The Saint gave the BMW some speed of its own and moved to the right hand lane.
“Methinks Mr Alisdare has been sampling his own product, judging from his recent behavior,” commented Simon, “and Snookums probably had a snoot-full when he entertained us at your office. But by the time the sun rises over the Cascades, I am absolutely positive that Talon and Alisdare will concern you no more.”
He said it with such flat matter-of-fact assurance that Viola could only look at him with comforted admiration.
Simon flicked the turn signal indicator and took the Woodinville/Duvall exit. A brightly lit self-service gas station illumined the descent from four lane freeway to the tiny town’s one main intersection. They turned left and continued on the Woodinville/Duvall road and soon passed the only enterprise doing any business at this late hour, the rowdy and raucous Chesters Dance Palace. A beer and wine outpost featuring exotic dance performances for men with bulging wallets, big tires on their pickups, and unfulfilled fantasies, Chesters had not yet become victim to the future’s unavoidable emergence of conservative family values and gentrified property improvement.
“You can guess who owns that joint,” muttered Vi, “the wonderful Mr Arthur Rasnec.”
“And probably without Dexter Talon,” added Simon as he slowed to the speed limit.
“Without Talon? I thought they would be two peas in a perverted pod.” Vi’s expression indicated unsurprising disapproval.
“Talon may be a crafty predator, but he is no investment genius,” explained the Saint as they continued on the darkened two-lane blacktop, “I’ll bet you his bottom dollar that when he decided he wanted a piece of Uncle Elmo’s action, he went to Rasnec without even knowing him. Rasnec isn’t a criminal lawyer, he’s an investment attorney. He invests his own money as well as others’. He likes to be a player. Chesters makes perfect sense for Rasnec — he finances a cheap thrill joint in an underdeveloped area like Woodinville and funnels the profits into land purchases. Look at it — wooded acres, no industry, no retail, a few houses. Someday it will be another populated extension of the Bellevue/Kirkland Metropolitan Area with fast food franchises, factory outlets, and high-priced housing developments. Rasnec, seeing the future, would be buying it up with every penny of profit from the world of exotic dance. Five years from now, when all this is strip-malls and condominiums, the main street will be named ‘Rasnec’ in honor of the town’s primary benefactor and most respected investor.”
“Hmmm, I doubt Talon is as futuristic in his motivations,” said Vi, “but if you’re right, Rasnec probably saw ownership of Uncle Elmo’s as not only a prudent downtown investment, but as another source of talented performers for Chesters.”
“Advance to the head of the class, Viola. Elmo’s daytime nieces may be grinding away back there for table tips at this very minute.”
“And if it’s true that Talon didn’t arrange Uncle Elmo’s death,” Vi enjoyed playing Ms Deduction, “the mob who put Elmo in his grave would tread more lightly around a Seattle Detective. They might even slip him cash, if he were open to it.”
The tall trees and occasional clouds obscured the moonlight. Simon turned on the BMW’s high beams.
“It’s possible,” agreed the Saint, “A little corruption goes a long way.”
“I hope it takes him all the way to hell,” insisted Vi.
The were both silent for a time, and the dark road seemed to unravel forever. Vi hoped the Saint knew where he was going. She turned and stared at him, which was something she enjoyed doing. He didn’t seem to notice, or if he did, he didn’t mind. Despite his age, he appeared timeless. There was still the same heroic swiftness of line about his features, and the same dancing devil of mischief in his clear blue eyes that she either remembered from her childhood or memorized from magazines.
The Saint tossed back his head and laughed aloud. Vi, assuming that he was laughing because she was staring, begged his forgiveness.
“No, no,” objected Simon good naturedly, “the day women stop staring is the day I refuse to go out in public.”
Vi eyed him playfully for a moment before posing a perfectly reasonable question.
“Why do you still do it? Being the Saint, I mean.”
A reckless smile glided across his lips and his chin tilted up in youthful impertinence.
“Because I refuse to grow up and settle down,” stated the Saint proudly. “I’ve certainly matured, but I promised myself at an early age that I would never resign myself to life without adventure. I vowed to keep crashing about, raising hell, righting wrongs, rescuing damsels in distress, and biffing the ungodly on the beezer for as long as I could. Besides,” the Saint added for additional justification, “it’s good for the complexion.”
Simon slowed the BMW as they rounded the curve into what would be the center of Duvall if Duvall had a center.
“Then again,” continued the Saint, “I’ve always asserted that I was a genius, and to prove it, I promised to quit while I was ahead.”
She reached over and squeezed his arm. His bicep was rock solid.
“The public thinks the notorious Saint retired years ago, Mr Templar,” said Vi affectionately.
“It was a mild intention never fully realized,” admitted the Saint cheerfully, “Maybe I felt something remained undone. When I was young and brash all I wanted from life was adventure, and adventure became life itself. But Viola my sweet, adventure, more than anything, is an attitude of mind. In other words, it’s not what you do, it’s the manner in which you do it.”
“As the actress said to the Bishop?”
The Saint laughed and Duvall’s one streetlight cast refracted rays through the lightly fogged window bathing Simon’s profile in an aura of white.
“If there were no Saint, I imagine we would have to invent one just to keep us on our toes,” said Vi sweetly. “But really, Simon, when you’ve swashed your last buckle, who in the world could take your place?”
Simon’s bright sapphire eyes focused far away on some private, personal vision.
“The spoiled child of a wild tempestuous destiny,” stated the Saint, “who wants to have all the fun in the world. As for me, when that time comes, I shall recline in literary repose on a sun-drenched beach and write my memoirs.”
She had her answer; the Saint dimmed the headlights and eased slowly into the dirt and rock parking lot of a closed country cafe called The Silver Spoon.
“Are you lost?” asked Vi, somewhat concerned.
“Of course not,” snapped Simon playfully, “and if I was do you think I would stop for directions at an empty restaurant?”
Simon turned off the ignition and reached down for Viola’s purse.
“I need to retrieve something from you, if you don’t mind. A deadly weapon, as a matter of fact.”
Simon pulled Snookum’s small revolver out of Vi’s bag. The Saint heard her gasp.
“How long has that been in there?” Vi sounded like a scolding schoolmarm.
“Oh, since just before I ran off to burgle Emerald City Catering,” responded Simon, “You can’t make big bangs without one of these, you know.”
“Do you plan on shooting somebody for real?” Vi asked it as if worried that pumping people full of lead was not situation specific appropriate behavior.
“Not if I can help it,” said Simon, “the police always want to investigate those things, and corpses are so inconvenient.”
Vi looked around dimly lit Duvall as if expecting the aforementioned corpses to suddenly appear.
“There’s nothing here except this cafe and a few little shops across the street,” she said, pointing at a small clustering of outlets including The Handmade Blade Arts and Crafts Center and The Child’s Balloon Gift Shoppe. “You plan on shooting your way past the decoupage for a climax by the wrapping paper?”