by Burl Barer
"You said your `good buddy', the one you told that I was coming to get him, is an amateur photographer," said the Saint, "does he have another profession?"
"Ya mean a job?"
Simon nodded.
"Yeah, sure. Something normal, but..."
Simon raised his hand in obvious interruption. "And now, for the jackpot question: does his job have anything to do with seafood?"
Detective Dexter Talon starred at the Saint, a look of begrudging cynical admiration distorting his already unpleasant face.
"Jeeze, Templar, is there anything you don't know?"
Simon waved a summons to the nearby waiter, addressing him with exultation.
"Bring my friend here another pack of these delicious, nourishing cigarettes," insisted Simon as he showed the shabby pack to the gaunt, humorless waiter, "and bring us both another round of that yellow water with the suds on top."
The Saint never tired of intrigue, nor was he distressed by mounting layers of deception. To Simon Templar, they were all part of life's grand adventure.
"Talon, you slippery old rake, 'tis time for us to conspire together for the betterment of mankind."
The adipose investigator regarded Simon with renewed suspicion.
"When the beer gets here, you can light up another one of your smelly smokes and tell me everything you know about Salvadore Alisdare. In return, I'll tell you a little known but absolutely true story about Dolores Costello."
4
In the following forty five minutes, Simon Templar inhaled massive amounts of second hand smoke, swallowed minimal amounts of American beer, and absorbed intoxicating information regarding Talon and Alisdare's symbiotic relationship. Although exceptionally well concealed, the Saint's disdainful attitude towards both men had not undergone even the most minimal of modifications. While Simon's external presentation was warmth and accessibility personified, there was ice at the core of his being.
"He's nuts and dangerous," declared Talon to a seemingly enraptured Saint, "I never knew what a loose cannon this guy was until he started puttin' the hammer on me. I ain't no social worker or a psychiatrist, but the guy is a first class sociopath, if ya ask me."
Simon Templar, having previously witnessed Salvadore's dual nature in an unsubtle display outside the Westin Hotel, was not surprised by Talon's roughly expressed evaluations.
"As for that stupid Costello Treasure nonsense," continued Talon, "it musta been jus' some scam to get ya to leave town with him. God knows what would have happened to you if you went with him. He probably planned to give ya da woiks."
Simon spun his beer bottle slowly on the table.
"Give me the woiks?," the Saint found the phrase more flavorful than the local brew. "That's the type of expression which proves you're truly of the old school."
"Yeah, and I graduated with honors," said Talon, hacking out a gurgling, alcohol scented guffaw, "You and me, Saint, we both know the good ol' days."
Simon smiled with his lips, but allowed his eyes to drift. There was nothing in the two men's life experiences upon which to base even the most superficial of friendships. To the Saint, they were sworn enemies. And, as did many of his enemies, Talon foolishly assumed the Saint could be played for a sucker.
"Kill him," said Simon suddenly, catching the detective off-guard. "Kill the little weasel and get it over with."
The Saint suddenly stood from the table, tossed a few bills down by the ashtray, and made obvious motions to leave.
"What?," Talon's bulk banged the table as he attempted to rise. "Whatchamean?"
"You heard me," said Simon as he put a restraining hand on Talon's shoulder and bent down to speak sotto-voce.
"Listen to me. I gave up the swashbuckling business years ago because I figured it was time to live off my well earned reputation and dubiously acquired fortune. I haven't been arrested for years, nor had as much as a traffic citation for decades. If a damsel in distress ran in here right now insisting that she was being pursued by a submarine fleet of armed and dangerous romance-starved terrorists, I would gently point her towards the pay phone and, at best, offer her correct change for a local call to the Seattle Police. Maybe you would be the detective assigned to the case. That, dear Talon, is the extent of my involvement with matters of law and justice. For all intents and purposes, I am a well-known has-been -- a marketable one, but one none-the-less. As for my `gang' taking care of anybody, my `gang' dissolved so far back that any newspaper clippings they might have saved in their scrapbooks yellowed long ago. If you and I are of the `old school,' I'm afraid that building has been condemned. But," added the Saint emphatically, "I will give you this one bit of honest-to-God advice: kill Salvadore Alisdare. If he really did set you up, if he really is blackmailing you, I don't know a cleaner cure. Make it appear an accident, make it appear self-defense, make it whatever you want. I'm not going to do it for you and I'm not going to participate. I am only giving you my opinion."
Talon sat speechless, each softly spoken phrase pounding into his brain like a pile-driver.
"One more thing," said Simon with intensified confidentiality, "I couldn't help but notice that it never occurred to you to ask me how I knew about little Buzzy or where I had seen the incriminating photos. Decent detectives notice such errors of omission, even old amateurs such as myself. You are, in the vernacular, a scumbag, Talon. If these were the good old days, I would gladly give you `da woiks' myself."
Talon gulped audibly.
The Saint reached down, scooped up the pack of cigarettes from the table, pulled out the remaining coffin nails, and tossed them directly into the detective’s lap.
"Here," said the Saint flashing his brightest smile, "why don't you suck on all those at once and put everyone out of your misery."
Simon Templar turned briskly on his heels and made a direct line for the door. The Saint always enjoyed a melodramatic exit, and he was particularly proud of this one. He had vented his honest anger at Detective Talon in a blatant display of believable dishonesty. There was no doubt that Talon swallowed Simon's convincing post-retirement diatribe. After all, the Saint's most recent foray in the realm of outrageous adventure -- an unchronicled caper in British Columbia involving Marian Kent of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police -- had been well-concealed from the press on both sides of the border.
Outside Ernie Steele's, the Saint filled his lungs with Seattle's crisp night air and noticed the brightly illumined marquee of the Broadway Theater.
NOW PLAYING
Simon Templar's
THE PIRATE
Coming Soon: Love, The Redeemer
Before he could turn left or right, Simon felt the distinctive pressure of a small gun barrel nudged against his ribs.
"Oh, no!" exclaimed the Saint, "Not that!"
"Calm down, Templar. Keep quiet and I won't shoot."
The gruff voice did not belong to Dexter Talon, and while the Saint was curious as to who was jabbing him with a diminutive firearm, he knew he would find out soon enough.
"It's not the iddy-biddy gun in my ribs that concerns me," said the Saint without so much as budging, "its the horrendous realization that `Love, The Redeemer' has been made into a movie. Really," continued the Saint as if having a drawing room conversation, "it was a quite dreadful play."
"Start walking up the street, wiseguy," insisted the voice, but the Saint refused to move.
"I don't think so. No, I really don't think so at all."
Between the words "think" and "all", Simon Templar turned sharply on his heels to face the man eye to eye.
"Why Snookums, dearest," intoned the Saint, "you're more ugly than ever. Of course, you'll be even uglier after I take that away your clumsily concealed peashooter and use it to hammer your forehead. Besides, there is a famous Seattle detective sitting in the Checkerboard Room right beyond that door."
Snookums, operating upon the erroneous assumption that any man will do what you want if you have a gun on him, stared at the Saint in total confusi
on.
"Do you honestly intend to gun me down amid the bright lights of Broadway?" asked Simon as if chatting with a familiar acquaintance. "You must be under the mistaken impression that I'll go where you want and do as you insist because of the implied threat of physical violence. Now, it is possible that where you want to take me is exactly where I want to go, but your manners are so affrontive that my response is, with all due courtesy, decidedly negative."
The Saint threw back his head and laughed as if he had heard the joke of the century. When his head snapped forward, however, it did so with sudden impact and accurate aim.
In one flashing instant of rhinoplastic agony, a broken-nosed Snookums released the weapon and sagged at the knees. Simon jabbed him quickly in the ribs, caught him in what appeared as a playful embrace, pressed the pistol into the beast's back, and began walking his would be assailant northbound on Broadway Avenue.
"A drinking ditty would be appropriate right about now," insisted Simon to his bleary eyed and wobbly companion, and the Saint raised his manly baritone in song.
"Baby Jane, when only three
Spiked her sister's milk with DDT,
And at the age of eight
She beaned her brother with a plate.
At thirteen, aiming slightly higher,
She set her Grandpa's beard on fire;
Grandpa died in some distress,
But left a million, more or less."
The evening crowd strolling up Broadway chuckled at the presumably alcohol fueled comraderie of the unlikely male couple. As Capitol Hill is notoriously supportive of unorthodox interpersonal relationships, no one gave the men's behavior a second thought.
When Snookums' vision and personal attitude began to re-align, the Saint encountered problems maneuvering him around the luxuriously maintained black Jaguar XKE which suddenly emerged from the parking lot of Jimmy Woo's Jade Pagoda. Having kept his stumbling, disoriented, and angry burden from becoming an unwelcome hood ornament above the personalized license plate, 10COM, Simon propped the groggy beast against the restaurant's wall, discretely impacted the concrete with Snookums' head, pocketed the pistol, and hastily joined the pedestrians crossing the intersection of Broadway and Roy. As the Saint stepped on the curb, he glanced back to see Snookums slowly slide to the sidewalk and the shiny Jaguar slip sleekly into Northbound traffic.
The Saint quickly merged with the patrons queued up at the ticket window of the Harvard Exit, Seattle's most famous specialty cinema. Dissimilar to such historical palaces as the Paramount or the Orpheum, the Harvard Exit was formerly the Women's Century Club. It retained the Club's demure hospitality and living room atmosphere while accomodating a discriminating theatrical audience in the social auditorium. The Exit's patrons--collegiates, bohemians, and tweed attired upwardly mobile professionals -- obviously preferred the subtitled double bill of "La Vaca Espana" and "Les Anges des Tenebres" to the American made blood and thunder adventure playing at the Broadway.
Certain that Snookums did not attempt snatching him without backup nearby, Simon quickly bypassed the ticket booth and directly entered the front door. As the Saint mounted the stairs, he retrieved an impressive memento from his billfold -- a lifetime pass assigned by the theater's original owners.
"Is this still good here?" asked Simon, showing the ticket to the young man inside the door.
"For you, Mr Templar, we always have a seat. If you're looking for Karl Krogstad," said the fellow with understandable cinema savvy and a warm smile, "he's pontificating over by the piano."
The Saint had no idea that Karl Krogstad, director of The Pirate, would be one of this evening's patrons. Considering Krogstad's repeated viewings of his own film, a double dose of subtitled foreign pretension was undoubtedly a creative salvo.
As described, Krogstad was indeed holding pre-curtain court around the keyboard, loudly and gregariously proclaiming the plight of struggling independent filmakers -- a noble gesture in as much as two prestigious domestic nominations and several international accolades elevated Krogstad long ago from the ranks of the struggling, if not the independent.
"Simon," called out Karl, "you've missed `La Vaca Espana,' but the French film rolls right after intermission."
"I saw `La Vaca Espana' in Juan-Les-Pins," responded the Saint as he clasped Karl's enthusiastic grip in his own, "it broke my heart and I never recovered."
"But it's a COMEDY, Saint, a COMEDY!" Krogstad laughed loudly, the only way he knew how to.
"I realize that, Karl," replied Simon, playfully picking a napkin from the piano top and using it to daub his eyes, "that's what broke my heart."
Krogstad popped a complimentary cookie into his mouth, unaware of Simon's attention being more directed towards the door than the refreshments and atmosphere.
"Is Beck with you?" asked Karl as he chewed a macaroon, "She made tentative plans to join me here before the first feature, but she hasn't shown up."
"No, the last time I saw her was at the hotel," said Simon, dismissing the probability of Kathryne being a damsel in distress. "She might have called it a night. After all, she had three book signings today in addition to the media reception."
Karl nodded as the lobby's lights blinked a summons to the second feature.
"Winning the Pulitzer does wreck havoc on your social life," remarked Krogstad with a straight face.
"Are you sitting with someone special, or will you join our little party? There is someone here that I am doing my best to impress."
The Saint pulled him gently aside as the other patrons moved towards the auditorium.
"Actually, I came in here purely on impulse to avoid potential contact with a contingent of the ungodly. I left one of them unconscious in front of Jimmy Woo's. Finding you here is a fortunate bonus."
Krogstad loosed another thunderous laugh.
"Really! Simon, how exciting. But tell me," Karl chuckled, "who's directing this adventure?"
"You can direct me to your car and loan me the keys; I'll cover the cost of your taxi. If my evening's escapades ever become a movie, the rights will be yours."
"Yeeee," gasped Krogstad, "One of those direct to video releases, no doubt. While I would love my fame assured, I don't have a car tonight. We decided the designated driver should have a meter on his dashboard. Sorry. Here, take a macaroon for the road."
Before Simon could stop him, Karl swept a chocolate cookie from a nearby tray and thrust it into the Saint's jacket pocket. Krogstad's hand recoiled as if it had encountered a scorpion.
"My God, Templar," rasped Krogstad dramatically, "that's a GUN! A real GUN!"
"Shhhh," admonished Simon, "take it easy."
Little beads of perspiration glistened on Krogstad's reddened forehead.
"Listen, Saint, this is Seattle. We don't carry guns into theaters. Espresso, yes; guns, no. There's always the danger that someone who doesn't like the film will shoot the projectionist."
"An honest concern," concurred the Saint, putting an arm around the hyperkinetic filmmaker, "And who knows what they would do if they knew there was a director in the house?"
Krogstad glanced about as if expecting an outburst of machine-gun fire, sighed nervously, and attempted to conceal his agitation.
"Wonderful," mused Karl, "Enter the Saint and our lives are imperiled. Listen, Templar, don't go shooting up the theater and terrorizing the patrons. I have an important potential financial backer in the audience teetering on the brink of signing a large check."
"Finacial backer? I thought Barney Malone paid you a king's ransom to direct The Pirate," chided Simon.
"Yeah, it was a King's ransom -- a small, Balkan king, but a king nonetheless -- but the trick in this business is to never invest your own money in dicey ventures."
Karl elaborated as they walked towards the crowded autitorium.
"I have envisioned an international independent filmmakers conference and competition which would allow others the opportunity to become as reputable and mainstream as I b
y offering them high-profile exposure. There is, of course, entrance fees and attendance fees, and workshop fees, and material fees..."
"And you have a heart of gold, Karl," added Simon with minimal facetiousness.
"Yes, I have a heart of gold and my potential backer has deep pockets, a law degree, and several beautiful maidens absurdly eager to have a career in showbusiness."
Simon Templar did not stop cold, but he did stop.
"Money, maidens, and a law degree?"
Karl smiled a broad affirmation. "It is almost too good to be true," confided Krogstad, "We're talking big bucks, Saint. Big bucks and buxum babes all tied together with the kind of loot only a lawyer can manipulate."
The floor seemed to ripple beneath Simon's feet, and for the second time that evening he felt detatched from reality's reference points.
"Karl, does the phrase `Good Time Arcade' mean anything to you?"
Krogstad almost burst with joy.
"Yes! Templar you amaze me. No wonder you're famous, you know everything. Of course I know the Good Time Arcade. That's the guy, them's the dames, and that's the source of my backer's money. You walked right by him when you came in. He was standing at the snack bar yaking to some client on his cellular phone. Lawyers are always on the phone, which is the best time to put a pen in their hand 'cause sometimes they'll sign anything simply out of habit."
"Interesting habits, indeed," said the Saint as he glanced back towards the snack bar, "I trust you will introduce us."
"You're not going to shoot him, are you?" asked Karl, unsure of his own seriousness.
"Heaven forbid," stated Simon reassuringly, "I would never shoot a potential financial backer, at least not in this chapter."
Krogstad stared at the Saint as if increased visual acuity could impart clarity of comprehension.
"Well, that's a relief," mumbled Karl pointing his thumb toward the snack bar, "as soon as he gets off the phone, he'll be heading this way."
Simon turned to get a look at Karl's prospective sugar daddy, fully prepared to squeeze the slimy fingers of a pin-striped, Brilliantine dipped, shifty-eyed insult to the legal profession. Instead, the Saint saw a youthful Mount Rushmore of a man bedecked in a bright canary yellow sweater and beige slacks walking briskly toward them. Arthur Rasnec's face looked less than thirty, and his bright blond hair was razor-shaped in the most contemporary style, but tiny lines accenting his hazel eyes implied an added decade.
