by Burl Barer
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 bott
le 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 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."