by Burl Barer
"Because the Polaris never sank," asserted Simon, "and there was never a Norwegian cryptologist named Dagfinn Varnes. You tipped your hand early on to Viola Berkman, fabricated the Costello Treasure ruse for several inter-related reasons; (a) to con Alisdare into approaching me and giving me $10,000, (b) to have me take off to Neah Bay with, of all people, you to stay at a bed and breakfast owned by Arthur Rasnec. Was Arthur going to cook us eggs and sausage?"
"Be at Sea-Tac at ten in the morning and you'll find out exactly what Arthur is cooking up," answered Diamond cheerfully, "now, shouldn't you be off doing something horrid to Alisdare and Talon?"
"It’s been done." He said it with such icy finality that a shiver raced down Diamond's spine and her scalp felt a size too small for her head.
"But you're here and they're meeting way up on Madison," she stammered, her further objections stopped short of expression. She knew he was serious.
"How did you do it?"
She was obviously and honestly mystified. Simon realized at that moment that she had no idea that Roger and Peter's SeaQue enterprise was, relative to the adventure, anything more than an oblique bit of arcane trivia.
Simon flashed his famous saintly smile, appearing as pure and innocent as his sobriquet could imply.
"The most simple explanation in the world."
She waited to hear it, and it was worth the wait.
"I am the Saint," said Simon Templar, and that settled that.
3
Detective Dexter Talon stood over the lifeless body of Salvadore Alisdare and admired his handiwork. He couldn't afford to gloat, not with patrolmen standing around taking notes. It was good. Very good. The little weasel was greatly improved by death, and the gun clutched in his dead hand bore convincing testimony to Talon's assertion of self-defense. An autopsy would confirm massive amounts of illegal intoxicants in Alisdare's system -- drugs known to stimulate aggressive, violent, and unpredictable behavior.
Talon's sausage-like fingers fumbled their way into his tiny cigarette pack, extracted another plain-end length of nicotine, and stuffed it between his large leathery lips. He looked again at Alisdare, rejoicing in silence. There was paperwork and official explanations ahead of him, but they were gratifying closure to a repellent relationship. From whatever angle it was viewed, this episode was more cut and dried than a shoot-out during a convenience store robbery.
Salvadore's little carcass was scooped into a black body bag, transported to the King County Morgue, and delivered as a matter of routine to Mr Surush Josi, the Nepalese lover of Broadway show tunes who whistled while he worked.
The Saint whistled as well - a melodic ditty of short duration distinguished by a lilting repetitive motif - as he drove his rented Chevrolet up Madison and past a bustling crime scene. There was no reason for Simon to slow down. He knew the perpetrator, the victim, and the eventual outcome. Simon Templar had other musicological items on his mind -- according to authoritative KOL radio reporter George Garret intoning from the dashboard, Grand Theft was nearing their grand finale at the Concert of the Decade where, if one were to believe Mr Garret, the crowd was going crazy.
"Due, no doubt, to auditory discomfort," said the Saint.
While Simon Templar amused himself with jest, Grand Theft set new standards in high decibel distortion before an acre of wildly flailing fans. The screaming multitudes -- all sizes, a variety of ages from pre-pubescent to second childhood, and arrayed in overstated costumes revealing greater and lesser degrees of flesh and taste -- seemed not only impervious to the ear splitting blare, but positively delighted by it.
The screaming crowd rolled in waves of manifest adrenalin, squealing and squirming, leaping and writhing, smashing themselves again and again against the hard wood of the high rise stage and the equally immovable barricade of beefy security guards. Above the band, a large screen pulsated with pinks and paisleys projected in combination with repetitive clips of public domain industrial films by Seattle's famed Retina Circus Light Show.
Crowbar Schwartz wiped a fresh, dry towel across his dripping forehead and beamed with delight at his ocean of adoring fans. His bandmates, equally pleased, repositioned microphones and double-checked amp volume in preparation for the second selection of their first encore.
"Here's a real memory maker for ya," yelled Crowbar, "a million seller from our first album..."
The roar was deafening.
"Its a foot-tappin' latin number -- Lux Sit and Dance!"
His right arm swooped down in dramatic overstatement, striking something resembling a chord in intent but sounding like a train wreck in reality. The audience cheered, a renewed wave of undulating humanity surged with one rampant will towards the stage -- the singular and noteworthy exception being an attractive, if waif-like young woman whose hair appeared to have been shaped by the jagged edge of a broken milk bottle. With stoic silence and singularity of purpose, she seriously contemplated the finer points of backstage security, She knew what to do. She had heard the story countless times before -- the episode of braggadocio and verve which allowed her mother to pierce the shield of fame -- a story who's anecdotal climax resulted in her own birth, her mother's disillusionment, and a street-wise adolescent's disastrous quest for identity.
"Like mother, like daughter," murmured Buzzy. Ruffling her hen-house haircut and squaring her little shoulders, she swung her hips and leaned her lips to the receptive young man entrusted with guarding the Coliseum's most private recesses. His eyes widened when she whispered a detailed litany of false promises and enticing innuendos. Little Buzzy, soon adorned with an all-access backstage pass, crossed the Coliseum's inviable perimeter and headed for the dressing rooms. She knew the routine; she could almost hear Mom's voice, strangely sober, guiding her through the concrete labyrinth. If backstage needed a map or guide, Mom knew where X marked the spot.
"If you're inside the dressing room," Mom once reminisced over a bottle of rum, "all you have to deal with is the catering service's cold cuts, warm beer, and a dozen other groupies just like you -- all pirates after the same treasure."
The Saint swung right on 6th Avenue, maneuvered his way to west of Aurora Avenue and finally into the southside parking lot of a brightly lit Denny's Restuarant. Next to him sat a distinctive, cosmetically distressed, and battle weary Volvo; situated across the side street was the Tropicana Motel. Simon Templar exited his car, meeting two men emerging from the station wagon.
"I saw a gaggle of cop cars convening on Madison Street," commented the Saint.
"Of course," confirmed Quentin, "they were celebrating Talon's expert marksmanship."
"And Alisdare's impersonation of a grounded flounder," added Conway with no remorse.
"No doubt you've been keeping our twin sycophants entertained with exaggerated stories of your ignominious past," said the Saint.
"The past has been very good to me, I'll have you know," asserted Peter, "and ignominious is too big a word."
"Really?"
"Absolutely," Roger jumped in, "violates the minimum syllable ordinance."
"When verbosity is outlawed, only outlaws will be verbose," agreed the Saint.
Peter lifted the Volvo's rear hatch, pulled out a bundle of clothing and handed it to the Saint.
"The outfit you ordered Mr Templar, and a little badge to go with it. All this high fashion is courtesy of Emerald City Catering and the late Salvadore Alisdare, as are the delicious pickles Roger's been eating."
"Oh, I thought he simply found a new vinaigrette cologne," responded Simon waving to the two smiling fans gesticulating at him from the front seat, "did you pull your Child Protective Services act for the folks at the motel?"
Peter nodded.
"In this suit, I look respectable enough to be Chairman of the Childrens Home Society," confirmed Quentin, "I showed them one of those cropped shots highlighting her hairdo. If those thugs show up, even if they've got Buzzy stuffed in the trunk, it'll be one quick call to 911 with Viola Berkman waiting in the
wings."
"I'm wagering it doesn't get that far," said the Saint seriously, "and towards that end, I'm prepared to make the supreme sacrifice."
Roger coughed mockingly.
"Let's see, for Simon Templar the supreme sacrifice would mean ..."
His punchline remained undelivered because the Saint provided his own accurate explanation.
"Hearing more than ten seconds of Grand Theft."
A few more items were exhanged between cars before Conway and Quentin signalled Dan and Ian.
"Gentlemen, start your engines."
The roars and screams merged into auditory mayhem bearing traces of mechanical devices, unearthly demons, and throats rasped from hours of abuse. Grand Theft had turned their guitars towards the massive wall of amplifiers, and the feedback alone was enough to send any British citizen with war time recollections scrambling for the nearest air raid shelter.
The band's double-ramped U-shaped stage plunged into shadow, a gigantic strobe light flashed in relentless intensity, and fifteen thousand concert goers held flickering lighters aloft as if demonstrating ignited butane could summon Crowbar and his cohorts back to center stage. Footstomping vibrated the concrete floor, rumbling the very ground surrounding the venue, and a clamour of activity reverberated through the Seattle Coliseum's inner sanctum.
"Outa da way, outa da way," barked stage manager Joe Fiala, peppering his exclamations with predictable expletives as the evening's headliners dragged themselves to the dressing room for a change of costume, measured inhalations of oxygen from a green medical cylinder, and a cursory perusal of the female fans presumably weighing their odds in the romance lottery.
Buzzy found herself ahead of the pack, her tennis shoes squeeking as she ran towards what was obviously the main dressing room -- obvious because a female space alien, or a reasonable facsimile thereof, held the door open as if she were the elevator operator at the Waldorf Astoria Towers.
Buzzy ducked inside and flattened herself against the far wall. She was not alone. Several other females, some garish, others naturally attractive, all older than she, leaned their partially bare backs and denimed derriers against the same rampart. Buzzy felt as if she were in a police line-up. She had valid reference points, having been in line-ups before.
Spread before them as the stark room's culinary centerpiece were coldcuts, a veggi plate, a variety of iced juice drinks, and a simmering pot of hot herbal tea. Two men in Emerald City Catering uniforms placed garni on the carrots.
"No beer, huh?" Asked Buzzy of her fellow female wall hanging, a bleached blond with impressive coal-black roots. Her outfit was New York's idea of Native American beadwork via a Malaysian factory.
"These guys? No way," deadpanned bleach-woman, "it’s nothing but healthy living for the boys nowdays. They even make the road crew stay clean and sober."
Bleachy looked Buzzy up and down as if appraising her for retail.
"You related? A cousin or something, or do you work for the concert company?"
"Why?"
"I'm the bass player’s wife," she answered proudly as the band poured through the door, "and our daughter there is the space alien."
"Oh. I'm a relative, too. Sort of a space alien myself -- or space cadet, anyway," muttered Buzzy, looking at her laces. Bleach-woman-in-beads cocked her head maternalisticaly, her grin widening to full-scale smile as she watched her scraggly hubby splash cold water on his face, wave to her, and toddle off to change into his next set of encore clothing.
Joe Fiala attempted shielding the dressing room complex from further invasion. A mounting number of men and women managed, by right, art, or artifice, to have backstage passes pinned to their outfits.
"C'mon, give em a break," pleaded the professionally exasperated Fiala. "stand back, they got another encore. Be patient."
Buzzy, silent against the wall and situated at least on the periphery of Grand Theft's family circle, felt both safe and invisible. Fiala's attention and protection was focused on those attempting to follow the band into the room, not those already ensconced with the cold-cuts.
Crowbar and his band re-emerged from the back room almost as quickly as they entered it, their perspiration soaked stage clothes replaced by fresh denim pants, shirts, and fringed leather vests -- exact replicas of the oufits worn on the cover of their first album from two decades ago. A gimmick, to be sure, but a crowd pleaser guaranteed to turn fashion nostalgia into a screaming fit of cultural affirmation.
Grand Theft's lead guitarist stopped to pour himself a short shot of hot tea, his eyes following his refreshed bass player's comical walk to the open arms of an adoring bleach-blond spouse. When Crowbar saw the outlandish haircut of the young girl standing next to her, he almost dropped his cup.
"That's it," shouted Fiala, tapping his watch, "never-ending encore time! Let's go, guys, your fans have either run out of lighter fluid by now or they've all set fire to themselves."
The bass player loosed himself from his beloved, the drummer stuffed another carrot into his bearded mouth while winking at chintz adorned leggy beauty batting her store-bought lashes in well-rehearsed pseudo-abandon, and the lead guitarist couldn't take his eyes off the pretty young woman with the chop-shop coif. He backed away from the condiment tray, reluctant to release her gaze from his, and allowed himself to be ushered out the door, down the hall, and up the short fight of makeshift stairs leading to the custom crafted multi-million dollar stage.
A new, freshly tuned Fender Stratocaster stood at the ready, a single red spotlight shone down from a heavenward scaffold, and before him surged an enthusiastic mass of humanity radiating near idolatrous adoration. The roar and rush swirling round his mind was nothing compared to the retained image of the waif-like youngster in the dressing room who's eyes revealed a long-ago loss of innocence, more the a modicum of hopelessness, and a pleading portion of personal desperation.
The drummer started the downbeat, the final encore began with all the refined subtlety of a rocket launch, and far, far behind the stage, Little Buzzy thoughfully dipped a piece of cauliflower into a tangy, white dip. She had never tasted raw cauliflower before. It crunched. She liked it. A warm hand squeezed her small shoulder, and she turned to smile at Blond Bead Lady. It was not Blond Bead Lady to whom she turned.
"Hi, sweetheart. Remember me?"
She did, but not with warmth. There was a moment of brain-numbing cognitive dissonence caused by seeing someone from one aspect of her life in a completely different dimension of her existance. She had imagined that somehow being in the Coliseum's secured area would protect her from her own recent past and excessive moral lapses. No such luck. The uniform said Emerald City Catering, but the predator grin and sticky hand belonged to Major League.
He leaned down to her multi-pierced ear, bit the lobe lewdly, and intoned offers of high-quality crank and all the amusement she associated with its effects.
"Really, kid. This is the best stuff yet."
Her tender heart pounded recklessly in her chest, her mixed emotions stretched between established physical cravings and deeper childlike longings. Despite every degrading and self-destructive act commited over her past few months on the street, the higher level of life achieved ascendency -- Little Buzzy felt honestly innocent, hunted, and trapped. She instinctively jumped back from the sound of his voice, her left hand knocking over the dip dish and sending it crashing to the concrete floor.
"Hey!" It was Bead Lady, her maternal instincts summoned by Buzzy's unspoken distress. "What are you doing to that kid?"
"Shaddup!" Major League was not known for his refined manners. Recalling Alisdare's instruction to not make a scene, even he was caught short by his rudeness. Buzzy bolted for the door.
"Stop!"
She was already running.
Major League lunged for her, but was grabbed harshly from behind by Bead Lady. He spun, slamming his palm into her chest and propelling her backwards as if she were shot from a circus cannon. Her unintentional target for
touchdown -- the entire refreshment table -- collapsed under her impact with noisome racket. Cold cuts, vegetables, tea, and one would-be Native American princess splashed and spilled messily across the floor. A teen-age space alien screeched in dismay at the sight of her mother so forlorn, but the balance of the backstage gaggle seemed more concerned with the loss of free food than any outcries of human distress.
Buzzy was out the door, Major League was right behind her, and Nondescript tossed aside his cap as he dashed in hot pursuit. The backstage girls later agreed that the second caterer was exceptionally difficult to describe. They were eventually even more nonplussed when the Coliseum's contracted custodian opened the utility closet in search of a mop and discovered two authentic and docile Emerald City Catering employees, sans uniforms, bound and gagged along side the bucket. The first one said his name was Dave and expressed concern over missing the encore.
The single red spotlight was now joined by sweeping arcs of multi-hued illumination punctuated by flashpots, flashbulbs, laser beams and obligatory dry-ice fog. The enormous stage and its electronic environs looked and sounded like a futuristic frontier's battle zone. Amid the mayhem, Crowbar swung his axe with the intensity of a rampaging Viking while the rhythm section pounded out a visceral tattoo calculated to arouse primal instincts worthy of any senseless bloodletting splashed across history's stained pages.
Buzzy's tattered high-tops squealed their rubbery wail as she skittered between hangers-on and press personnel detailing the backdrop of Grand Theft's reunion tour, weaved between stagehands, special effects wizards, concert company personnel, and last minute entrants dropping names and flashing passes. With a deftness reserved for championship skiers and precision skaters, the energetic youngster successfully skirted several human hazards considered precarious by cautious and demure pedestrians, and she was certainly not one of those.
Major League, bereft of Buzzy's agility, careened around the corner to collide head on with two burly stage hands who judged his behavior socially unacceptable and worthy of restraint. Encountering their opposition, he struck one of them soundly on the jaw before resuming his pursuit. Nondescript, no more adroit at avoiding collision than his cohort, found himself entangled in an unexpected encounter with numerous arms, legs, and torsos, the majority of which did not belong to him. From his perspective -- one which no one would characterize as universal -- the most painful aspect was the immobilizing grip locked around his neck by someone who's fingers displayed the power of banded steel. Before he could make even an uncivil enquiry into his assailant's identification, terminal darkness overtook any remnants of his limited consciousness.