Talon glanced around the room as if what he was about to say required confidentiality. It did. When the beer arrived and the waiter departed, Talon spoke.
“I didn’t call up beggin’ you to come see me so we could swap true crime stories or chew the fat about dead criminals we’ve known and loved. When I say ‘we got a problem’ I mean it. The problem started out being mine, but now, whether you like it or not, it’s yours.”
The detective spit an errant piece of tobacco from his tongue’s tip, flipped a bit of ash into the black plastic ashtray, and waited encouragement from the Saint.
“Oh?” Simon’s response — flat, abrupt, and unemotional — was not exactly the encouragement Talon anticipated, but it served as an appropriate prompt. The grotesque detective raised the long necked bottle to his thin lipped mouth, the flabby flesh above his collar creasing and bending backwards as if an elastic hinge were secretly embedded behind his gullet. Talon gulped four ounces, banged the bottle back on the table, and began his clumsily rehearsed recitation.
“I ain’t no crooked cop, and I been around more than twenty years and in this town that’s sayin’ somethin’. But...” Talon stopped and stared at the table as if expecting his next line of dialog to be etched into the wood. It wasn’t. His heavy shoulders raised in a gargantuan sigh and, after taking another long, slow drag of acrid tobacco, continued. “I hate to admit what I’ve done because its embarrasing as hell.”
Remembering Viola’s photos of the violated Buzzy, the Saint’s eyes seared into Talon like twin shafts of iced lightning.
“I’m being blackmailed,” blurted out Talon with startling suddeness, “Blackmailed, Templar. You hear that? And I’ve paid and paid and there is no end to it.”
“Blackmail?”
“Damn right,” said Talon, his piggy eyes aimed pleadingly at the Saint. “I know how you feel about blackmailers. It’s no secret you think they’re scum. Hell, old John Fernack clued me in on your attitude about that years ago, but it ain’t easy acting like some vigilante rub-out artist when you’re a respected police detective.”
The Saint was not about to quibble with Talon over degrees of respectability, and as the unattractive detective had unexpectedly put a new spin on the evening’s festivities, Simon could no longer play it cold and aloof.
“You’re correct about my attitude towards blackmailers, Talon,” said the Saint seriously, “You’re a fool to pay them, they won’t stop on their own, and the option I endorse is outside the realm of approved police behavior. You did say you paid, right?”
Talon’s head wobbled an ashamed affirmation as he deliberately stubbed out the last life of his smoldering butt.
“Yeah, at first I figured what else could I do...”
Simon leaned closer, speaking in tones simultaneously silken and deadly.
“Tell me, dear Talon, why exactly are you being blackmailed, by whom, and why is it suddenly my problem?”
Dexter Tallon affected a sheepish expression for which he was ill suited, and a small smug grin inched across his lips. “It’s your problem because I used your name.”
Simon felt as if the linoleum floor of Ernie Steel’s Checkerboard room had evaporated mirage-like beneath him, leaving the detective, the table, two chairs, two bottles of beer, and one dirty ashtray suspended in mid-air.
“You used what?” The Saint did not disguise his incredulity.
Talon shifted in his chair, lit another cigarette as almost an affrontive gesture, and said it agin.
“I used your name. You know: Simon Templar, alias the Saint, the Robin Hood of Modern Crime and all that.”
“I believe my name and likeness are now officially registered trademarks,” said the Saint dryly, “I’m afraid they can’t be used without paying an outrageous licensing fee. According to my agent, I am worth more than all the Warner, Ritz, and Marx brothers combined.”
Talon took another hot-box drag and washed it down with cold beer.
“Yeah, well I figured your name was worth somethin’ alright. When they kept asking for money and I’d had enough, I told them you were an old pal of mine, that we shared similar interests,” said Talon with an offensive wink, “and that you and your gang would take care of them but good. When you came rollin’ into town with your famous face all over the news, that’s when I told ’em they were dead ducks for sure.”
Simon leaned back and gave Detective Dexter Talon the slow, visual once-over. The Saint’s steely gaze seemed to pierce his very soul, and Talon slowly squirmed in his seat.
“Who are ‘they’ and why exactly are you being blackmailed?” asked Simon, “And please be precise. If you’ve been throwing my name around, I have a right to know all the gruesome details. Before you answer, please give the formulation of your response significant considerations concerning honesty, accuracy, and my reputation.” The Saint weighted the final few words with intonations designed to elicit images of murder and mayhem.
Detective Talon deflated like a punctured bop-bag, small snorts of smoke puffed from his nostrils, and he told his tale of woe.
“I love bein’ a cop, Saint, but there’s more to life than that. Look at me. Its easy to see that I don’t have much of what you’d call a social life. I was married once, years ago, nice girl. Sort of. We had a kid. Got problems. Cop’s kid’s problems. Nothin’ but trouble.”
“And the reason your being blackmailed is...” prompted the Saint impatiently.
Talon glared while smashing his cigarette’s red tip into the crowded ashtray. His fingers came out smudged and smelly.
“Give a guy a break, Templar. I’m tryin’ to tell ya.” He reached for another smoke, but Simon put his hand on the pack.
“At the rate your smoking those you’ll be dead before the waiter asks if we want another beer, so to keep me from hearing this story wheezed through a respirator, let me make it easy for you. Most people are blackmailed over illicit romantic entaglements or past illegal activities. Being that you survived the famous purge of the Seattle Police, I’ll assume that you were indiscrete with someone’s wife, husband, daughter, livestock, or modern kitchen appliance, and the ungodly want you to pay up or be exposed. Am I correct?”
“Close enough,” admitted the detective, “I like women, OK? There’s nothin’ wrong with that. I’m a man. Unnerstan’?”
“Yes, I like women too,” responded the Saint compasssionately. “My only problem has been in the plurality, but please go on.”
“Well, I got in with a guy who snapped some photos and now I’m paying. But his demands are beyond extreme. I’ve already given him twenty grand.”
Simon Templar, an accomplished expert at the game of cat and mouse, long ago discovered the joys of tossing catnip and mousetraps onto the playing field.
“Oh, you must mean those cute snapshots of little Buzzy, the girl with the dreadful haircut,” announced the Saint happily, “why don’t you just arrange to give these leeches the ‘Uncle Elmo’ treatment?”
The emotional explosion from Dexter Talon was immediate and volatile. The thick fist thrown towards Simon’s face stopped mid-flight, snared by the immovable might of the Saint’s own grip. He tightened his fingers, Talon grimaced, and the Saint laughed as if the two were at play.
“Calm down, Detective,” said the Saint through a false smile, “or our fellow customers will think there has been a rift in our friendship. And we certainly don’t want to attract attention, now do we?”
Talon’ eyes smoldered, his ashen cheeks reddened with anger.
“What was it that pushed your hot-button, Talon? Was it little Buzzy that raised your ire, or was it the reference to the late, great Uncle Elmo? Speaking man to man, if you want my help, I need to know all the distasteful details.”