John Godey - The Snake

Eastman was silent. He sat hunched against the window of the car, glowering.

Converse said, "Anyway, our best chance is to catch it basking. It's one of the few times a snake stays put. I'll be out here tomorrow morning just before first light."

The car rode on between the huge North Meadow at their left and the small East Meadow to the right. The driver slowed down. "What do we do, captain?"

"Shit, I don't know. It's a lovely night for a spin around the park. What do you say, Hortense?"

Converse shrugged. "I'm sorry, captain."

Eastman sighed. "I guess you're right. Tomorrow morning-you going to pick me up?"

"I could," Converse said. "But. His voice trailed off.

"But you'd rather not?"

Converse nodded. "It's really a one man job. You'd simply be trailing along."

He's probably right, Eastman thought, and I can use the sleep. Then a suspicion stirred in his mind. "Look, are you afraid I'll shoot it or something?"

"If I find it," Converse said with a grin, "I'll turn it over to the Lost Property Clerk."

Eastman told the driver to find someplace where he could turnaround.

"Get a fix on one of the floodlights and drop me off by one of the ESU trucks. Then take Mr. Converse here to someplace where he can catch a bus home."

Converse said, "Don't waste your time, captain."

"Waste of time or not, I'll be doing something."

"Instead," Converse said, "let me buy you a beer."

"I don't drink on duty."

"When are you off duty?"

"That's it," Eastman said. "Never."

Near 115th Street, a rat jumped out of an overturned garbage can. It stopped right in the middle of the sidewalk and looked at him. It was an ugly old bastard, with a scrunch-up face and a long wormy tail and red eyes. Its fur was a mangy gray, same like the color of morning before the sun over the East River would get high enough to clear the tenements and throw a little light around.

Alvis Parkins said softly, "Shitface, I'm gonna waste you."

The rat was watching. It was a smart old rat, and Alvis knew that if he made a sudden move it would take off. So, smiling and talking sweet to it, he began to ruffle up the bottom of his shirt, slow and easy. Gently do it. Slip the piece out quiet, cock it, level it, and then boom, blow old rat away.

He had the piece in his hand when the rat suddenly took off, scuttering off the curb and racing for the other side of the street. Alvis steadied the piece with both hands, squinting down the short barrel, tracking old rat until he had it right where he wanted it. But he didn't pull the trigger. He lowered the gun abruptly, shoved it back under his belt, and pulled his shirt over it.

Dumb shit, he thought, watching the rat disappear in an alley between two buildings, dumb shit, you came near fucking up. Dumb nigger shit, all you need was make a gunshot noise so somebody call the cops and they pick you up for just being in the streets this time of morning, and they spread you up against a wall and find the piece on you. What make it worse, that piece wouldn't never have shoot straight enough to hit something, especially a old gray running rat. Maybe couldn't even hit it with a professional piece, a hundred- two-hundred dollar piece, so how was he ever gonna hit it with a little old twelve dollar hunk of junk iron.

Forget it. Besides, why should he go exterminate a rat in Spanish Harlem?

Let the spics kill they own goddamn rats.

The good feeling he got when he first spotted the rat went away and he began to feel sour again. Walking on south, he swore out loud whenever a car or truck went by on Seventh Avenue. Mean as he felt, better not let nobody fuck around with him. One bad look and he would bum somebody.

Saturday Night Special couldn't hit no rat halfway across the street, but point blank up against somebody it would blow half their ugly face off.

The sun was lighting up the sky, though it was still gray down below as he crossed Cathedral Parkway, sauntering, ignoring a couple of trucks, making them blow their horns at him, making them hit their brakes. Screw them. Street belong to me every much as it do to them. He went into the park through the Warriors Gate. Still pretty cool, though in a few minutes the sun would start hotting it up. Remembering the heat and stink of the apartment, he was glad he had that ruckus with his aunt, it give him a good excuse to split. Get away from heat and old Uncle Tom aunt at one and the same time.

Silly old bitch didn't know the score. Thought dope was bad, thought chicks was bad, thought school was good, thought church was good, Knew he had the gun, she would probably call the cops in. Mostly he didn't pay no attention to her, but tonight she was waiting up for him, and her jaw just go Eke a express train-fifteen-year-old boy have no call to come in four-thirty in the morning, and et cetera. He sassed her and sassed her, and finally old auntie get mad and take a swing at him. When he like to fall down laughing at her, she come on with the big black skillet, and could have bust his arm if it land. So he dodge around the kitchen, and finally get around back of her and take it away and smash the table with it, and then run out the door.

Have to get something going for hisself and split for good. Too old for living with old auntie and the rest of the kids. Needed a pad anyway, tired of balling chicks on rooftops. Come to think of it, in his whole life never had no chick in a bed. High time. Have to promote hisself some bread. Meanwhile, shit, what he doing in this dumb park? What he care about grass and trees and such shit? And don't forget old snake. Old black mamba. Old nigger mamba. Didn't scare him. Old snake come dancing along, he pull his piece and blow old snake's head away. He laughed at the image of a headless snake.

He ran up a hill, and looked down the Meer to the east, with sun on the water now, and straight ahead of him the long stretch of the North Meadow. He raced down the far side of the hill, sliding on his sneakered feet, grabbing at branches as he went. His momentum carried him down onto a walkway, and he had to put on the brakes or run right into the railing and bust his balls.

At the West Drive, a car came along, with its headlights still on. As it went by, a red face under a hard hat poked out and shouted jeeringly at him.

"Honkies," he shouted back, "motherfuckers, shit-eaters."

The car slowed, and a muscular arm hung out of the window, feeling for the door handle. Alvis's heart began to thump. He reached under his shirt for the hard blunt shape of the piece. If they got out of the car he would gun the mothers down! The car picked up speed and went on. The beefy red face was hanging out the window, mouthing words that were lost in the sound of the accelerating car. Alvis shouted, "Pinkface!

Shit-face! Motherfucker!"

The car disappeared around a curve.

He grinned, and crossed the roadway jauntily, forcing another car to squeal its brakes. He smiled, feeling good, and ignored the shouts that drifted back from the car.

At the Reservoir, the early-bird joggers were out, most of them dressed in white shorts and T-shirts and expensive sneakers. Dudes were soaked in sweat, red in the face, and sucking air like they was gonna die very next step. One was a pretty young chick with silky blond hair flying behind her and little tits that bounced like crazy under her Tshirt.

"Hey baby," he yelled at her, "how you like some real exercise?"

After that, he started jiving most of the joggers. "Look, dads, you too old, you gonna have a heart attack." "Hey, man, you look like a busted-down hoss." "Look at the great tits on you, mister." A young black man came sailing along, slim and high-kicking, barechested, wearing a yellow sweat band around his forehead. "Show them honkies how to do it, brother," Alvis yelled.