John Godey - The Snake

He told them that they were a bunch of dirty cabrones, putas, and hastardos, and when they applauded his command of their language, he bowed to them and moved on. He wasn't ignorant of the streets of New York-and of Rio and Genoa and Marseilles and a hundred other ports — but they held no terrors for him. He knew that his size was intimidating; and if it failed to intimidate, he was ready to fight, confidently and with enjoyment.

At Central Park West he checked the street sign and looked at the building on the comer in bafflement. From the lobby, a uniformed doorman looked out at him cautiously. He checked the street sign and the building number again. Dumb ass. She lived east, the other side of the park. He set the box down near the curb and waved his arms wildly at an approaching cab. The cab slowed and stopped, then suddenly shot off. Matt took a wild swing at the trunk of the car as it went by. In the next five minutes two more cabs passed him up.

He glared into the street, cursing loudly. But he knew what the problem was-the yellow bastards were scared of him. He was wearing what he called his "shore uniform." He had begun to put it on, item by item, at that dockside joint in Brooklyn and now, fifteen hours later, he was fully dressed. There was a footprint on the crown of his white nautical cap, and the yellow braid on the black bill was hanging by a couple of threads. A sleeve of the white linen jacket was separated at the shoulder. The T-shirt beneath it was grimy and soaked with sweat and spilled drinks. The duck pants were filthy and ripped at one knee. He had a smear of dried blood at the corner of his mouth from a cut lip, another smear on the lapel of the linen jacket, and spatters on his white shoes.

Like his size, his shore uniform proclaimed a violent man, and it was forbidding.

A cab stopped for a red light on the north comer of the street. Matt picked up the box and ran toward it. The driver watched him for a moment through the windshield, then put his car in gear and shot the light.

"Fuck it. Fuck you all, cabrones," Matt yelled.

He tipped the leading edge of the box forward and shook it for balance, and the animal slid drily inside.

"Don't get restless, pussycat," Matt said. "Relax and you'll live longer."

He tucked the box securely under his arm and crossed the street toward the park.

Torres, sitting on a bench backed against the stone retaining wall that bordered the park, watched with sour lack of interest as the big sailor tried to get a cab. But he came alive as the sailor started crossing over to the park side of the street. When the sailor hitched up the box he was carrying, and started walking north, Torres had to talk to himself to keep from running after the guy and jumping him right then and there.

"Wai', stupid, see what he gonna do."

When the sailor was fifty or sixty feet up the street, Torres eased off the bench and began tailing him, walking close to the retaining wall, so he could crouch against it if the guy looked back. But the sailor didn't turn around. He stopped once, and looked across the street at the Museum of Natural History, but only for a second. He kept walking north, and a couple of times he paused and looked toward the park, as if he was thinking of going in.

"I'll wait if you promise to go inna park," Torres said softly. "You wanna know how to go in? Transverse coming up on Eighty-first."

The sailor was a giant and looked tough-he carried that box under his arm like it was a feather-and Torres realized that it would be risky to tackle him one-on-one, but he was desperate for a score. The way the weather was, people were wearing hardly any clothes, and they didn't have no place to carry their money so they left it home. That was what had happened the last two times, and he got mad the second time and pistol wbipped the score real good. But pistol-whipping didn't put no money in the bank.

So he knew be wasn't going to let the sailor's size or anything else stop him. Besides, the way the sailor was walking he looked pretty drunk. Torres made up his mind. Even if the sailor went past the transverse without going in, he was gonna hit him anyway. There wasn't nobody walking on Central Park West, and only a few cars, mostly cabs, and no goddamn cab driver was gonna stop if he saw somebody being worked over, unless it was one of those moonlighting cops that drove a hack, and even then he might look the other way. Still, it was dangerous.

The sailor stopped at 81 st Street, at the entrance to the transverse.

"Go in," Torres said. "Go inna park, you stupid fuck. It's bullshit what you hear about danger. Ain't no danger, it's real safe, anybody can walk through and be safe. Don't be afraid, go on, walk inna park." But the big guy crossed the street past the transverse opening. "Aw ri'," Torres said, "aw ri', I'm gonna do it to you anyway."

The sailor stopped again. Torres held his breath. The sailor was turned toward the pedestrian entrance, a broad entry between two squat pillars.

Better than the transverse, Torres thought, no cars, no nothing. Go on, go in, man, he pleaded silently, and in an agony of wishing used body English, like with a pinball machine, to get the sailor to turn into the park.

It worked. The sailor turned into the entrance, and as he hurried after him, Torres said, "Beautiful. Thank you, God."

He touched the short-barrelled.38 he carried in his belt under his loose shirt.

A short while after he began walking through the park, Matt Olssen realized he should have gone through the transverse, which would have taken him on a direct line to the east side. Here, the walkways branched and wound, and he would have to use a little navigation to keep from wandering in circles.

Well, he was a sailor, wasn't he? Steer by the stars. He looked up. The sky was overcast, with a reddish tint, and there wasn't a star in sight. He thought for a second of going back, of trying to retrace his steps to the entrance and then taking the transverse, but it seemed like too much trouble. Screw it. At least the park smelled a little better than outside.

As for little Betty, she'd wait no matter how long it took him. Expecting money, she'd wait all night, and then some. Little Betty. He smiled, envisioning her in the apartment, probably fallen asleep, lying on her back in the air-conditioned bedroom in her see-through. He would have to lean on the bell to wake her up, and she'd be pissed off, but not fatally, because she would be thinking about the money he had promised her. He would take a nice slow shower-maybe get her to take it with him-and then into the kip.

When she wanted to, Betty could fuck up a storm, and with the prospect of money she had the incentive.

Except for the sound of his own footsteps on the pavement, the park was silent. If there was anybody else around, they were keeping real quiet about it. He knew you weren't supposed to walk in the park after dark, but it didn't bother him. Any mugger got a good look at him he'd probably run away and hide. And if he didn't, well, another fight was just another fight, and he'd bust the sonofabitch up good.

There was motion in the box. He reached around with his free hand and tapped the cover sharply.

"Lie still, pussycat."

He tilted the box back and forth a few times. The movement inside became briefly agitated and then subsided.

It was clear to Torres that the sailor didn't know what the hell he was doing. First he went to the left, toward the kids' playground, then wound around back to the main path, heading east. He never once looked behind him, or even to the right or left. Nice sailor, Torres thought, you gonna win the medal for easiest score of the year. He let the guy get out of sight a few times, laying back, knowing that when the curving walkway straightened out, he would be there. No hurry. Let him get nice and deep inside the park.