confidentiality. It did. When the beer arrived and the waiter departed, Talon spoke.

  "I didn't call up beggin' you to come see me so we could swap true crime stories or chew the fat about dead criminals we've known and loved. When I say `we got a problem' I mean it. The problem started out being mine, but now, whether you like it or not, it’s yours."

  The detective spit an errant piece of tobacco from his tongue's tip, flipped a bit of ash into the black plastic ashtray, and waited encouragement from the Saint.

  "Oh?" Simon's response - flat, abrupt, and unemotional - was not exactly the encouragement Talon anticipated, but it served as an appropriate prompt. The grotesque detective raised the long necked bottle to his thin lipped mouth, the flabby flesh above his collar creasing and bending backwards as if an elastic hinge were secretly embedded behind his gullet. Talon gulped four ounces, banged the bottle back on the table, and began his clumsily
rehearsed recitation.

  "I ain't no crooked cop, and I been around more than twenty years and in this town that's sayin' somethin'. But..," Talon stopped and stared at the table as if expecting his next line of dialog to be etched into the wood. It wasn't. His heavy shoulders raised in a gargantuan sigh and, after taking another long, slow drag of acrid tobacco, continued. "I hate to admit what I've done because its embarrasing as hell."

  Remembering Viola's photos of the violated Buzzy, the Saint's eyes seared into Talon like twin shafts of iced lightning.

  "I'm being blackmailed," blurted out Talon with startling suddeness, "Blackmailed, Templar. You hear that? And I've paid and paid and there is no end to it."

  "Blackmail?"

  "Damn right," said Talon, his piggy eyes aimed pleadingly at the Saint. "I know how you feel about blackmailers. It's no secret you think they're scum. Hell, old John Fernack clued me in on your attitude about that years ago, but it ain't easy acting like some vigilante rub-out artist when you're a respected police detective."

  The Saint was not about to quibble with Talon over degrees of respectability, and as the unattractive detective had unexpectedly put a new spin on the evening's festivities, Simon could no longer play it cold and aloof.

  "You're correct about my attitude towards blackmailers, Talon," said the Saint seriously, "You're a fool to pay them, they won't stop on their own, and the option I endorse is outside the realm of approved police behavior. You did say you paid, right?"

  Talon's head wobbled an ashamed affirmation as he deliberately stubbed out the last life of his smoldering butt.

  "Yeah, at first I figured what else could I do..."

  Simon leaned closer, speaking in tones simultaneously silken and deadly.

  "Tell me, dear Talon, why exactly are you being blackmailed, by whom, and why is it suddenly my problem?"

  Dexter Tallon affected a sheepish expression for which he was ill suited, and a small smug grin inched across his lips. "It’s your problem because I used your name."

  Simon felt as if the linoleum floor of Ernie Steel's Checkerboard room had evaporated mirage-like beneath him, leaving the detective, the table, two chairs, two bottles of beer, and one dirty ashtray suspended in mid-air.

  "You used what?" The Saint did not disguise his incredulity.

  Talon shifted in his chair, lit another cigarette as almost an affrontive gesture, and said it agin.

  "I used your name. You know: Simon Templar, alias the Saint, the Robin Hood of Modern Crime and all that."

  "I believe my name and likeness are now officially registered trademarks," said the Saint dryly, "I'm afraid they can't be used without paying an outrageous licensing fee. According to my agent, I am worth more than all the Warner, Ritz, and Marx brothers combined."

  Talon took another hot-box drag and washed it down with cold beer.

  "Yeah, well I figured your name was worth somethin' alright. When they kept asking for money and I'd had enough, I told them you were an old pal of mine, that we shared similar interests," said Talon with an offensive wink, "and that you and your gang would take care of them but good. When you came rollin' into town with your famous face all over the news, that's when I told 'em they were dead ducks for sure."

  Simon leaned back and gave Detective Dexter Talon the slow, visual once-over. The Saint's steely gaze seemed to pierce his very soul, and Talon slowly squirmed in his seat.

  "Who are `they' and why exactly are you being blackmailed?," asked Simon, "And please be precise. If you've been throwing my name around, I have a right to know all the gruesome details. Before you answer, please give the formulation of your response significant considerations concerning honesty, accuracy, and my reputation." The Saint weighted the final few words with intonations designed to elicit images of murder and mayhem.

  Detective Talon deflated like a punctured bop-bag, small snorts of smoke puffed from his nostrils, and he told his tale of woe.

  "I love bein' a cop, Saint, but there's more to life than that. Look at me. Its easy to see that I don't have much of what you'd call a social life. I was married once, years ago, nice girl. Sort of. We had a kid. Got problems. Cop's kid's problems. Nothin' but trouble."

  "And the reason your being blackmailed is..." prompted the Saint impatiently.

  Talon glared while smashing his cigarette's red tip into the crowded ashtray. His fingers came out smudged and smelly.

  "Give a guy a break, Templar. I'm tryin' to tell ya." He reached for another smoke, but Simon put his hand on the pack.

  "At the rate your smoking those you'll be dead before the waiter asks if we want another beer, so to keep me from hearing this story wheezed through a respirator, let me make it easy for you. Most people are blackmailed over illicit romantic entaglements or past illegal activities. Being that you survived the famous purge of the Seattle Police, I'll assume that you were indiscrete with someone's wife, husband, daughter, livestock, or modern kitchen appliance, and the ungodly want you to pay up or be exposed. Am I correct?"

  "Close enough," admitted the detective, "I like women, OK? There's nothin' wrong with that. I'm a man. Unnerstan'?”

  "Yes, I like women too," responded the Saint compasssionately. "My only problem has been in the plurality, but please go on."

  "Well, I got in with a guy who snapped some photos and now I'm paying. But his demands are beyond extreme. I've already given him twenty grand."

  Simon Templar, an accomplished expert at the game of cat and mouse, long ago discovered the joys of tossing catnip and mousetraps onto the playing field.

  "Oh, you must mean those cute snapshots of little Buzzy, the girl with the dreadful haircut," announced the Saint happily, "why don't you just arrange to give these leeches the `Uncle Elmo' treatment?"

  The emotional explosion from Dexter Talon was immediate and volatile. The thick fist thrown towards Simon's face stopped mid-flight, snared by the immovable might of the Saint's own grip. He tightened his fingers, Talon grimaced, and the Saint laughed as if the two were at play.

  "Calm down, Detective," said the Saint through a false smile, "or our fellow customers will think there has been a rift in our friendship. And we certainly don't want to attract attention, now do we?"

  Talon' eyes smoldered, his ashen cheeks reddened with anger.

  "What was it that pushed your hot-button, Talon? Was it little Buzzy that raised your ire, or was it the reference to the late, great Uncle Elmo? Speaking man to man, if you want my help, I need to know all the distasteful details."

  Talon relaxed, pulled back his squished fist, and sagged in his chair. Simon picked up the crumpled pack of smokes, removed one, and handed the single cigarette to the weary looking detective.

  "You have from the moment you light it until the time you stub it out to tell me absolutely everything, so either speak quickly or don't inhale."

  The detective sucked back more beer before igniting his fix; the Saint sampled the watery brew and found it lacking in both body and flavor.

  "You know plenty considering you're new in town," began Talon with a trace of sarcasm, "the loser called Uncle Elmo got in deep with organized crime and they bumped him off. It was good riddance. A lawyer buddy of mine and I formed a corporation and bought out the place from his survivors. It was on the q.t., of course, but the criminals got the message -- the place is clean, no prostitution, the girls are protected,"

  "And you get dates motivated by appreciation and gratitude," added the Saint.

  A slight smile and small shrug from Talon indicated Simon was on the right track.

  "Strange, isn't it Saint, that the best way to put crooks out of work is for cops to take over the business?"

  Simon simply raised his eyebrows.

  "That's it as far as Elmo is concerned," said Talon, "He's exceptionally dead, and probably the better for it. As for the girl with the horrid haircut," he added bitterly, "she's no innocent sweetheart, I'll tell ya that right now. She may be underage, but what she lacks in years she
makes up for in conniving greed and deception. Trust me, Saint," insisted Talon with obvious anger, "if she was being used, it wasn't by me. Put make up on her and a pair of heels, and believe me, she looks every inch a woman. I was set up with her by this guy who had become my party buddy. A picture taker who's now takin' me to the cleaners. Turns out this street-wise little trollop is in on the deal from the get-go."

  Talon, noticing that his cigarette was about to burn his fingers, set it in the black ashtray and used a previously extinguished fellow to crush it out.

  "The Badger Game," said the Saint, "it's one of the oldest cons in the book. Except in your case no outraged husband came bursting in at an embarrassing moment accompanied by a camera toting accomplice pretending to be a private eye. Instead, you got the squeeze put on you maybe a day or even a week or two later."

  "Exactly. It was about five days after the girl and I...well, anyway, my `good buddy' comes around and you know the rest, or most of the rest. And there has been some cat following me."

  "You mean cat as in hipster, cat as in feline, or do you mean something else entirely?"

  "Maybe it's an enforcer, maybe it's someone from the old Uncle Elmo's crowd, I even thought it might be someone with you. Anyway, I haven't really seen 'im, but I can tell when someone is following me."

  So could the Saint.

  Simon washed down his distaste for Talon and the other principle players in this unsavory game with another swallow of headless beer. As his mind was drifting into considerations of the mystery cat's identity, he forced himself to re-focus on the most urgent and imperative issues.