“Where do these kids live,” asked Simon, although he could guess the answer.
“They don’t,” offered Vi ruefully. “If you mean where do they sleep, it could be anywhere, with anyone who’ll also fill their stomach or feed their habits. They grow up without maturing, age without wisdom, and die too young — inside and out. And the real tragedy is,” Vi said with a sigh that came from depths of caring, “they are tender little plants that have been denied shelter, exposed to the harshest elements our greatly vaunted civilization has to offer, and abandoned.”
They walked without speaking, hearing wolfwhistles, car honks, and rude epithets mingling with the rinky-dink disco soundtrack accompanying the bikini-clad women with surgically augmented figures dancing in the window of “Uncle Elmo’s Adult Emporium and Good Time Arcade.”
“Those must be Elmo’s nieces,” commented the Saint as they passed the gyrating display of enhanced allure, “I’m sure they’re a close family.”
“Elmo died with a plastic bag over his head six months ago,” stated Vi dispassionately. “They found his body in a White Center motel room.”
“Suicide, no doubt,” said Simon as if stating the obvious, “achieved after a failed attempt to fold himself to death in an ironing board.”
“Of course,” concurred Vi, “and now the Good Time Arcade is operated by a nifty little holding company called R.T. Enterprises, Inc.. Nothing illegal about it, but when I consider the ‘R’ and the ‘T’, it gives me the creeps.”
The Saint didn’t have to ask for an explanation.
“ ‘R’ stands for Rasnec,” she continued, “as in Arthur W. Rasnec, attorney at law, and the ‘T’ stands for Talon, as in Detective Dexter Talon of the Seattle Police Department.”
They crossed back to the other side of First Avenue, reversing direction and heading north, stopping to summon Ian and Dan from their temporary fascination with two of Elmo’s more demonstrably attractive relatives.
“And the reason ‘Elmo’s’ survives no matter how many Elmos go to the great arcade in the sky,” remarked the Saint, “is because humans are such easy prey.”
Vi Berkman stopped, shifted her black bag to the opposing shoulder, and looked Simon in the eye.
“Some prey are easier and younger than others.” She dug into her bag, retrieved keys, and unlocked the door to the Sanitary Market Building.
“And,” she said through her teeth, “I have the pictures to prove it.”
Simon allowed Vi, Dan, and Ian to enter while he lagged behind to give the bustling street scene further scrutiny. The Saint’s internal early warning system had already alerted him to the presence of the jungle cat, and the evening’s cavalcade of interconnected, although seemingly unrelated, incidents convinced him that mayhem was imminent.
There was no sudden rush of footsteps on the street, no uncharacteristic slowing of nondescript cars. In maritime parlance, the coast was clear. Unless, the Saint reasoned, the ungodly were ahead of them rather than behind, or simply awaiting a more opportune moment to interfere.
Simon took the steps ahead of him with swift, easy, strides, and caught up with his entourage before Vi could enter her office.
“Allow me,” insisted the Saint coolly, motioning the others aside. Simon opened the door as if anticipating an onrush of enemies.
“Something up, Mr Templar?” Ian spoke, his voice betraying a slight nervous tremor.
The Saint flicked on the overhead lights and crossed to the window, glanced out, and swiveling the latch, pushed it up and open.
Vi walked cautiously over to Simon, dropped her bag on the metal desk, and looked at him with questioning eyes.
“Is there something wrong, or is this ‘Paranoia for The Saint’?”
“I am simply being prudent,” said Simon with a relaxed smile of assurance, “We Saints don’t know the meaning of the word paranoid. Those who say we do are probably plotting against us.”
Simon’s easy manner instilled confidence, but internally the Saint was all steel — his senses intensely acute; balancing probabilities with an agility that would leave a Las Vegas odds maker shaking his head in amazement.
As Vi slid open a file cabinet drawer and removed a manilla folder, the Saint helped himself to a pen and note pad from her desk.
“You boys are about to provide a valuable service,” insisted the Saint, and the two young men snapped to almost military attention.
“First, I want that Volvo moved off the street, then I want you to follow these simple instructions. Here,” he handed Daniel the note, “If you see any problem, tell me now, because this is an important assignment.”
Dan shared the note with Ian while Vi, holding her folder, seemed a bit adrift.
“You want us to grocery shop and pick up your laundry while we’re out?” joked Daniel.
“Yeah,” interrupted Ian, “and you got us meeting a British Airways plane at Sea-Tac, besides.”
The Saint refrained from commenting on Ian’s sentence structure, and instead offered a partial explanation.
“I may be meeting up with you half-way through the scrawled itinerary, but Ms Berkman and I have things we must do before it gets much later. I don’t want her rabbinical spouse to bar her from the house.”
“My rabbinical spouse is used to me coming home at all hours with tales of sin and degradation — not my own, of course — besides, he is expecting Simon and me to join him in less than an hour.”
“So, hop to it, my Cherubs. Complete this assignment and fame will be yours. I’ll nominate Daniel as Maritime Man of the Year, and buy Ian a case of peanut butter cups. And,” said Simon as he handed them an admirable amount of negotiable currency, “here’s a little something extra for your efforts.”
“This is what we get for choosing a life of outlawry,” muttered Daniel in feigned exasperation as Ian and he headed back down toward the building’s main entrance.
“Uh, one question Señor Saint,” said Ian, “Did I hear you mention Thea Foss?”
Simon nodded.
“Cool,” Ian said with approval as he descended the stairs.
“Thea Foss is cool?”
“Yeah, way cool,” called out Ian. “You know, like Dolores Costello.”
The Saint heard the main door open and close, then moved back to the window to watch the boys cross to the Volvo.
“You ready to look at this?” Vi, perhaps from impatience or anxiety, seemed again on edge as she placed the folder on the desk and began pacing about the room.
“As soon as our boys are in the car,” said Simon, watching the lads cross First Avenue. Suddenly three men came up behind the boys, pushing them insistently towards the vehicle.
At the moment the Saint saw the triple threat advance, he instinctively turned determined to leap down the stairs, bolt through the door, and rescue his dutiful admirers. But before he could move, Berkman’s office was enveloped in darkness. To be more precise, it was near darkness, a distinction not lost on the Saint. Yellowed reflected illumination drifted foggily through the open window, providing scant hints of sizes and shapes.
The size and shape of the individual suddenly storming across Vi’s office was, to be polite, exceedingly generous. Were you to stuff an Alaskan brown bear into an ill-fitting ensemble of slacks and sweatshirt, and arm it with a length of pipe, you would have a fair approximation of the intruder’s dimensions and dementia. The unwanted night visitor violently thrust Viola aside before she could scream, and made a determined attack on the Saint.