While psychologists and sociologists later quibbled in print over the name’s influence on his career choice and lifestyle, Crowbar achieved considerable wealth by dedicating the fruit of his musically predisposed genes to replicating screeching tires, broken glass, and crashing metal on his guitar. As for stage make-up, Crowbar gratefully acknowledged his mother’s loving, professional, color-coordinated guidance. None of this, of course, was of particular interest to Simon Templar. His exposure to the atonal caterwaulings of Crowbar, despite their international and relentless air-play, was limited to this particular cab ride on Capitol Hill. Thankfully, as Broadway Avenue’s boutiques and restaurants gave way to the more educational trappings of Seattle University, the 8-track player devoured the tape.
So garbled and distorted was the original recorded performance that no deviation from its normal sound was initially discerned. Soon, however, the stretched mylar strangulation of Grand Theft’s earnest efforts became unmistakable as the ironically entitled selection, “Scream,” was ensnared by the capstan and entangled in the machine’s swirling metallic innards.
The driver ripped the plastic case from the dash and threw it violently to the floor. Long slender entrails of twisted, lifeless recording tape dangled death-like from the gaping hole in the console.
“Look at that,” exclaimed the aggravated cabbie.
“It looks better now than it sounded before,” said the Saint seriously.
She wheezed out a long, laborious sigh, turned on the radio, failed in a knob-spinning attempt at retrieving any of Seattle’s numerous AM signals, and barked an overworked and un-ladylike oath as she clicked off the dysfunctional receiver.
“Devoid of art, woman despairs,” observed Simon objectively, “I suppose we must now amuse ourselves with romantic conversation.”
“I don’t date customers, so you can save your breath,” she growled with believable menace.
The Saint, not easily menaced, allowed a faintly thoughtful smile to linger on the corners of his mouth, rather recklessly and dangerously. But that was like Simon Templar, who never got worked up about anything, let alone a lippy cabbie cursed by sudden mood-swings.
“I believe this is the first time anyone has ever actually told me to save my breath,” replied the Saint amiably. “Apparently, in the best pulp fiction tradition, I am about to be bludgeoned to death by clichés.”
“Hey!” The cabbie tugged down the bill of her Mariner’s cap, “You complainin’ about my drivin’?” While Simon Templar serenely contemplated the evening events, conversations, characters, and escapades, Viola Berkman easily maneuvered the irregular traffic patterns and unorthodox block structures of capital hill, eventually managing to position her BMW two car lengths behind Simon’s taxi. Equal distance behind purred a perfectly restored black Jaguar XKE.
“Blackmail? Serves the jerk right,” commented Viola as the Saint recounted scintillating details of the Checkerboard Room encounter, “But that business about Buzzy looking every inch a woman is delusional hogwash. Even a pig like Talon...” Vi stopped in disgust and tightened her overcoat against the night.
Simon had paid the cantankerous cab driver, met Vi at her parked vehicle, and walked her graciously to the provisional shelter of a green and white awning gracing the entrance of a tiny Italian bistro.
“You are about to enter the mind of a confused and desperate criminal,” stated the Saint flatly.
“Looks more like a pizza joint to me,” admitted Vi after a cursory appraisal of the bistro’s exterior.
“We’re not going in there,” clarified Simon, “we’re taking a brief walk to the non-existent Madison address of SeaQue Salvage.”
He took her arm and led her paternally to the end of the block. En route, he fished out Alisdare’s business card and showed it to Vi.
“You will notice that the address on the card corresponds not to any actual location of SeaQue Salvage, but only to...” He pointed across the street to a small store-front who’s exterior sign proclaimed “Mail Boxes for Rent.”
“In fact,” continued the Saint, “I am willing to wager that SeaQue doesn’t even have a mail box there.”
An electric Metro Transit bus, drawing power from overhead lines, passed through the intersection. Bright blue sparks crackled skyward in a minimal display of short-lived fireworks.
“Those bus sparks are one of my favorite things about Seattle,” she said, “but you didn’t bring me down here to watch buses and look at an unused mail-drop.” The light changed and Simon signaled for Vi to follow him to the other side of the street.
“It is a theory, about to be proven,” proclaimed the Saint once the two of them stood before the darkened store front, “that Salvadore Alisdare selected this Madison mail-drop as SeaQue’s fictional location without any great master plan in mind. I believe he chose it simply because he passed it everyday, or because it can be seen easily from...” Simon scanned the diverse businesses and outlets within view, and smiled with happy triumph as he pointed to large older building kitty-corner from Madison. “Right over there.”
Viola Berkman took a good look at the Saint’s prized discovery.
“Emerald City Custom Catering?”
“The sign says they are ‘The Seafood Specialists,’ ” confirmed Simon.
“Seafood?”
“They delivered the dynamite lobster fra diavola so pleasing to the media mavins at this afternoon’s reception. I believe Connie Cain put a daub behind each ear to win the heart of Emilio Hernandez.”
“A romantic gesture,” concurred Viola, “let’s all visualize that, shall we?”
“And,” continued Simon undaunted, “I am absolutely positive that they also do brisk business with Neptune Salad and dill pickles. Blackmail, extortion, and the exploitation of children are not, you will notice, advertised on the marquee, but comprise a significant portion of their fishy activities.”
Viola Berkman watched the late-night traffic cruising Madison before asking the obvious questions.
“Dill pickles as in ‘packed by Snookums’?”
“And sold by Salvadore Alisdare, purveyor of pickles, seafood, condiments, perversion, persecution, extortion, and illegal substances to boot. A man becoming increasingly irrational, desperate, and unpredictable; a man who handed me a $10,000 cashier’s check to search for the Costello Treasure.”
“Does this mean you have everything all figured out? You know what happened to Dan and Ian, how to stop Talon from victimizing children, and what the real story is on Dolores Costello?”
Simon put his arm around her and they began the walk back to her car.
“If I were that brilliant, this would only be a novella,” explained the Saint, “but I firmly believe that some simple breaking and entering, coupled with full-scale burglary of Salvadore’s fish and pickle palace, may give us more answers than we anticipate.”
They walked back across the street in silence. As they continued towards her BMW, he broached a serious and sensitive subject.
“Vi, there are a few things I haven’t told you. And I believe there is something you haven’t told me.”
The Saint’s blue eyes seemed iridescent in the dark, and his tone displayed none of the light playfulness which had characterized their previous banter.
“What do you mean,” asked Vi. She was neither overtly defensive nor offended.