by Burl Barer
"Ah, c'mon, Dave," responded the other, "you mean you really go for those guys? I don't know how you can stand a bunch of old hippies jumping around screaming. Instead of Grand Theft, they should call themselves..."
His suggestion, while not suited for all audiences, caused Dave to guffaw and snort, an unpleasant auditory experience inexplicably interpreted as an expression of appreciative humor.
"Besides," he continued, "I think Alisdare saves all the good perks for himself. If the job is lobster and scampi for big shots with big bucks, you can bet the little runt will be licking his fingers all the way to the client's table. He had one of those today at the Westin. Some movie promotion and they probably spent as much on the food as they did on the special effects. That little goof-ball is probably spending his commission right now shovin' tokens in the slot at Uncle Elmo's peep show."
Dave cut the cards.
"You're kiddin' me, Bud. Ya mean ol' Alisdare hangs out down there?"
Bud laughed as if Dave was ready for his own prime-time comedy special.
"He hangs out there all right. There and that other dive, `Chesters,' in Woodinville. Probably because the cold storage and ice sculpture guy is out there and they got that `Brine Time' pickle business. What a racket," chortled Bud as he sloshed coffee in his personal World's Greatest Lover cup, "He makes money on the catering, plus he orders pickles from himself. He got some investor I guess to pump money into his pickle business, but I wouldn't eat 'em 'cause, knowing him, ya never know where they been. He wanted me to party with him and some pals one night, but that kind of stuff is not my scene. I'd rather watch a ball game or listen to country-western."
Dave rearranged his cards. It made no difference to the quality of his hand.
"I'd rather be tortured than listen to country-western," said Dave slyly, and his mind was back at the Seattle Coliseum. "We'll be back in time for their big encore. We gotta bring plenty of those Brine Time pickles and overpriced sandwiches for the road crew."
Bud discarded a ten of diamonds.
"Did you catch that blond dressed like a space alien backstage? Boy, she can beam me up anytime."
Both men laughed because such men laugh at such jokes; the Saint had heard enough. He relocated to the row of windows where his seldom used but never rusty talents as an accomplished second story man were put to immediate use in reverse.
Getting out, Simon discovered, was not going to be difficult. Getting out silently, however, was going to be impossible. He could open a window with only slight opposition, but the building's ancient nature guaranteed grating screeches equal to Grand Theft's encore.
The Saint was momentarily perplexed, but only momentarily. Two loud bangs, separated by a one-second pause, suddenly rattled the delivery door as if someone was entreating entry. As two knocks are almost always followed by a third, Simon threw open the window as the third shockwave hit the door. Success.
"What the hell?" Dave tossed his official Emerald City cap on the table next to the discard pile, set down his cards, and headed for the loading dock's entrance.
"Oh, jeeze, it’s probably some nut," offered Bud, the older and more experienced of the two. He had been through this more than once.
"We're closed!" he yelled to the air, and watched his companion open the back door next to the large delivery entrance.
Weaving mildly in an excellent and accurate impersonation of a slightly sloshed and obviously inebriated upper class patron of Seattle's nightspots was Mrs. Nathanial Berkman. She smiled and blinked, steadied herself, and raised her palm in a gesture so authoritative that any word attempting escape from the lips of the capless employee stopped short of expression.
"Pickled herring," began Viola stepping forward with the determination of a steamroller about to descend a steep hill, "I'm looking for that pickled herring. Not the big rolled herring, not the wine herring, not the sour cream herring, but the pickled herring in the tall jars with all the onions. Not that I object to onions, mind you, but onions are no substitute for herring, a certain number of onions are obligatory, like ablutions before prayers." Having propelled herself placidly through the opening, she panned her gaze around the interior of Emerald City Catering. Two guys, coffee, cards --one of the men sipping his java while watching his young compatriot handle the situation.
"You do understand about herring, don't you?" She smiled hopefully.
"I understand we're closed," said Dave patiently, "and we don't sell herring to walk-in customers anyway. We're a catering service, not a deli." He would have continued his explanation, but the coquetry look on Viola's attractive face curtailed any further commentary.
He gently guided the well-groomed intruder back across the threshold and shut the door before Viola Berkman could say another word, and that was fine with her. Vi's intent had been simply to ascertain the degree of tension behind the door, and as there was none, either the Saint had escaped or remained undiscovered. If a distraction were useful, useful she was.
"Are you sure you can't spare a herring?" giggled Viola with a slight slur, the final request adding further authenticity to her performance as a slightly sozzled socialite. The only response was no response, and that too was fine with Mrs Berkman.
The Saint was squirming out the window when he heard the source of his fortuitous distraction. It was difficult to make out any details of the conversation, but Simon Templar silently thanked his providential guardian angels for once again ladling out preposterous amounts of delightful luck. With his strong fingers curved over the edge of the sill, Simon hung at his full arm's length. Transferring to the narrow stone ledge running along the side of the building was effortless, and he moved quickly to the nearest corner.
From this vantage point he surveyed much of the neighborhood. Unfortunately, much of the neighborhood could, should they bother looking, survey the Saint. The closest streetlight shot glare across his vision. Simon considered a blind forward leap into mid-air would certainly result in crippling impact with either pavement or gravel; a calculated jump to the side could, if he were correct in his estimation of distance and positioning, allow him to land several feet below on the flat roof of a small retail outlet christened with the grandiose title "Prosthesis World." Overestimating ability or underestimating distance would qualify him as a potential customer.
Deciding that another moment of blatant public exposure was unacceptable, the Saint took a leap of faith. It was a leap not dissimilar from any of the numerous leaps which find their way into these stories, except that mid-distance between the point of departure and the point of arrival, the cassette tape stashed in Simon's pocket became independent of its human carrier and sailed off alone into the night, its clear plastic case shimmering with reflected light for one brief moment before plummeting into darkness and pavement. Simom heard the sharp treble crack of the cassette hitting the asphalt strip running between the two buildings only a millisecond before his strong legs delivered him unbroken atop Prosthesis World.
Crouched rooftop under moonlight, Simon Templar considered the familiarity of this nocturnal environment. Countless times he had scampered across similar roofs, swung from balustrades, dangled from sills, and stretched his lean athletic frame from drain gutter to lattice. The Saint could not deny that tonight was somehow different. There was an uncomfortable ache along the length of his calves and a mild cramping in his upper arms. Despite continued formal workouts, Simon regretfully acknowledged to himself how distant in actual experience were the once common physical rigors of demonstrative outlawry.
He watched another Metro Transit bus spark its way up Madison, noted the green neon sign of the Italian bistro, and leaned gargoyle-like over the roof's edge. He retrieved the thin black flashlight from his jacket and aimed the pinpoint beam downward, but it revealed only the pavement's predictable location.
The safest place to drop was from the roof's far west side. Simon eased himself over the edge and let go. The ground, accented with a liberal sprinkling of gravel, was m
ore uncomfortable on impact than he anticipated. He rolled once, stood quickly, straightened his clothing, and merged back into the tall foliage sprouting alongside the building.
Stepping from the shadows, he walked over and picked up the tape.
"Boo!"
3
Simon spun around and found himself facing a gleefully grinning Viola.
"Hey Mister, what's a man your age doing jumping around like that?"
"C'mon," urged the Saint as he took her arm, "Let's go. What in the world are you doing here?"
"I'm the one who distracted the employees so you could do your nightly calisthenics," declared Vi proudly as they strolled quickly, but not suspiciously, back to the bright lights of Madison.
"I'm glad that you're having so much fun, Ms Berkman," drawled the Saint. "But if you're going to accompany me to the last rural lair of corrupt caterers and deviant pickle packers, I insist on taking the wheel."
"Only if you tell me everything," bargained Vi.
The Saint drove.
The BMW passsed over the Evergreen Point Bridge towards the affluent eastside suburbs, and by the time it turned north on I-405, Simon had recounted his version of events and discoveries at Emerald City Catering. Vi poured through the pages of Alisdare's little black book of names, dollar figures, cryptic notations, and references to ingredients not smiled upon by advocates of environmental protection.
"I don't think this is a recipe for pickle brine," said Vi jabbing a fingernail into the page. "Ferric chloride, ephdedrine sulphate, ammonia gas, benzaldehyde..."
"Don't forget a liberal sprinkling of formaldehyde and acetic acid," added the Saint, "that's what makes Brine Time pickles so crunchy and Snookums so cranky."
Vi shut the book.
"Cranky indeed. That's what the kids call it --crank. They also call it speed, the poor man's cocaine. I've seen kids on that stuff more nervous than a bag full of cats. They stay up for days without sleep, get paranoid and unpredictable..." Her voice trailed off as her jaw tightened in anger and determination.
The Saint gave the BMW some speed of its own and moved to the right hand lane.
"Methinks Mr Alisdare has been sampling his own product, judging from his recent behavior," commented Simon, "and Snookums probably had a snoot-full when he entertained us at your office. But by the time the sun rises over the Cascades, I am absolutely positive that Talon and Alisdare will concern you no more."
He said it with such flat matter-of-fact assurance that Viola could only look at him with comforted admiration.
Simon flicked the turn signal indicator and took the Woodinville/Duvall exit. A brightly lit self-service gas station illumined the descent from four lane freeway to the tiny town's one main intersection. They turned left and continued on the Woodinville/Duvall road and soon passed the only enterprise doing any business at this late hour, the rowdy and raucous Chesters Dance Palace. A beer and wine outpost featuring exotic dance performances for men with bulging wallets, big tires on their pickups, and unfulfilled fantasies, Chesters had not yet become victim to the future's unavoidable emergence of conservative family values and gentrified property improvement.
"You can guess who owns that joint," muttered Vi, "the wonderful Mr Arthur Rasnec."
"And probably without Dexter Talon," added Simon as he slowed to the speed limit.
"Without Talon? I thought they would be two peas in a perverted pod." Vi's expression indicated unsurprising disapproval.
"Talon may be a crafty predator, but he is no investment genius," explained the Saint as they continued on the darkened two-lane blacktop, "I'll bet you his bottom dollar that when he decided he wanted a piece of Uncle Elmo's action, he went to Rasnec without even knowing him. Rasnec isn't a criminal lawyer, he's an investment attorney. He invests his own money as well as others'. He likes to be a player. Chesters makes perfect sense for Rasnec -- he finances a cheap thrill joint in an underdeveloped area like Woodinville and funnels the profits into land purchases. Look at it -- wooded acres, no industry, no retail, a few houses. Someday it will be another populated extension of the Bellevue/Kirkland Metropolitan Area with fast food franchises, factory outlets, and high-priced housing developments. Rasnec, seeing the future, would be buying it up with every penny of profit from the world of exotic dance. Five years from now, when all this is strip-malls and condominiums, the main street will be named `Rasnec' in honor of the town's primary benefactor and most respected investor."
"Hmmm, I doubt Talon is as futuristic in his motivations," said Vi, "but if you're right, Rasnec probably saw ownership of Uncle Elmo's as not only a prudent downtown investment, but as another source of talented performers for Chesters."
"Advance to the head of the class, Viola. Elmo's daytime nieces may be grinding away back there for table tips at this very minute."
"And if it’s true that Talon didn't arrange Uncle Elmo's death," Vi enjoyed playing Ms Deduction, "the mob who put Elmo in his grave would tread more lightly around a Seattle Detective. They might even slip him cash, if he were open to it."
The tall trees and occasional clouds obscured the moonlight. Simon turned on the BMW's high beams.
"It’s possible," agreed the Saint, "A little corruption goes a long way."
"I hope it takes him all the way to hell," insisted Vi.
The were both silent for a time, and the dark road seemed to unravel forever. Vi hoped the Saint knew where he was going. She turned and stared at him, which was something she enjoyed doing. He didn't seem to notice, or if he did, he didn't mind. Despite his age, he appeared timeless. There was still the same heroic swiftness of line about his features, and the same dancing devil of mischief in his clear blue eyes that she either remembered from her childhood or memorized from magazines.
The Saint tossed back his head and laughed aloud. Vi, assuming that he was laughing because she was staring, begged his forgiveness.
"No, no," objected Simon good naturedly, "the day women stop staring is the day I refuse to go out in public."
Vi eyed him playfully for a moment before posing a perfectly reasonable question.
"Why do you still do it? Being the Saint, I mean."
A reckless smile glided across his lips and his chin tilted up in youthful impertinence.
"Because I refuse to grow up and settle down," stated the Saint proudly. "I've certainly matured, but I promised myself at an early age that I would never resign myself to life without adventure. I vowed to keep crashing about, raising hell, righting wrongs, rescuing damsels in distress, and biffing the ungodly on the beezer for as long as I could. Besides," the Saint added for additional justification, "it’s good for the complexion."
Simon slowed the BMW as they rounded the curve into what would be the center of Duvall if Duvall had a center.
"Then again," continued the Saint, "I've always asserted that I was a genius, and to prove it, I promised to quit while I was ahead."
She reached over and squeezed his arm. His bicep was rock solid.
"The public thinks the notorious Saint retired years ago, Mr Templar," said Vi affectionately.
"It was a mild intention never fully realized," admitted the Saint cheerfully, "Maybe I felt something remained undone. When I was young and brash all I wanted from life was adventure, and adventure became life itself. But Viola my sweet, adventure, more than anything, is an attitude of mind. In other words, it’s not what you do, it’s the manner in which you do it."
"As the actress said to the Bishop?"
The Saint laughed and Duvall's one streetlight cast refracted rays through the lightly fogged window bathing Simon's profile in an aura of white.
"If there were no Saint, I imagine we would have to invent one just to keep us on our toes," said Vi sweetly. "But really, Simon, when you've swashed your last buckle, who in the world could take your place?"
Simon's bright sapphire eyes focused far away on some private, personal vision.
"The spoiled child of a wild tempestuous destiny,"
stated the Saint, "who wants to have all the fun in the world. As for me, when that time comes, I shall recline in literary repose on a sun-drenched beach and write my memoirs."
She had her answer; the Saint dimmed the headlights and eased slowly into the dirt and rock parking lot of a closed country cafe called The Silver Spoon.
"Are you lost?" asked Vi, somewhat concerned.
"Of course not," snapped Simon playfully, "and if I was do you think I would stop for directions at an empty restaurant?"
Simon turned off the ignition and reached down for Viola's purse.
"I need to retrieve something from you, if you don't mind. A deadly weapon, as a matter of fact."
Simon pulled Snookum's small revolver out of Vi's bag. The Saint heard her gasp.
"How long has that been in there?" Vi sounded like a scolding schoolmarm.
"Oh, since just before I ran off to burgle Emerald City Catering," responded Simon, "You can't make big bangs without one of these, you know."
"Do you plan on shooting somebody for real?" Vi asked it as if worried that pumping people full of lead was not situation specific appropriate behavior.
"Not if I can help it," said Simon, "the police always want to investigate those things, and corpses are so inconvenient."
Vi looked around dimly lit Duvall as if expecting the aforementioned corpses to suddenly appear.
"There's nothing here except this cafe and a few little shops across the street," she said, pointing at a small clustering of outlets including The Handmade Blade Arts and Crafts Center and The Child's Balloon Gift Shoppe. "You plan on shooting your way past the decoupage for a climax by the wrapping paper?"
Simon finished double checking the gun and slid it into his back waistband.
"We're not far from Brine Time, and we're equally close to Mr Alisdare's private lair," explained the Saint coolly, "I've known dear Salvadore's domicile ever since I lifted his wallet back at Nikko's. In fact, I believe Snookums had every intention of bringing me here earlier, although I wasn't particularly receptive at the time. Let's just say I am arriving fashionably late and hopefully unannounced."