Capture the Saint

by Burl Barer

  As he unlocked the sedan, a strong hand clasped down on his beefy shoulder.

  "What ho, Tex," said the Saint, and his voice was as heated steel slicing through the night's moist chill.

  Talon turned, his keys falling with sharp metallic impact on the gray concrete.

  "Saint! How did you get in here," stammered the Detective, "You said you'd meet me..."

  "I say lots of things, butterball," Simon interrupted, "and any enterprising youth with a bit of patience and a dollop of creativity could make off with every hubcap in sight."

  Simon Templar appeared as self-assured, self-possessed, and completely refreshed as he did several hours earlier. Talon, although he made no reference to the topic, found the Saint's impeccable personal grooming to be a source of nagging irritation. Rather, the flabby man's tiny eyeballs seemed to crawl back into their sockets as he nervously looked from side to side. He attempted a gruff retort, but Simon spoke first.

  "We're quite alone, just us two," said the Saint softly. "I promised you a little gift, and I am a man of my word -- something to add a touch of realism to whatever you have planned for Mr Alisdare." He handed Talon a plastic bag.

  "This is a gun," the Detective said flatly.

  "Brilliant. I'll recommend you for a promotion. Don't touch it. It has Alisdare's prints all over it. It may come in handy."

  The disgusting man's lower lip quivered with emotion, and the Saint controlled a near overwhelming impulse to split that lip with a strong right uppercut.

  "Thanks, Saint. I don't know why you're helpin' a guy like me, especially after I used your name and all."

  If Talon expected compassionate warmth and comraderie to issue forth from Simon Templar, he was summarily disappointed.

  "If you ever mention my name again, even in passing, I promise I'll have you killed. Period. Do you understand me? For your information, I do have a gang. I have instructed them to watch your back tonight when you meet Alisdare, except if you mention my name. If you do, it will be the last thing you ever say. Observe that simple rule, and if only one man walks away alive from your little meeting, that one man will be you."

  Had Talon been face to face with a ferocious jungle cat, he could not have been more terrified than he was at that moment. It was as if every primal and dangerous aspects of the Saint's personality were manifest before him as twin shafts of ice-blue light reflected in the cold depths of Simon's ethereal azure eyes.

  Not another word was spoken, Talon bent down to retrieving his keys, and the Saint was gone. He listened for Simon's footsteps but heard only the erratic buzzing of a flickering fluorescent light and the gentle waves of Lake Washington lapping against the outer rim of the garage. He let out a long, laborious sigh, tucked the plastic bag under his coat, and clumsily stuffed another smoke between his thick, dry lips. It shook so hard he could not light it. A sudden cold breeze blew in from Lake Washington, whistling between the lot's solid concrete columns, and his baggy body wobbled and shuddered in response.

  Detective Dexter Talon, alias Tex Nolan, muttered an unseemly expression under his labored breath as he plopped into the driver's seat, started the ignition, and activated the electronic garage door opener attached to his visor.

  The Saint, from a vantage point of concealment, watched the large garage gate rise in response. He saw the Plymouth pass out of the lot, drive up the incline and turn right on the one-way street. In the back of Talon's car were most of the contents from Salvadore Alisdare's personal safe. Most, but not all. There was one item retrieved from Emerald City that was, at that very moment, being returned to its rightful owner. And the Saint smiled, for he knew that neither he nor Little Buzzy, nor any of Seattle's children of the night, would ever see Dexter Talon again.

  The Saint exited by simply reversing his clandestine method of entrance, and allowed himself a few minutes of peaceful repose. He sat on the park bench situated to the building's North, as would any comfortable Madison Park resident, and admired the scenic panorama. A young couple walked a large dog along the sidewalk, and a few boats peppered the lake with bright running lights. To his left, the Evergreen Point bridge stretched across Lake Washington. To his right, although his vision was partially blocked by high-rise condominiums, majestic Mt. Rainier seemed to rise in snow-covered glory behind the Mercer Island Floating Bridge. He soon stood from the bench and walked purposefully towards the high-rise's front door, arriving exactly at the moment an elderly lady, having been carefully delivered home by relatives, turned her key in the lock.

  "Allow me," said Simon graciously, holding open the door.

  She had one minor moment of suspicion, but the man smiled so sweetly, and was so deliriously handsome, that he could never be a burglar or a purse snatcher.

  "I don't believe I've seen you here before," said the woman sweetly as the elevator door enclosed her with the Saint.

  "I'm in town on business," said Simon without elaboration.

  "How nice," she responded automatically, "My son-in-law is an accountant. He and my daughter took me to see that silly Pirate movie with Emilio Hernandez in it. It had all sorts of noisy action, but you know young people like that sort of thing."

  The Saint smiled and nodded.

  "What kind of business are you in?" The woman's desire for conversation remained acute, and although the elevator door opened on the 3rd floor, she waited for his answer before exiting.

  "Diamonds," said the Saint warmly, "I evaluate Diamonds."

  "Oh. Well, if you have any spares...,"

  They both laughed, she left, and Simon pushed the button for floor number 8. The night's events were clicking together with the predictability of precision tumblers. He pictured Talon parking that old Plymouth on upper Madison, preparing for the penultimate rendezvous. As for Salvadore, Simon was not concerned about the little man with the wet brow and unsavory predilections. He knew Alisdare was in good hands.

  2

  "Unhand me, you villains!" Alisdare wailed and flailed but to no avail. The two elegant men had him sussed and trussed, having first tossed him as a chef would a reluctant salad.

  "Templar and I had a deal, honest," objected Salvadore, who had been bleating and pleading ever since the two malevolent gents manifested themselves unannounced within the supposedly secure confines of Emerald City Catering.

  Prior to the dramatic interruption, Alisdare disconnected his make-believe SeaQue answering machine and checked the contents of his personal safe. As he expected, it was essentially empty. The jittery fellow made several unkind comments to himself about Simon Templar, and wished that the Saint had at least left him his micro-recorder.

  "You are the noisiest little fellow," remarked Peter Quentin as he disdainfully stuffed a serviette in Alisdare's gapping yammer.

  Salvadore, bereft of speech, yelled with his eyes.

  "Calm down, fruitcake," advised Roger Conway, "you're liable to pop a ventricle."

  "Really," concurred Quentin, "if you realized how committed we are to your eternal future, you'd be waxing positively rhapsodic."

  "Rhapsodic?" Conway questioned the word's very existence.

  "Similar to Quixotic, only more syncopated," explained Peter.

  As for Alisdare, he was unamused and thoroughly traumatized. He had allowed himself several moments of self-congratulatory indulgence on his way into Seattle during which he gloated over his superior intelligence, celebrated his outwitting of Simon Templar, and anticipated further milking of a reluctant bovine named Dexter Talon. Now, much to his dismay, two roughs cut from cloth similar to the Saint's were making his life a living hell.

  Conway and Quentin's immediate leap from Sea-Tac's British Airway's terminal into the mid-most heart of a full-throttle Saintly adventure was the perfect antidote to international jet lag. With nothing to hide and minimal luggage, they passed swiftly through airport security, discovered two young men holding aloft a clumsily scrawled drawing of a familiar stick figure, and immediately knew there was more adventure on the m
enu than simply a birthday surprise for Barney Malone.

  They quickly absorbed the verbal rush of information and admiration poured forth by Dan and Ian, experiencing an adrenaline tinged nostalgia for those precious years past when nights of adventure and days of danger were common occurrences. A brief perfunctory reunion and strategy session with the Saint outside the Westin strengthened their resolve to reinforce their reputations for justifiable outlawry -- reputations modified in recent years by enviable financial success in diversified business interests consolidated under the auspices of their self-named firm. The inescapable fact that their empire's initial capitol funding derived from exploits chronicled in earlier editions of the Saga was never far from their minds, nor were they from the thoughts of a devil-may-care rascal with fire in his ice-blue eyes and a never-ending penchant for improbable and profitable escapades. Roger Conway and Peter Quentin long ago resigned themselves to the unalterable reality that their lives and fortunes were forever wedded, directly or indirectly, for better or worse, to the sign of the Saint.

  "How many times have you saved the Saint's life," asked Ian as the battered Volvo rattled Northbound on 1-5 from Sea-Tac to the Westin.

  "One time too many," joked Conway.

  "That makes us about even," said Quentin dryly, and the two post-adolescents in the front seat grinned unabashedly from ear to ear.

  Salvadore Alisdare failed to appreciate either Peter's dry wit or Conway's upbeat mannerisms until such time as the two offered a cursory explanation for their intrusive and abrasive behavior.

  "We have a gift for you, shortstuff," announced Peter graciously. He held Alisdare's micro-recorder lightly in his right palm. "As you're the rightful owner, it's only proper for you to keep it close to your heart."

  Salvadore vibrated silently, the serviette's tail flapping against his chin.

  "And we have a charming little tape to go with it," added Roger, "I previewed side one and discovered a disgusting exchange between Dexter Talon and a certain underage street kid -- a conversation custom made for blackmail -- and decided you should record an incriminating sequel on side two."

  Alisdare's pleading piggy eyes begged questions; Peter yanked the gag from the squirming victim's mouth.

  "You're not gonna hurt me?" Salvadore was near incredulous.

  "Heaven's no," said Roger seriously as he leaned down into Alisdare's wet little face, "we want you happy, healthy, and wired for sound."

  Bleary eyes darted back and forth between the Saint's two elegant henchmen.

  "Templar and I..."

  "Yes, we know," interrupted Roger Conway who had located a handy cache of Brine Time Pickles and was crunching his way through a large, flavorful, dill, "you had a deal. You still have a deal. We're just making sure everything goes as planned."

  "True," concurred Peter dispassionately, "we strap this recorder to your svelte and alluring self, you get even more incriminating verbiage on tape, plus pocket a few hundred bucks in the process. More power to you, Mr Alisdare."

  Conway, rummaging happily through various drawers and cupboards, retrieved a roll of reinforced packing tape and eyed Alisdare as if measuring him for a new suit.

  "Unbutton that unflattering shirt, Alisdare," prompted Peter. Salvadore, seeing unfettered cooperation as his most viable option, daintily complied.

  "Toss me that recorder," interrupted Roger, "I almost forgot something."

  Alisdare looked nervously at Conway and Roger rolled his eyes mockingly.

  "No, I'm not hooking it up to some sort of high-tech detonator so we can blow you and Talon to a billion disgusting bits, although that is a cheery thought," said Conway, "there is simply a little touch, requested by the Saint, which I almost overlooked."

  With the recorder in his possession, Roger turned his back and slid open the cassette compartment. Alisdare could hear the ripping of hard paper and he wondered exactly what this emissary of Simon Templar was up to.

  "There we go," confirmed Conway as he handed the recorder back to Quentin, "let's turn this little man into a walking sound studio."

  And that is exactly what they did before the two dapper gents escorted Salvadore Alisdare out the door of Emerald City Catering.

  A sharp damp breeze swept up from Puget Sound and swirled the scent of salt and sea through the sullen side streets of Capitol Hill. Alisdare turned up his collar, checked his watch, and stared at his shoes. He desperately wanted this night to be over, or at least fast-forwarded to more enticing interaction at either the Tropicana or a non-descript motel in White Center.

  A Camaro rumbled by with its windows down and dance music vibrating its uniframe construction. The rhythms reminded Alisdare of Elmo's Arcade where dancing girls of limited financial means had unlimited weaknesses for men with adequate money or unending supplies of stimulating chemicals. He found temporary comfort in memories unfit for description augmented by fantasies of getting one up on Simon Templar.

  The dark sleek ribbon of Madison Street stretched like an asphalt incision across the belly of Seattle. Alisdare, flanked by Conway and Quentin, wished for daylight. He knew that somewhere under the fleeting cloud cover and erratic nocturnal illumination was Diamond Tremayne. He would have to give her a good talking to, that was for sure.

  "Treasure," muttered Salvadore under his foul breath, and for one fleeting moment he wondered if he had been played for a sap all along.

  "Nothing personal, dear fruit," advised Conway, "but I must confirm that we don't really like you very much."

  "I'm sure we could have all been dear friends," replied Alisdare sarcastically, "if Simon Templar wanted it that way."

  Peter tossed a threatening arm around Salvadore's hunched shoulders.

  "The Saint is a most practical pirate," explained Quentin, "he understands your peculiar talents, sympathizes with your habits, and shares many of your more exciting interests. It is simply that he doesn't trust you, especially after Snookum's did his best to cut short Simon's adventurous career. A silly, useless effort, to be sure."

  Salvadore's heart almost exploded in his chest, and his knees began to quake. Peter squeezed him comfortingly.

  "Now, don't be concerned. Simon's fine; Snookums has never been better, and the Saint has no intention of ever telling anyone about your meth lab or anything else. His only concern is that you meet Talon as planned and that you get even more juicy blackmail material."

  The two men guided their reluctant companion towards the brighter lights of Madison.

  "There is only one condition upon which we insist," added Roger emphatically, "and that is that you make no mention of the Saint, Mrs Berkman, or us when conversing with Talon -- after all, you don't want to blackmail yourself, now do you?"

  Alisdare wobbled his head in resigned agreement.

  "Good boy," affirmed Conway, "and you can feel confident that we will be keeping close watch on you the entire time. And if you're worried about Talon, don't be. We won't let him do anything to jeopardize our plans."

  As they came close to the designated rendezvous, Peter reached inside the miserable little man's shirt and activated the recorder, then roughly squeezed Alisdare's pudgy, putty cheeks. Salvadore flinched and pulled back. The two men stared at him ominously and sent him on his way.

  Salvadore Alisdare inhaled Seattle's mist-washed air and filled his mind with ugly thoughts. Partially due to the disease of conceit, he could convolute any situation's implications to reinforce his self-aggrandizing perspective. All life's scenarios spotlighted him at the center of attention, the man in control, the one with others under his thumb. He pictured himself lording it over Talon and, in the final analysis, outwitting the Saint for possession of the Costello Treasure. He even entertained an unmentionable mental illustration involving Diamond Tremayne -- the distance between the image and any probable reality was even a stretch for him -- but he allowed the fantasy to linger precariously on the ledge of his consciousness while he put one small foot before the other and disappeared forever
down the dark alley off Madison.

  Detective Dexter Talon of the Seattle Police Department recognized the tell-tale clatter of Alisdare's tiny shoes echoing off the back street's graffiti covered walls. He had preceded Alisdare to their oily rendezvous by several minutes, and although well prepared for their planned consultation, he was not thinking about Alisdare -- he was thinking about the Saint, and doing so with begrudging appreciation.

  Were it not for the Saint, Talon rightly reasoned, he would not be rehearsing murder in his mind, mentally planting a finger-print laden revolver in Salvadore's limp hand, or preparing an official explanation of how he happened to kill a caterer in self defense. Were it not for Simon Templar's emphatic assurances that certain incriminating photographs and negatives were destroyed, that the Saint would never lend the weight of his reputation nor the muscle of his rapid-fire mind to any blackmailer's efforts -- no matter how repulsive the victim -- Talon would not feel empowered to give Salvadore anything beyond the payoffs and tip-offs the little weasel demanded. Tonight was different; tonight was a night of justice and vindication during which Talon would be released from the little leech with reptile eyes who gorged himself on other's sins. From now on, thought Dexter Talon to himself, things would be different. Maybe he would leave the force, take his concealed wealth and make the move about which he often fantasized. Perhaps he would quit smoking, lose weight, stop drinking, take a geographic cure by relocating to California, and do something safe, normal, and moral.

  Staring up into the night's soft darkness beyond the blaring neon of a nearby cocktail lounge's battered service entrance, he saw himself in sunnier southern climes, a hundred pounds lighter, clean and sober, happy and smiling, cheerfully opening a school bus door, greeting the children one and all as they clamored aboard chattering of classes and carrying their lunch pails. He sensed the redolence of inexpensive perfumes and colognes mixed with scents of hairspray and skin cream -- obligatory olfactory identifiers of energetic adolescents, children Buzzy's age, the age of his own daughter when he committed that which repelled and revulsed her, denying him her affection forever.