Лесли Чартерис - Capture the Saint

Crowbar Schwartz wiped a fresh, dry towel across his dripping forehead and beamed with delight at his ocean of adoring fans. His bandmates, equally pleased, repositioned microphones and double-checked amp volume in preparation for the second selection of their first encore.

“Here’s a real memory maker for ya,” yelled Crowbar, “a million seller from our first album...”

The roar was deafening.

“Its a foot-tappin’ latin number — Lux Sit and Dance!”

His right arm swooped down in dramatic overstatement, striking something resembling a chord in intent but sounding like a train wreck in reality. The audience cheered, a renewed wave of undulating humanity surged with one rampant will towards the stage — the singular and noteworthy exception being an attractive, if waif-like young woman whose hair appeared to have been shaped by the jagged edge of a broken milk bottle. With stoic silence and singularity of purpose, she seriously contemplated the finer points of backstage security, She knew what to do. She had heard the story countless times before — the episode of braggadocio and verve which allowed her mother to pierce the shield of fame — a story who’s anecdotal climax resulted in her own birth, her mother’s disillusionment, and a street-wise adolescent’s disastrous quest for identity.

“Like mother, like daughter,” murmured Buzzy. Ruffling her hen-house haircut and squaring her little shoulders, she swung her hips and leaned her lips to the receptive young man entrusted with guarding the Coliseum’s most private recesses. His eyes widened when she whispered a detailed litany of false promises and enticing innuendos. Little Buzzy, soon adorned with an all-access backstage pass, crossed the Coliseum’s inviable perimeter and headed for the dressing rooms. She knew the routine; she could almost hear Mom’s voice, strangely sober, guiding her through the concrete labyrinth. If backstage needed a map or guide, Mom knew where X marked the spot.

“If you’re inside the dressing room,” Mom once reminisced over a bottle of rum, “all you have to deal with is the catering service’s cold cuts, warm beer, and a dozen other groupies just like you — all pirates after the same treasure.”

The Saint swung right on 6th Avenue, maneuvered his way to west of Aurora Avenue and finally into the southside parking lot of a brightly lit Denny’s Restuarant. Next to him sat a distinctive, cosmetically distressed, and battle weary Volvo; situated across the side street was the Tropicana Motel. Simon Templar exited his car, meeting two men emerging from the station wagon.

“I saw a gaggle of cop cars convening on Madison Street,” commented the Saint.

“Of course,” confirmed Quentin, “they were celebrating Talon’s expert marksmanship.”

“And Alisdare’s impersonation of a grounded flounder,” added Conway with no remorse.

“No doubt you’ve been keeping our twin sycophants entertained with exaggerated stories of your ignominious past,” said the Saint.

“The past has been very good to me, I’ll have you know,” asserted Peter, “and ignominious is too big a word.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely,” Roger jumped in, “violates the minimum syllable ordinance.”

“When verbosity is outlawed, only outlaws will be verbose,” agreed the Saint.

Peter lifted the Volvo’s rear hatch, pulled out a bundle of clothing and handed it to the Saint.

“The outfit you ordered Mr Templar, and a little badge to go with it. All this high fashion is courtesy of Emerald City Catering and the late Salvadore Alisdare, as are the delicious pickles Roger’s been eating.”

“Oh, I thought he simply found a new vinaigrette cologne,” responded Simon waving to the two smiling fans gesticulating at him from the front seat, “did you pull your Child Protective Services act for the folks at the motel?”

Peter nodded.

“In this suit, I look respectable enough to be Chairman of the Childrens Home Society,” confirmed Quentin, “I showed them one of those cropped shots highlighting her hairdo. If those thugs show up, even if they’ve got Buzzy stuffed in the trunk, it’ll be one quick call to 911 with Viola Berkman waiting in the wings.”

“I’m wagering it doesn’t get that far,” said the Saint seriously, “and towards that end, I’m prepared to make the supreme sacrifice.”

Roger coughed mockingly.

“Let’s see, for Simon Templar the supreme sacrifice would mean...”

His punchline remained undelivered because the Saint provided his own accurate explanation.

“Hearing more than ten seconds of Grand Theft.”

A few more items were exhanged between cars before Conway and Quentin signalled Dan and Ian.

“Gentlemen, start your engines.”

The roars and screams merged into auditory mayhem bearing traces of mechanical devices, unearthly demons, and throats rasped from hours of abuse. Grand Theft had turned their guitars towards the massive wall of amplifiers, and the feedback alone was enough to send any British citizen with war time recollections scrambling for the nearest air raid shelter.

The band’s double-ramped U-shaped stage plunged into shadow, a gigantic strobe light flashed in relentless intensity, and fifteen thousand concert goers held flickering lighters aloft as if demonstrating ignited butane could summon Crowbar and his cohorts back to center stage. Footstomping vibrated the concrete floor, rumbling the very ground surrounding the venue, and a clamour of activity reverberated through the Seattle Coliseum’s inner sanctum.

“Outa da way, outa da way,” barked stage manager Joe Fiala, peppering his exclamations with predictable expletives as the evening’s headliners dragged themselves to the dressing room for a change of costume, measured inhalations of oxygen from a green medical cylinder, and a cursory perusal of the female fans presumably weighing their odds in the romance lottery.

Buzzy found herself ahead of the pack, her tennis shoes squeeking as she ran towards what was obviously the main dressing room — obvious because a female space alien, or a reasonable facsimile thereof, held the door open as if she were the elevator operator at the Waldorf Astoria Towers.

Buzzy ducked inside and flattened herself against the far wall. She was not alone. Several other females, some garish, others naturally attractive, all older than she, leaned their partially bare backs and denimed derriers against the same rampart. Buzzy felt as if she were in a police line-up. She had valid reference points, having been in line-ups before.

Spread before them as the stark room’s culinary centerpiece were coldcuts, a veggi plate, a variety of iced juice drinks, and a simmering pot of hot herbal tea. Two men in Emerald City Catering uniforms placed garni on the carrots.

“No beer, huh?” Asked Buzzy of her fellow female wall hanging, a bleached blond with impressive coal-black roots. Her outfit was New York’s idea of Native American beadwork via a Malaysian factory.

“These guys? No way,” deadpanned bleach-woman, “it’s nothing but healthy living for the boys nowdays. They even make the road crew stay clean and sober.”

Bleachy looked Buzzy up and down as if appraising her for retail.

“You related? A cousin or something, or do you work for the concert company?”

“Why?”

“I’m the bass player’s wife,” she answered proudly as the band poured through the door, “and our daughter there is the space alien.”

“Oh. I’m a relative, too. Sort of a space alien myself — or space cadet, anyway,” muttered Buzzy, looking at her laces. Bleach-woman-in-beads cocked her head maternalisticaly, her grin widening to full-scale smile as she watched her scraggly hubby splash cold water on his face, wave to her, and toddle off to change into his next set of encore clothing.