John Godey - The Snake

Converse stood at the bedroom window of his floor-through apartment, which faced the backs of the buildings on Perry Street and their postage-stamp-size backyards. Directly across the way, a handsome, nearly naked couple was broiling meat on a hibachi.

It was stifling in the room. He had turned off the air conditioner, partially to restore a little animation to the python, partially to punish himself, to make his body feel as miserable as his spirits. The bad day had gotten worse, but he was about to put a limit to it. He would take a leaf from his boyhood when, on disaster filled days, his mother would pop him into bed early. She had understood that the only cure was to retire from the day by imposing an end upon it. That was what he would do. Declare the day finished, by edict, by going to sleep at 8:30.

Tomorrow morning-a new, unsullied day-he would go to the park, descend into that hollow, and catch that damn snake once and for all. It was, he thought, quite a snake, even for a black mamba. How many had it killed already-four, five? He had heard of a black mamba in Africa that had killed some eleven people before it was taken. The herpetologist who had told him about it had characterized it as a "rogue." Well, he was inclined to give the snake in the park the benefit of the doubt. Irritable, yes, but with good reason, what with being in an alien terrain and under the constant strain of being threatened. But whether it was a rogue or simply a snake instinctively defending itself, it was sure as hell an aggressive individual of an aggressive species.

He heard the cat spitting, and turned around. The python was crawling toward the cat, which stood its ground, back humped, eyes glowing. He grabbed up the python an instant before the cat leaped. The snake coiled around his arm. He unwound it and put it into its glass cage. He turned on the air conditioner and placated the cat with a bowl of milk. Then he evened matters out by feeding the python a live mouse.

He went back to the window to see how the couple was making out with their cooking. Hibachi, hot coals, and steak were lying in the dust, and the obvious culprit, a red setter, was grovelling with guilt. On any ordinary day, the scene would have been good for a laugh. But not on a bad day. With masochistic zeal, he totted up the disasters: helicopter, DI squeezing neck, getting fired, Holly's clay feet, and-why had he put it out of mind? — the biting of the Purie. If he had gone down into the hollow after the helicopter incident, instead of screaming at Eastman like a piqued adolescent, he would have deprived the Purie of the opportunity of getting bitten. It had never once occurred to him that someone else would find the snake's hiding place.

"Converse," he said aloud, "you're a murderer and a shit."

The self-accusation was exaggerated. The Purie was alive, thank God.

Nevertheless, he had behaved badly. And so, as he did whenever he was forced to admit that he was somewhat less than perfect, he became extremely drowsy. He watched moodily as the python began to ingest its mouse, then fell into bed and went to sleep.

He woke with the ringing of the doorbell. He got out of bed and felt his way through the darkness to the living room. Without bothering to ask who was there-that basic first line of defence against intruders-he opened the door. Holly. She was wearing tailored yellow slacks and some kind of a slip-over blouse. He was wearing artfully ragged denim shorts.

He said, "Sorry, no comment. I'm not talking to the press today."

She said, "I went to the Blue Griffin first, thinking you might still be there. Can I come in?"

"Don't waste your time-my lips are sealed."

"Please?"

He stepped aside to let her in. She walked halfway across the dim room.

He stood near the door and watched. She turned to face him.

She said, "You could use some light in this room. Can I have a drink?" it I don't give drinks to reporters." He heard his own voice with a feeling of surprise. It was small and pinched.

She said, "I do believe you care," and walked back across the room toward him, smiling.

Captain Eastman lay on the damp sheets of the cot in the office of the Commander of the Two-two, and slept intermittently and poorly. Earlier, he had attended a meeting at the Borough Commander's office on East 21st Street. The Borough Commander had said that there was no doubt that the Puries knew the whereabouts of the snake, and that they would go after it tomorrow, as their Reverend had promised. Therefore, the park would be saturated with police beginning an hour before dawn. Just to be on the safe side, there were augmented patrols out to night, with orders to pick up anybody on foot and run them out of the park.

There was no question, the Borough Commander said, but that the Puries were cooking up something. Their headquarters were under surveillance, and dozens of Puries had been coming and going ever since the Reverend's return from the hospital. They would stay for an hour or so and then leave.

"They all look alike. Cleancut kids, short hair, neat clothing. I never thought I would put down white, short-haired, cleanly dressed kids, but they make me sweat more than any black militant or bearded desperado I ever saw."

Eastman dozed briefly and woke, remembering his telephone conversation with Holly Markham, who wanted to know why Converse had been told off.

He had tried double-talking, but she kept pressing him, and finally, in a mood of exasperation he went beyond the scope of her questions and blurted out that he was pissed off because Converse knew where the snake was hiding. But when she kept after him, insisting that he ought to tell her what evidence he had to back up his statement, he retreated and said that there wasn't any evidence, that it was just a hunch.

"How do you know that in Converse's case it isn't just a hunch, too?"

He recognized, as much from the tone of her voice as what she had said, that she had suddenly changed her tack; that she had stopped being a newspaper woman and become an advocate. He had felt a deep pang of envy for Converse, for his youth, for the pretty, desirable girl who had sprung to his defence…

But he knew that he was right, that Converse did know. And the longer he thought of it, tossing on the lumpy mattress, the angrier he became. What I should do, he said, half aloud, is go down there and beat on him until he tells me where it is.

Outside, there was a sudden gust of laughter, and Eastman glared at the shut door, thinking, It's not funny, nothing is funny anymore.

Converse said, "I want to pay you a compliment. I hope you won't take it the wrong way and get your feminist hackles up."

She shook her head from side to side on the pillow and smiled.

She had an infinite variety of smiles, all bewitching; this one was a half-smile, and it was at the same time mysterious and tender. The sheet they had covered themselves with in an initial shyness was crumpled beneath her. Her slender thighs and long legs were beautifully shaped. So were her breasts, so was her chin. As though in self-defence, he searched for a flaw, and could find none.

He said, "You're even better-looking naked than with your clothes on."

She frowned.

"That's just a sudden thought that occurred to me. It isn't a compliment.

The compliment is that you're the brightest girl I ever had."

"Had?"

"I guess I have trouble expressing myself. Well, you know, fucked."

Her frown deepened, then smoothed away in laughter. She drew his head down and kissed him lightly. They exchanged playful kisses until suddenly the pressure of her hands on his back turned urgent. With some effort, he resisted the pressure.

He said, "When I said on the phone that you were a dumb bitch, it was because I thought you cared more about your lousy scoop than you did about me."