Capture the Saint

by Burl Barer

  Little Buzzy, moving in zig-zag form admirable of any downhill victor, didn't bother to check the progress of her pursuers. There was no turning back and only one place to go -- up the makeshift stairs to dive headfirst into the throbbing fog and screaming feedback. Had Major League and Nondescript not chased her, she would not have run; had she not run, she would not have panicked. Now, convinced that continued pursuit implied impending acts of danger, she perceived no choice but to cross the threshold from private fear to public exposure.

  Major League's mid-chase biffing of a backstage lacky in the chops did not go unnoticed by Coliseum security, most especially off-duty Police officers Bill Stroum and Allen Goldblatt who quickly barked details of this potential pop culture upheaval into their city issued multi-band radios. Lest this scene turn uglier than a Grand Theft album jacket, the two detailed the situation as an alert for possible back-up. Every cop in town heard the report, including the downtown bound Detective Dexter Talon. At first, he found the vignette of rock and roll pandemonium amusing, but grasping the details--catering service employee chasing young girl who's top mop seemed fashioned by a demented hedge-trimmer -- Talon turned from his original destination of police headquarters and boring paperwork towards the unmitigated excitement of the Seattle Center Coliseum.

  "I thought the crowd was supposed to rush the stage, not caterers chase the kids," cracked Talon to the dispatcher.

  A short whoosh of static preceeded a good natured come-back catching Talon by surprise.

  "Hey, that's the most excitement we've had tonight. Even Duvall's had more action than us. There was a big meth lab explosion, huge fire, the works..."

  A lump of hot ice melted in Talon's enormous gut.

  Meth lab explosion in Duvall.

  "Saints preserve us," said Talon with a phoney brogue. He grabbed the single blue light from the floorboard and, rolling down his window, reached up and attatched it to the roof before firing his siren. As he pressed the accelorator to the floor, he thought to himself how fortunate he was to have Simon Templar on his side.

  The ignition of multiple encore flashpots showered the stage with eruptions of eye-searing illumination and crowd-pleasing pyrotechnics. The thrashing performers threw themselves about the stage with the religious fervor of an addlepated Saint Vitus; the similarly afflicted multitudes responded with equal ardor and greater enthusiasm, dousing the beefy security line with wet fear and oppresive apprehension.

  Concert promoter John Bauer, watching from the VIP seats, covered his eyes and prayed for the encore's conclusion. He sensed mob mentality taking possession of fifteen thousand former individuals, transforming them into one howling beast of massive mindless reaction. He blanched at the thought of anyone suffering physical injury. Besides, the term "rock n roll riot" was bad for business. Bauer remained unaware that the stage's southward perimeter had already been violated by a plucky youngster fearing for her life. It was only moments, however, before the crowd caught their first glimpse of what appeared to be one of their own cavorting unhindered with Grand Theft. If she could do it, so could they. The security line locked arms in futile attempt to stall a crowd as determined to swarm over the stage as would a rapacious cloud of army ants consuming a helpless water buffalo.

  "Stop the music! Stop the music!" It was Joe Fiala bleating orders at the band, but it was Surush Josi in the Seattle morgue who pressed the stop button on the Walkman clipped to his belt, cutting short the rousing rendition of "Tradition" from Fiddler on the Roof.

  He bent over the body of Salvadore Alisdare and loosed a low whistle unrelated to any Broadway musical. Strapped to Alisdare's body was a sleek black micro-recorder who's tiny tape had yet to complete recording the entire length of side two. Josi pressed the stop button, a slight whirring sound ceased, and the cassette lid popped open from his finger's pressure. A small piece of cardboard ejected with the tape and fluttered unnoticed to the floor. Josi walked to the telephone and placed an evenly worded call to the on duty Chief of Detectives. He, in turn, called the Chief of Police who's eventual obligation was to make late-night contact with Seattle Mayor Walter Crowley. If the Mayor was upset over the lateness of the hour, he was even more outraged over the contents of the little tape found on the body of Salvadore Alisdare -- the vocals were clean and crisp, somewhat stacatto, and devoid of musical accompaniment. The words embedded on the thin strip of mylar were illuminating beyond any known candlepower.

  The brash intrusion of megawatt houselights scattered the Coliseum's mood if not the audience. Crowbar ceased strangling his six-string and opened his eyes to the reality of immediate danger from the fans who loved him. Scrambling to vacate the stage, his peripheral vision snared Buzzy struggling against the grip of a uniformed caterer. But even that vision was soon obscured by dozens of other youths -- male, female, and undecided -- scuffling with the security crew and clawing and pawing towards his own famous personage.

  "Let's go! Let's go!" Fiala pulled at Crowbar's fringe, entreating him to make a quick getaway.

  The riotous pandemonium, although beginning to slack, poured over the stage, toppling bodies into the corridors and holding areas. The sound of smashing guitars and ravaged drumsets told Grand Theft that the tools of their trade were being both demolished and stolen -- ironically, "Demolished & Stolen" was the title of track two, side one of their second LP.

  With rented security chasing fans from the dry-ice fogged ramps, and Grand Theft's own road crew making valiant attempts to protect the remaining equipment, no one noticed Little Buzzy being dragged off-stage by an officious looking man in a caterer's uniform.

  Buzzy thrashed wildly, resisting captivity with youthful muscle and few good nails which she forcefully raked down the side of her assailant's cheek.

  "Ya little brat," growled Major League, shaking her violently, "you think you're hot stuff." He pulled back his ham-sized fist and slugged her full force in the face. Her head snapped back like a Pez dispenser, an ugly carnival of green and red lights swirled stupidly behind her eyes, and blood poured from her tiny nostrils. The pain erased all vision, replacing sight and will with dull throbbing numbness. Her little body collapsed, trembling with shock and fright. If she ever got out of this alive, she vowed to kill herself once and for all. She would go along with anything, everything, until they were done with her. Then, in her own way, in her own time, she would prove ultimate control of her own life by ending it. The prospect didn't fill her with morose fascination nor moribund delight -- it was simply an admission of exceptional desperation coupled with resigned recognition that her life was not, and would never be, anything resembling healthy, happy, normalcy. For now, the only escape was to shut down all response in a limp, tear soaked faint.

  With Buzzy out cold, her captor quickly unzipped his Emerald City coveralls and tossed them aside. In the process, he spied a matching costume waving to him from the first tier above stage right. Cradling Buzzy in his arms as if he were a compassionate adult concerned for his child's well being, he motioned towards the building's East entrance -- the one closest to the service lane and his vehicle -- signaling his partner to join him away from the pack of backstage security bundled by the rear West exit.

  Thousands were streaming out of the Coliseum, and all would make way for a man lovingly holding his sadly injured daughter.

  The trek from center stage to the desired egress was a tiresome and enervating obstacle course of altered state hippies and stumbling aficionados of American nostalgia. Major League wanted none of it. In fact, he resented carrying Buzzy's near dead weight. Alisdare would hear about this, and cough up hazard pay besides. In fairness, it did occur to Major League that the reward wasn't worth the effort. Although the drugs were good and the women were easy, lately his boss was getting stranger and stranger. This Talon scam was getting out of hand, but at least the irritating Simon Templar had been taken care of -- he was either on their side or dead on the sidelines. As for Buzzy, a street kid was a disposable commodity -- the breath d
rawing equivalent of non-refillable butane lighters. "Use 'em and throw 'em away," was his attitude, and the sooner he could dispose of Buzzy, the better.

  Once outside the East entrance, the crowd poured left while Major League and his limp burden turned to the right, heading towards the dark service lane running along side the Coliseum. The weak waif stirred to consciousness, and he brought her down on her rubber soled but wobbly feet. Gripping her arm tightly, he pushed her ahead of him.

  The night breeze carried the prepatory aura of oncoming rain, the silent signal of short downpours for which the city is renown. The brisk evening air chilled Buzzy's once-warm tears; blood caked around her nose and mouth, and she squinted painfully to see where she was going. Devoid of reference points and still suffering pain from the cruel blow to her fragile features, she struggled to make sense of her surroundings. She soon understood that she was being propelled toward a bright set of headlights. She recognized the car's grill and knew it belonged to the same creep digging fingerprints into her arm. Another man in Emerald City Catering garb leaned nonchalantly against the idling auto. Oblivious to the first large drops of rain, he was reading the evening Seattle Times.

  "Stop readin' the goddam paper," snapped her abductor, not understanding why a semi-illiterate fool would suddenly be interested in the Seattle Times, "let's get the hell out of here."

  The accomplice stood firm, for as any astute follower of these chronicles can surmise, the accomplice was non-compliant for the simple reason that he was not, by any stretch of the imagination, in league with Major.

  "If the truth be known," commented Simon Templar dryly, "I much preferred you as a minor character."

  Major League's expletive laced response has no place in a moral and uplifting story such as this.

  "I've got the girl," insisted the thug.

  "You've got the gall," corrected Simon.

  Buzzy, weeping, said nothing.

  "Alisdare, Barry, Milo, and the rest of your little playmates have gone to their eternal lack of reward," said the Saint conversationally as he un-zipped and stepped out of the uniform, kicking it aside, "And it’s a good thing for you, too. Ol' Salvadore told you not to make a scene, remember? Were that pink-eared pervert alive today, he'd roll over in his grave if he had one, but I believe they're still digging bullets out of him at the morgue."

  Major League involuntarily gasped.

  "One more thing," added the Saint as he snapped open the newspaper," don't expect your almost-as-ugly buddy to scamper out here and jump behind the wheel -- he suffered a tragic neck injury about the same time he relinquished the car keys."

  The Saint leaned back against the grill and turned his attention to the front page, scanning the headlines as if waiting for Metro Transit. Major League tightened his grip and Buzzy sobbed harder. As the Saint spoke again, a limousine's V-8 engine roared to life in the distance and a police siren wailed.

  "Three inch bold type headlines, old boy, right here next to the wedding picture of Judge Crater and Amelia Ehrhardt. `Bad Guys Dead -- You May be Next.' I'm speaking in potentialities, of course, although every unpleasant person in this adventure has met a quite timely demise, except for you and Talon, but these piffling details can be wrapped up in a postscript attached to the final chapter."

  The Saint tossed the newsprint prop aside and spread his hands wide in a gesture of finality. "I'd say throw in the towel, but the tender child with whom you've mopped the floor is hardly made of terrycloth. She's a flesh and blood human being, and a young one at that, short eyes."

  Major League blanched at the term "short eyes," knowing it was prison slang for child molester, the one appellative guaranteed to assure early death or worse from those awaiting you behind bars. Even a false accusation could destroy a man, and a true accusation followed by incarceration would prove deadly.

  "You don't understand, Templar," objected the man who understood full well that the Saint understood everything.

  "I understand that you are going to let the girl go because you have no where to take her and nothing to do when you get there," explained Simon.

  "You ain't no cop," insisted Major League, as if that made a difference.

  "Which is precisely why I can kill you and not be concerned about paper work," responded the Saint honestly. Despite being woefully bereft of

  anything lethal in his possession, the power of his intention, so clearly and flatly stated, made the threat seem terrifyingly viable and immediately eminent.

  Buzzy whimpered, and the Saint began walking towards the man and his underage captive.

  Major League looked around desperately. With fifteen thousand people within one city block, the three of them were ominously alone.

  "Don't come any closer, Templar," insisted the aggravated hoodlum, "just step away from the car."

  "I have stepped away from the car. Now, you step away from the girl. I'm not going to bother reading you your rights because (a) I'm not the law, and (b) you have no rights."

  "But I got Milo's .38," countered the thug.

  The Saint walked to the right of the headlights while the villain and his victim circled to his left. They were fully illuminated, Simon was now back-lit at best.

  "I know you do, Cueball, I gave it to you myself."

  Major League yanked the weapon from under his shirt with his free hand while digging his fingers even harder into Buzzy's soft flesh.

  Simon, not about to credit Buzzy's captor with enough prescience to reload Milo's weapon, laughed derisively.

  "And whom do you plan to shoot? The girl? Me? Perhaps yourself?"

  The Saint stuffed his hands deep into his pockets, wrapping the broad rubber band from Alisdare's kitchen around the first two fingers of his left hand and easing out several tacks with the other.

  "You have neither bullets nor options," explained Simon happily, "but hopefully, an ear for classic music hall compositions."

  The Saint, it must be admitted, broke into song. And while the tune was that of a well-known standard, the lyrics were modified especially for the occasion.

  "Little Buzzy was small, but oh my.

  Little Buzzy was small, but oh my.

  She killed old Goliath,

  who lay down and dieth,

  Little Buzzy was small, but oh my."

  Viewed from a distance, the trio seemed to be either performing a lackluster number from an off-Broadway musical, or reviving an ancient human sacrifice ritual with a four cylinder sedan as centerpiece.

  Buzzy's improved vision and comprehension coincided with Simon's resonant baritone and the increased frequency of rain drops splashing on her with mounting rapidity. The rain was a dark night's cold shower, and her awareness was on the rise. The relevant high points of the scenario in which she found herself were easily grasped -- one rough and ugly man had bloodied her nose and kidnapped her; a smooth and handsome man, currently singing a song with her name in it, wanted to rescue her. Her sympathies and support were certainly not for the former.

  Simon ceased his vocalizing and slowly backed up, altering his position as Major League inched closer to the car's driver's side.

  "I'm surprised the young lady is still standing, " called out the Saint, "considering how hard you hit her, she should be down or dead."

  Buzzy, despite her beating or because of it, read the Saint's message as if it had been projected in paisley with full illumination by the Retina Circus. She understood completely and complied immediately, throwing herself at the wet pavement behind the car's fender. Major League's grip was too tight to release, the sudden drop pulling him off balance and sending him stumbling stupidly after her until his revolting face was well-lit and perfectly positioned in the headlight's blinding glare.

  The Saint instantly swung his makeshift slingshot from waist height to eye level, took precise aim, and fired. Several steel pointed projectiles sailed through the rain and smacked painfully into the wet flesh of Major League's face. He shrieked, throwing his hands up to claw away
the pain. In the process, and without forethought, he released the girl and the gun.

  "Run!" The command tore through the Saint's throat as she scrambled to her feet and raced past the red taillights into the dark. She knew what she was running from, but no ideas what she was running to until she bounced off something large yet resilient that sent her stumbling back to fall on her petite and rain soaked behind. Through the drenching downpour, and off to the side, she saw a circular flash of repetitive blue light. Looming above her was the massive bulk of Detective Dexter Talon. She screamed.

  The Saint, momentarily torn between chasing after Buzzy or engaging in a death fight with Major League simply on general principles, now had no choice -- the scream simultaneously summoned him and sent his enemy diving for the driver’s seat. In a flash of inspiration, Simon threw himself at the windshield as Major League slammed the door. The Saint landed on the hood, locked his hands around the windshield wiper, and snapped it off as he rolled across and hit the ground running.

  Tires squealed, and the sedan shot sightless out the service lane as Simon Templar raced to Buzzy's cries.

  Major League's adrenaline pumped stronger than the engine's unleaded octane and Mercer Street was only seconds away, but he couldn't see anything beyond one absurd image: a silly stick man with a balloon shaped head and jaunty halo. It was iridescent, red, and growing in size. By the time the realization struck him that the image was attached to the passenger side of a Volvo wagon crawling through the post-concert traffic directly outside the service lane exit, there was nothing he could do but increase panic and lose control. The final rational thought passing through his paralyzed mind was the realization that his flimsy American sedan was no match for the tank-like construction of a Volvo. He jammed the brakes and spun the wheel. His car careened off a concrete abutment, scattered a herd of frightened pedestrians, and smashed grill first into a large metal pole owned and maintained by Pacific Power and Light. Had he bothered to buckle his seat belt, he might have lived. He did neither.