Chapter 4
How Duvall Became Illuminated, and Milo was Unforgiving.
1
The beast tightly twisted her hair, and she clenched her teeth to keep from screaming.
The Saint heard a car door slam to his right, and his peripheral vision glimpsed another bulky skinhead lean against a late model fender. A scurry of small footsteps on blacktop indicated Alisdare, breathless and agitated, was coming down the drive. By now, Simon reasoned, Salvadore had either found the shotgun or reloaded the .45.
“Tell you what, Snookums,” offered Simon generously, “I’ll make you a trade — your life for the lady. Either that or I shoot all three of you and be done with it. Personally, I would opt for the latter, but multiple bodies are so hard to explain to the authorities now days, and what with the rising costs of iron clad alibis...”
“Enough!” It was Alisdare, dripping with perspiration and leveling a re-loaded shotgun. “What’s going on here?”
The little man’s piggy eyes bounced back and forth between the captive Viola and the armed Saint.
“This young lady is obviously taking her gorilla out for an airing,” answered Simon, squinting dramatically down the sight of the .38, “apparently unaware of the bounty on exceptionally ugly gorillas.”
Alisdare stared at Viola, studied her face, and understood the unsavory implications of her disarray.
“What the hell have you done to this woman?”
“Nothin’, honest,” objected Snookums, “I didn’t do nothin’ like it looks. She’s that Berkman dame, the one with the street kids, we found her hangin’ around the edge of the property. It’s just that she fought like a tiger when we grabbed her.”
Alisdare turned to the two overweight back-ups.They each nodded uncomfortable confirmation.
“Put away the knife, stupid,” Alisdare ordered and the giant reluctantly complied.
The sweat-drenched oligarch pointed the shotgun directly at Simon’s head and cocked the hammers. Simon’s finger increased tension on the .38’s trigger.
“We can stand here like this all night if you like,” murmured Simon. He glanced down the long barrel of Alisdare’s weapon into the eye’s of drug-fueled madness and delusions of grandeur.
“I could call the Sheriff and report those boys of yours as intruders and vandals, you know,” insisted Salvadore, prodding the twin barrels at the Saint’s face. “I could have them arrested and prosecuted for trespassing. I’m a respected businessman around here. People trust me.”
As Alisdare believed himself to be absolutely inerrant, Simon felt it best under the circumstances not to contradict him.
“Of course people trust you. Who can blame them? You can also trust me to fire every last round in this 38 before you figure out how to take the safety off that shotgun.”
Alisdare’s eyes immediately locked on the stock, searching for the safety release. His attention thus diverted, Simon’s left hand soared suddenly from his hip and snatched the weapon from Salvadore’s pudgy hands.
“Thank you,” said the Saint graciously, and he deftly allowed two shotgun shells to drop in the dirt before handing the empty weapon back to his astonished would-be captor. “We all feel much safer now.”
Vi, delighted at the sudden turn of events, dashed to his side.
“Let’s get out of here, Saint,” Vi was pulling at his sleeve, prompting him to enter the BMW.
“We’re not going anywhere,” said Simon, and his emphatic inflection surprised her. “No, we’re not going anywhere at all. You see, Mr Alisdare and I still have unfinished business regarding your pal Talon.” The Saint turned his attention and the .38 towards Salvadore, “Isn’t that right, partner?”
Alisdare’s vocal cords felt akin to stale beef jerky, but he managed to rasp out a rough affirmative response and contort his mouth in an abstract interpretation of a conciliatory smile.
The Saint stepped back slightly and considered the situation’s dynamics. Alisdare sweated on his left, Snookums and an unnamed accomplice stood silhouetted in front of him, and the fourth man leaned lazily against his car’s fender attempting to appear invisible. Milo and the two injured thugs were nowhere in sight.
“I have a wonderful suggestion,” offered the Saint happily, “In fact, its a brilliant suggestion. Let’s all go back to the house and have a cup of hot cocoa.”
“I beg your pardon?” Alisdare was incredulous.
“Simon...” Vi spoke his name out of reflex and nothing more.
The Saint spun the .38 as would a cowboy hero and smiled broadly at the confused assemblage.
“Here we are, a delightful group of adults with similar concerns. Why should we terrorize each other in the moonlight when we can consult comfortably back at the house?”
Simon tossed the question out to the group as if they were top-level executives at a respectable board meeting.
“Do I hear a second to the motion?” Simon stopped spinning the gun and leveled it at Alisdare.
“You have a point, Mr Templar,” acknowledged Salvadore reluctantly. He shook his impotent shotgun. “Besides, for the moment you seem to have more power of persuasion.”
The Saint walked over to Alisdare, threw his left arm around the little man’s shoulders, and gave him an affectionate squeeze while poking the revolver into his ribs.
“I knew we could all get along,” said Simon victoriously, “Now, let’s toodle over to the enclave and swap motivations, shall we?”
Salvadore squirmed his poochie tummy away from the .38.
“Can’t we dispense with this gun business?” asked Alisdare nervously. In a worthless gesture, he tossed the empty shotgun to the ground.
The Saint, still hugging his duck-like prisoner, loosed a joyous laugh and turned to the bedraggled Viola.
“Whatcha say, Vi? Shall we let bygones be bygones, mend fences, forget the past, bury the hatchet, embrace these malcontents as if they were our dearest friends?”
Vi blinked against the glare of her BMW’s headlights. She had no idea what Simon was up to.
“Very well,” pronounced the Saint, and he suddenly tossed the .38 over Vi’s head towards the fender-warming skinhead. There was a collective gasp of disbelief as all eyes followed the weapon’s tumbling mid-air arc and precision descent into the silent thug’s outstretched hand.
“Nice catch,” Simon commented appreciatively, “given an opportunity, you could have been major league instead of minor character.”
Vi Berkman bit her lip and all but burst into tears. Had she caught the gun, she would have been tempted to shoot Simon herself.
“Come now, Salvadore,” prompted the Saint as he pulled Alisdare towards the BMW, “I’ll drive you and the bedraggled damsel back to the house in Germanic luxury; Snookums and the crew can ride with Mr Major League. Of course, you’ll explain to Milo and the boys that a cease fire is in effect.”
With the Saint unarmed, Snookums and the beefy henchmen glanced at each other in confusion. Alisdare, equally caught off-guard by the Saint’s sudden discarding of the .38, had yet to make response. Vi, however, immediately headed for the passenger door. The giant temporarily blocked her way, but as he was incapable of independent thought in the presence of Salvadore Alisdare, she brushed him aside, entered the idling auto’s back seat and began reaching for her purse.
Snookums, although slow to respond, had painful memories of her purse’s more acerbic contents. Prompted by the recollection, he yanked the door open behind her and clasped his strong grip on her thin wrist.
“Not so fast, lady.”
Vi considered struggling, but she was as familiar with futility as Snookums was with the contents of her canister.