John Godey - The Snake

"Anywhere." The girl's arm had fallen over his hip and her fingers were trailing lazily over his stomach. "Do you know how big the park is?"

"Eight hundred and forty acres," Eastman said wearily. "That's the reason we need all the help we can get."

"It's incredible," Converse said. The girl's fingernails were nipping at his thighs now, and he was having difficulty concentrating. "It's absolutely unbelievable."

"Only if you've been in the sack for the last twenty-four hours," Eastman said. "The rest of us don't have any trouble believing it."

There he goes again, Converse thought. Since when is it anybody's affair how much time a citizen spends in bed? He started to ask the captain if he thought he was in fucking Russia or something, but the girl's fingers had grasped him, and all that came out of his mouth was a groan.

"I'm sorry, that was out of line." Eastman sounded more tired than contrite. "The point is-can you help us?"

"Of course." The girl had kicked the sheet off, and, looking down, Converse could see her fingers moving upward in slow, mischievous circles. "Look, can I call you back? I'll call you back in a couple of minutes. Okay?"

Eastman let his breath out in controlled exasperation. "To be perfectly frank, there isn't that much time. We've got a big search operation set up at nine o'clock. I'd like a chance to talk to you before we begin. But if you can't…"

"I can. I can. Ali." Converse bit his shoulder to muffle a groan. "Where are you, where can I meet you?"

"I'm phoning from police headquarters, but I'm leaving directly for the park. Do you know where all those statues of Latin American liberators are, at the Sixth Avenue entrance?"

"I know it, I know it. I'll be there in half an hour."

But it was a half hour before he even got out of bed. He kissed the girl chastely, and told her that she was wonderful and that he would call her sometime. He dressed quickly in jeans and a T-shirt imprinted with the legend Duchy of Liechtenstein All Stars, and ran down the steps into Charles Street. He went around to Seventh Avenue and bought a couple of papers. The Daily News front page, under a headline that read SNAKE, SLAYER OF TWO, STILL AT LARGE, showed an aerial view of Manhattan being constricted by a giant boa. The Times was predictably more circumspect.

Its picture was also an aerial view of the park. The caption under the photo said, in effect, try to find the handful of searchers in this vast expanse. The three-column, three-line headline read, POLICE SEARCH OF PARK FAILS IN EFFORT TO FIND SNAKE; TWO ARE DEAD OF BITES.

Converse found a cab cruising southward on Seventh. It picked him up and took Charles Street to Hudson, where it turned north. The driver slid back his safety panel. "The snake in Central Park?"

Converse said, "Yeah." He was trying to read his papers.

"What'll they think of next?" The driver shook his head. "Ten the truth, it actually don't surprise me."

"Well, it surprises me," Converse said.

He driver gave him a pitying look. "Come on, Chrisesake. This city?"

An agglomeration of fifteen or twenty police vehicles, massed along Central Park South, clogged the Artist's Gate where Sixth Avenue ran into the park. Close by, just inside the park, were three huge television trucks and a few private cars with PRESS placards on their windshields.

The area was swarming with cops. Converse had never seen them in such numbers, barring the St. Patrick's Day parade. They stood in stolid groups, looking as if they wanted to smoke. Their short-sleeved uniform shirts were already soaked by sweat, darkened to a deep blue. Their waistlines, laden with equipment-revolver, manacles, keys, nightstick, and cartridges-gave them the appearance of some modified two-legged beast of burden. A number of them were wearing thigh-high wading boots. Some were armed with shotguns, others with cans of Mace. A few carried crowbars.

Barriers had been put up on the south side of Central Park South, and a dozen policemen wearing the distinctive blue and white helmet of the Tactical Patrol Unit were trying to keep a crowd of spectators from overflowing the curb. Sixth Avenue had been closed off at Fifty-seventh Street, and traffic diverted to the east and west. A dozen radios were droning from the open windows of squad cars. Inside and outside the park, loudspeakers were urging the crowd to go about their business, or, if they must stay, to remain behind the barriers.

"We request the cooperation of all citizens, for your own safety and so that the police can perform their duty without obstruction…

Converse started into the park, but his way was barred by a TPU cop. He told the cop that Captain Eastman was expecting him. The cop eyed him with ritual suspicion. "He's waiting for me," Converse said. The cop hesitated for another moment, then guided him through a small mob-cops, deeply tanned men wearing the green livery of the Parks Department, television and still cameramen, newspaper reporters carrying notebooks or folded copy paper-to what he said was the Command Post. Its center was a large folding campaign table with a map of Central Park pinned to it.

A half-dozen policemen were bent over the table, their faces obscured by the bills of their caps.

The TPU cop spoke to a tall dark officer wearing silver oak leaves on his collar and yellow braid on the bill of his cap. "This fella says Captain Eastman wants to see him, sir."

"My name is Converse. I'm the herpetologist."

"You say?" The officer stared at Converse's T-shirt with distaste, then called out, "Eastman, the ologist-something is here."

A face turned up out of the heads bent over the map. It was broad, pink, sweating. Converse didn't recognize it. "Yeah, well," Eastman said, "tell him to wait a minute."

"Stay put right here," the dark officer said, and scowled at him before moving off a few paces, folding his arms across his chest, and gazing around him dourly. The cops in his immediate area fell silent.

Eastman's head was bent to the map again. Converse yawned. He wasn't sleepy, exactly, just played out. Behind him, someone tapped his shoulder.

It was a young woman. She was holding a shorthand pad and a ballpoint pen.

She said, "Aren't you that herpetologist from the Bronx Zoo? I'm sorry, I forgot your name."

"Mark Converse."

"I did a piece for my paper when you caught that rattlesnake last year.

Holly Markham. I don't suppose you remember?"

"Hell, yes, I recognized you right away. How you doing?"

She was pretty, but in that cool, self-contained way that usually turned him off. He preferred outwardness, even a suggestion of mischief in a woman's face. But when she put out her hand and smiled, her face opened up.

If it didn't exactly suggest abandonment, it had become immediately charming. He smiled back at her and shook her hand. Her grip was firm and without coquetry, like her nonsmiling face.

"Are you helping the police again, Mr. Converse?"

He glanced toward the campaign table. "Captain Eastman phoned me. I'll certainly help if I can."

She wrote his name down, and slanted her notebook toward him so that he could check the spelling. Except for his name, her notes were written in shorthand. She asked him to remind her of his title at the zoo.

"Formerly assistant curator of herpetology. I've joined an expedition to Australia to bring back specimens. Australia has some terrific species of poisonous snakes."

She smiled and tilted her head and said, "How does someone get into anything as funny as snakes? You don't mind my asking?"

"Funny is in the eye of the beholder. I've been into snakes ever since I was a kid. I'm twenty-nine now, in case you're wondering. How old are you?"

"Twenty-five, but I guess I didn't have your advantages. Snakes make me crawl."