Capture the Saint

by Burl Barer

  "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."