John Godey - The Snake

No way of losing him. Even if he got invisible in the shadows once in a while, it was easy to pick him up again when he passed into the light of the streetlamps every few hundred feet.

When the sailor lurched across the West Drive, Torres whispered to himself, "Watch yourself, stupid, don't get hit by no car." The sailor crossed the roadway safely, and after a while Torres followed. When he saw him again, the sailor was stopped, facing to his right, toward the path that climbed up to the Belvedere Castle. "Hey, that's a good one, nice and lonesome up there," Torres whispered.

But the sailor turned away and went straight on. Ahead, on the right, was the Delacorte Theatre, and on the left the Great Lawn, with the baseball backstops sticking up and the patterned dirt infields, stretching north for about four city blocks. The sailor moved on past the big round theater without even looking at it.

Because the path was straight here, Torres hung well back. Above him, nailed to a tree, was one of those green signs: THIS PARK CLOSES AT MIDNIGHT. What's a matter, sailor, Torres said to himself, you can't read? You breaking the law, amigo, you committing a crime, so I don't feel sorry for you, what's gonna happen, you fucking criminal. He smiled to himself in the darkness, and closed up the gap a bit as the sailor lurched past the little Belvedere Lake, they called it, with the castle on the other side, sitting on a rocky bed, looming up against the sky like something from olden times.

After a while, as the sailor wandered deeper into the park, something occurred to Torres that made him worried. What if there was another mugger someplace, and he picked off the sailor while Torres was laying back? And suppose, from the way he was heading, suppose he stumbled into the Ramble, where all the fags hung out? Some of those maricons were rough people, and could rob the dumb bastard, besides cornhole him, too.

Cristo, 'rorres thought, I better pull the job before he gets hijacked.

He started to quicken his pace, and just then the sailor turned around.

Torres dove for the pavement. Sonofabitch had seen him! No, he was looking up, maybe checking out the buildings on Central Park West to see which way he was going. Just ahead was one of those arches, like a little tunnel. Go ahead in the tunnel, Torres said to himself. But instead, the sailor veered off to his left.

Good enough, Torres thought. He got up, drew his piece out of his belt, cocked it, and took off after the sailor at a light run. He had closed in to within a dozen feet when the sailor heard him and turned around.

Torres edged toward him a little.

"Aw ri', man," he said. "This wha'they call a mugging, okay?"

The sailor's eyes were blinking in surprise. He didn't look scared.

Torres raised the piece so the guy could see it.

"You be a smart guy and you don't get hurt. Right" He waved the pistol.

"Else you get blowed away. Okay? I wan' you lay down on your face. Okay?

Lay down, man."

The sailor laughed.

"You hear me, man? Lay down." When the sailor kept laughing, Torres began to feel uncertain. Sonofabitch was like an apartment house. But then the sailor laughing at him made him mad. He pushed the gun out at arm's length toward the sailor and yelled, "You lay down, motherfucker!"

"Okay, greaseball, I lay down."

The sailor shifted the box from under his arm and threw it at Torres, shoving it out from his chest with both hands, like a basketball pass.

Torres saw the box coming at him, tumbling in the air, and, behind it, the sailor moving toward him fast. An edge of the box caught him on the shoulder, and then it went sailing past him and he heard something crack as it hit the pavement. The sailor was right on top of him when he pulled the trigger. He shot three times, the last two with the muzzle of the gun right against the sailor's chest, and then the sailor's weight was bearing him backward.

They hit the ground hard, with the sailor on top, and Torres heard his own breath whoosh out of him. He struggled wildly, threshing with his legs, chopping at the back of the sailor's neck with the barrel of the gun. He braced his feet against the pavement, arched his back, and heaved upward, and the sailor rolled off him. He scrambled to his feet and trained the gun downward at the sailor's head. But the sailor wasn't moving. His eyes were open and staring up at the sky. His shirt was bloody, and Torres realized that all three bullets had gone into his chest and that the sailor was already dead when he fell on top of him.

"Sonofabitch," Torres said. He felt awed. It was the first time he had ever wasted anybody. Then he felt a surge of pride. Big like an apartment house and he had wasted him! Okay, beautiful, but think about it later on. Three shots, and if there was cops cruising through the park they maybe heard it.

Hurry up and make the score and split.

The sailor was lying a couple of feet in front of the box. The wood had split when the box hit and the cover was broken. Torres started toward the sailor, and his eye was caught by something moving in the box. He saw two points of gleaming light and a dark shape moving slowly from side to side.

The dark shape moved upward on a long column, and Torres, staring, realized that it was the head and neck of a snake. As he watched, frozen, the snake started to slide out of the box. It slithered over the rim, pouring out in a continuous motion. It kept coming, slow and smooth, no end to it, and Torres thought he must have been dreaming.

"Madre de Dios!"

He looked on in fascination as the snake poured out of the box, drawing itself into a loose coil until finally a thin tail flipped out. Then the snake raised its head up high on its stiffened neck and stared at Torres.

Its head was small and flattened and its eyes were bright and shining in the darkness. Some of the coils were practically touching the sailor's body. The snake was flicking its long tongue in and out, and its head swayed over the sailor's body, like, Torres thought wildly, it was guarding it.

Torres couldn't believe his eyes. He had seen some big snakes before in Puerto Rico, in the interior, but never one like this sonofabitch. It scared him. He wanted to turn and run away, but he wasn't gonna split without getting the money. He thought of trying to shoot the snake, but he knew it would have to be a very lucky hit, and if he missed it might get the snake mad.

The snake kept looking at him with its gleaming eyes, and the tongue kept sliding in and out. It was like they were both hypnotized, Torres thought, staring at each other across the sailor's body. But Jesus, man, Torres said to himself, you can't stay here all night. The cops might be trying to locate where the shots had come from. He had to make a move.

The snake had started to hiss at him, and it had its mouth wide open.

Suddenly, remembering a movie about India, Torres had an idea. He held the gun out in front of him and moved it to the right, and the snake's head swayed to follow it. He moved the gun back to his left, and again the snake's head moved with it.

"Stupid snake," Torres said, and, to himself, Hey, man, you got it made.

He edged forward to within three feet of the sailor's body. Cautiously, he moved the revolver left and right a few times, and always the snake's head followed it.

"Okay, man," Torres said, "now we make the score."

He extended the revolver as far out to his right as his arm would reach, and when the snake's head turned to stare at it, hissing, he quickly crouched, and with his free hand reached inside the breast pocket of the sailor's bloody coat. His fingertips had just touched the wallet when the snake's head shot forward, so fast that it was a blur, and he felt a sharp stinging pain in his thigh. Before Torres could move, the snake struck again, launching itself over the sailor's body, and he felt it hit in almost the same place.