by Burl Barer
The agitated host paced back and forth with a grandiosity which, considering his unimpressive physical attributes, seemed strangely reminiscent of any number of would-be tin-pot dictators who's egos and ambitions towered over their morality.
In this alternate reality of armed order-takers, lackeys, and drug manufacturers, Salvadore Alisdare reigned with Napoleonic presence. But both men were standing, and Simon was taller.
The Saint's poise had never been more easy and debonair, nor the chilled steel masked more deceptively in the mocking depths of his sapphire eyes, than it was as he stood there smiling as if he were an honored industrialist accepting an award from the Chamber of Commerce.
Salvadore Alisdare's dilated pupils fixed steadily on the Saint. He didn't like what he saw.
"Sit down," he ordered, and the Saint glanced at Viola, flanked by Snookums and Major League, before sliding out one of the straight back chairs from the table and offering it chivalrously.
Alisdare winced and allowed Vi to join Simon at the table before walking over and positioning himself above the Saint. He enjoyed the view, and Simon watched a twisted snarl distort the little man's lips. Alisdare's ears turned crimson when the Saint smiled warmly and fluttered his eyelashes.
Snookums and the two others hung back against the wall smirking as their commander continued to pace.
"Take a load off your tiny feet and join me in conversation," suggested the Saint, "I think an honest evaluation of our mutual positions will bring us once again to conclusions not far from those previously outlined."
His captor stopped pacing and sat down at the head of the table.
"Who's in control now, Mr Saint?" gloated Alisdare. "Where now are your threats and bravado?"
Simon flicked a piece of lint from his immaculate trousers and smiled the smile of the unconcerned.
"Right in front of you as before," responded the Saint honestly, "I don't see how anything has changed, except your ears seem to be losing their rosy glow."
Salvadore banged his fist on the table in a weak show of intended strength. His hand hurt, but he concealed his discomfort.
"I am in control," asserted Alisdare, "that's what's changed. I have captured you, outwitted you..." the little man's mastery of verbiage exhausted itself quickly.
"Poo-poo," stated Simon, "I would characterize the situation differently. Here we sit, two businessmen with similar interests. Why, earlier tonight you were extolling my virtues and insisting we could work marvelously together. Now, I admit to being somewhat pushy when I first arrived, but let's ascribe that to my haphazard upbringing. Had you not raised such a ruckus and been so reticent to release those two boys, we would be toasting our profitable friendship by now. After all, I could have left your lovely estate had that been my intention, so don't think I only hung around because of her." Simon pointed towards Vi without bothering to watch her reaction. "The contents of your safe are still with my gang, Talon remains my primary target, and that .22 with your prints on it will soon be joining the archives. You have me, but I also have you. In a way, we're even. There is no reason why we cannot reach an amicable arrangement."
Alisdare eyed the Saint with contempt.
"You storm into my house, terrorize me, kick down doors, smash windows, shoot people, and all this after I have paid you ten thousand dollars. Where is your gratitude, Mr Templar?"
"Beneath the waves of Neah Bay," answered the Saint.
Alisdare smoldered before spitting out his next sentence.
"I'll take back my ten thousand dollars. That should cover the damage you've inflicted on my house and amend for your rudeness."
"The damage has yet to begin in earnest," advised Simon helpfully, "and my rudeness is worth far more than ten grand. I really must put in more time on the pistol range," remarked Simon as he glanced toward the kitchen, "I can't believe I only clipped such a large and ugly target. Besides, I can't hand back the loot, old fruit, I gave it to Little Buzzy to pay for a new hair style. Although," the Saint looked Alisdare directly in the eye as if what he was about to say was meant for him alone, "even with that haircut, she looks like a good deal of fun, and I have always been an outspoken advocate of old fashioned fun as an accompaniment to newly acquired wealth."
Vi choked and Snookums laughed either at the off-color implications or Simon's blatant bravado. The Saint's smile was now neither mocking nor insulting, it was the sly grin of a man whose moral fabric was cut from lesser cloth than his wardrobe. Salvadore's face flushed slightly and his eyes wandered. Simon could see the chemically greased wheels turning. Talon's proclivities, encouraged and photographed by Alisdare, put the adipose detective directly under his thumb. If the Saint were subject to similar temptations and unsavory pastimes, he could be similarly ensnared or creatively distracted.
Alisdare attempted deep thoughts, but his success was spotty at best. His brow furrowed and eyes narrowed.
"Yes, Little Buzzy," said Salvadore coldly. His attention suddenly snapped to Snookums. "Where is Buzzy? I told you to bring her here. Where is she?"
"She wasn't where she usually hangs out," explained the giant, "not the donut shop by Elmo's, or the old Penny's building, none of em, maybe Talon's got her...."
Vi's voice, trembling with anger, sliced through their conversation.
"What do you perverts want with that girl? Haven't you done enough damage to her already? She's just a child and you're filthy scum."
Major League guffawed crudely behind her.
"Hell, she didn't act like no little kid with me," he bragged offensively, "give her enough dope and she'll do anything, anything that is except stop bragging about her imaginary rock-star father."
Vi erupted out of her chair and turned like a cobra at the foul-mouthed henchman. The Saint made no attempt to restrain her as she loosed a revelatory tirade.
"Sometimes fantasies are all a kid has, and that's why you'll never find her tonight, not in a crowd of fifteen thousand, because that traumatized child foolishly believes she's got a famous father who'll save her from the living hell you've put her through," Vi's voice rang with power and authority, and no one dared speak, "That's why I'm here, I'm the one who got the Saint involved. He'd never heard of Talon, Buzzy, Rasnec, or any of you until tonight. He's here because I asked him if he still...if he still..." and Vi came to the end of her emotional reserve and stopped mid-sentence. Overcome with anger, frustration, and grief, she turned away and sank back into the chair. "Damn!"
She banged her fists on the table and fought back a fresh flood of tears. The air nearly crackled with emotional energy, but Alisdare and his men seemed immune to its influence. There were a few uncomfortable snickers from Snookums and Major League, but Salvadore stared at Vi as if reading hidden words.
"The Coliseum," said Alisdare succinctly, "she is at the Seattle Center Coliseum. And knowing that nervy brat, she'll have no problem doing whatever it takes to get backstage after the show to..."
"Have her heart broken and her illusions shattered," completed Vi angrily.
"Or run off with the band," laughed Major League.
"Or the road crew," added Snookums.
"Or better yet, the caterer," completed Salvadore with a smug grin. "Thank you, Mrs Berkman, for solving the mystery of the missing Little Buzzy. As Emerald City has the contract for tonight's event, a simple phone call will put two more of my men backstage -- men more concerned with grabbing Buzzy than serving cold cuts."
Vi drew breath to empower an insult, but it was the Saint who spoke. His voice was a whip-crack of assured authority, drawing all attention unto himself.
"You should thank Mr Alisdare, Viola. If you understood what he was doing, you'd clasp him to your bosom. Of course, you'd have to lift him up to do it."
2
Vi reeled as if slapped in the face with a wet towel. She turned to stare at him, and Salvadore, Snookums, and the other two men stared as well. Simon Templar was leaning back in his chair, his polished footwear propped upon the tab
le. As he spoke, he nonchalantly pared his nails with the bright blade of Snookum's stiletto.
Alisdare's eyes almost shot from their sockets; Snookums lodged an expletive in Simon's general direction.
The Saint swung his long legs to the carpet and stood up. Balancing the blade on the tip of his index finger, Simon Templar addressed the diverse denizens of Salvadore Alisdare's dining room.
"It's all about balance, Vi. Even something sharp and deadly, handled correctly, can become a plaything. Correspondingly, a plaything like Little Buzzy can be deadly to one's career if allowed to get either out of hand or into the wrong hands."
"How did he get that knife?" Alisdare demanded of Snookums, but the giant had no answer.
"Oh, be easy on the poor fellow, Salvadore. I lifted this lovely item during a brief game of shove and swear on the way into the house. You didn't even miss it did you, Snookums?"
"The name is Barry," interjected the giant.
"Your's or mine?”
Barry grunted.
"Well, you'll always be Snookums to me," sang the Saint.
Viola watched the Saint stroll about the dining room, the bright razor-edged blade perpendicular to his outstretched finger.
"As I was saying," continued the Saint, "It is all about balance. Everything in Alisdare's life, until recently, seemed perfectly balanced. He was a respected event planner for a prosperous catering company, he had a fun and rewarding social life involving a variety of party girls and high-level party pals, plus two semi-lucrative side-lines: legal pickles and illegal drugs. And then he added two more volatile element to the mix: blackmailing Talon over his immoral relationship with Little Buzzy, and a platonic yet perdiferous relationship with an intoxicating beauty named Diamond Tremayne."
Alisdare, fascinated by the Saint's behavior and well-delineated narrative, held up his hand as warning for his men to not interrupt.
"And what do you know of Miss Tremayne?" asked Salvadore calmly.
"Only enough to be entranced," responded the Saint honestly, "and while I assume that she's in this soup up to her rather attractive cheekbones, we have more immediate concerns."
Simon noticed Alisdare's ill-concealed relief at the setting aside of any further discussion of the enigmatic Ms Tremayne.
"You see, Vi," continued the Saint, "everything was fine for Mr Alisdare and his rather boisterous companions here until someone started throwing around the name `Simon Templar.' Then things began to tip," Simon tilted the blade precariously as he spoke, "suspicions became aroused, plots began to be hatched, threats were made, and all the while the real Simon Templar was simply doing his best to promote a Hollywood film. And then..." Simon propelled the stiletto straight upward. It turned sharply in mid-air and descended point first. He caught it deftly by the handle, spun on his heels, and sent it flying with astonishing speed and precision. The point buried itself into the wall only inches from Major League's left ear. "The Saint steps in: you beg me to save Little Buzzy from Dexter Talon and the creeps who are exploiting her. I agree. Alisdare comes to me with a story about the treasure of Dolores Costello, wanting me to leave town at the same time I'm supposed to meet you. I agree, and see you tonight instead. Detective Talon, not to be left out, requests a heart-to-heart over a filthy ashtray and a bad beer. One thing leads to another, and the next thing you know, everyone is all in an uproar, people are pulling guns and...oh yes," the Saint paused as if he suddenly remembered something important. He reached back and pulled a .45 out of his waistband and tossed it to the dumbstruck Alisdare.
"I think it fell out in the BMW while we were driving in," offered the Saint innocently, "but who knows where the clip is?"
Salvadore stared at the empty automatic and looked up blankly at the Saint.
"But even if he had the clip," continued Simon pleasantly to Vi, "Alisdare is not in the business of killing people. In fact, the thought of his property being littered with bodies strikes him as overwhelmingly distasteful. He only wants to blackmail Talon and have us all leave him alone to do it. But I won't, Vi, and he knows it. We discussed this situation before your arrival. Remember, our host is no dumbbell," and the Saint said it as if he were affirming an historical fact, "he didn't achieve his position of power and influence, especially among men as bright as these, by accident."
Alisdare puffed up like a blowfish, held the empty .45 at his side, and centered his concentration on the Saint's monolog.
"He wants to get his hands on Buzzy for at least two good reasons, if you discount a third distasteful one. First: to save her life." Simon allowed reason number one to hang impressively in the air. Alisdare was as surprised to hear it as was Vi, but he nodded in complete agreement.
"He knows that Talon may decide that one more dead streetkid is safer than one live child to testify against him if she ever gets up the nerve, or if Salvadore's more detailed photos ever become public. Talon knows that the game is on, and he could get to her backstage at the coliseum as easily as if she was in the backseat of his car."
Vi knew Simon was not rattling this off for her benefit, and if it was part of a Saintly scheme, it was currently beyond her ken. It didn't matter. She trusted him.
"Oh, I see," said Vi thoughtfully, and she convincingly added a tinge of appreciation to her tone.
"Reason number two," elaborated the Saint, "is that Buzzy can be easily manipulated via the application of the proper condiments. Were Salvadore to assure Buzzy of complete protection should she come forward against Talon, and pressure her to do so if Talon stops the cash flow, he could make sure that his name and endeavors were absent from the minutes of the meeting. In fact," added Simon with an appreciative glance at Alisdare, "he may have lodged these concepts into her little mind already on more than one occasion. Perhaps another crank-fuelled reverie tonight would only reinforce her allegiance and obedience."
Although Snookums and his compatriots seemed only moderately interested in Simon's soliloquy, Milo and the two bandaged henchmen crowded in the doorway. At the conclusion of the Saint's previous paragraph, Milo stretched forth his arm and pointed an accusing finger. Whatever unpleasant and inconsequential utterance he considered appropriate for the audience was, by virtue of Alisdare's interdiction, relegated to terminal obscurity.
Salvadore, sensing an intermission in the Saint's presentation, approached the door-way contingent and surveyed them with mild disdain. The overweight man with big beard and bandaged arm was none the worse for his encounter with wayward lead, and the second had suffered no greater indignity than a perforated boot, a heat-seared toe, and minor facial bruises from his encounter with Ian's anger.
"You said not to kill them," Simon reminded him, and Alisdare understood that the Saint could have easily killed them had he so chosen.
Salvadore sighed and seemed to slightly sag. The unnatural fuel on which he'd been running for hours was beginning to dissipate.
"You three get to work in the shed. I'm tired, Milo. Get me some refreshment. And here," he said, handing the empty automatic to Milo, "put this somewhere."
The three tumbled out the back door and Salvadore turned his attention to his house guests.
Viola, a disheveled mess, sat stern-jawed at the table; Simon Templar, astonishingly self-assured and debonair, stood in the middle of the room as if surveying his dominion; Snookums, Major League, and the other non-descript thug leaned back against the wall. All were looking expectantly at Salvadore Alisdare, and Salvadore Alisdare was not a happy man. Stress and exhaustion seemed to soak him. His dapper shirt was sticking to his back, the collar felt wet against his neck, and his eyes were beginning to ache. The Saint, he decided, was giving him a migraine. Maybe there was a simple way out of all this. Maybe Templar had the best idea after all.
As for the Saint, had Alisdare's thoughts been spelled out in balloons above his head, they could not have been more easily perceived. Simon turned slightly to Vi, brushed two fingers against his cheek, and raised his eyebrows. She got it.
&nb
sp; "Excuse me, Mr Alisdare, but I look like hell and feel worse," said Vi "may I please...."
Salvadore wiped a hand across his damp face, and felt a twinge of unexpected guilt.
"Yes, yes, certainly...Barry, show the lady where she can freshen up. And let her have her purse, for God's sake."
The Saint tossed Vi an inappropriate kiss capped by a wicked wink, and she regarded him curiously.
Alisdare seemed to lose himself in contemplation of the carpet for a moment, then raised his eyes to Simon's brilliant gaze. The Saint motioned towards the remaining men with a nod of his head, and addressed Salvadore directly.
"Can we talk, just us," he asked with the slightest hint of secretive advantage, suggesting two great minds merging in private could accomplish more if relieved from the pressure of performing before a studio audience of divided allegiances.
Alisdare, at this point, appreciated any inference of reduced pressure and increased advantage.
"In a moment," responded Salvadore thoughtfully, and he walked to the beige telephone hanging on the wall near the kitchen. He picked it up, dialed, and easily made arrangements for additional back stage access to the Seattle Center Coliseum.
Replacing the handset back in its silver cradle, he stretched his lips across his tiny teeth and gave instructions to Major League and Nondescript regarding appropriate subterfuge and their mission's essential purpose -- securing little Buzzy.
Major League laughed and snorked.
"Take the car you came in," instructed Alisdare, "and don't make a scene. All I want is for you to get her and take her to the Tropicana Motel on Aurora. Take some of the new batch with you, tell her it’s the best batch she's ever had. That ought to do it."
Alisdare leaned against the doorway, looked wearily at the Saint, and watched the two men head for the shed before aiming their vehicle towards the Seattle Center. He closed his eyes for a moment as if eight hours of sleep could be compressed into four seconds, then slurred out a conversational question.
