by John Godey
“Some of these policemen were on the verge of collapse, and those who criticized the effort—or lack of it—were on the whole sympathetic to the frustrated policemen themselves. Mostly, their barbs were directed at the mayor.”
The mayoral candidate of the opposition party, wearing a white shirt and tie, his sparse hair ruffled by the breeze from the air conditioner in his elegant living room: “…sorry for this pitiful handful of sincere, dedicated men. The niggardly number of police assigned to hunt down the snake is only too typical of the halfway measures that have characterized this administration for the past four years. The hard-pressed people of our city deserve better. Their God-given right to enjoy the beauty of their park in safety and with peace of mind has been flouted by a mayor who….”
A former mayor, said to be grooming himself for a run for the governorship: “I don’t want to come down too hard on the mayor, but if I was still in office I would mount the most comprehensive dragnet ever seen in this city.”
From Washington, a member of the New York congressional delegation: “The good people of my district are being bitten to death by this deadly snake, and it has got to stop. If the mayor is unwilling or unable to do the job, then I say let’s get someone on the job who can do the job. I have been trying to reach the governor in Albany, requesting him to send reinforcements, whether it be the National Guard or a contingent of state troopers, or both. My constituency must be protected.”
A half-dozen new groups pledge their support for the march on City Hall in the morning. Shots of militant women, clamoring for the attention of camera and microphone. Following a commercial, the telecast continues with a shot of the same cobra that had been seen on the 6 o’clock news, then of a giant anaconda being held in the air by six men, then of a sidewinder rattlesnake slithering across desert sands in California. Finally, a closeup of a Russell’s viper being milked at a snake farm in Brazil. “Not all snake poison is malign. The venom being taken from this Russell’s viper will be used as a coagulant for persons suffering from hemophilia.”
An interview with the curator of reptiles of a Midwest zoo, filmed in front of the glass cage of a puff adder that had bitten him six months ago. The curator assures his interrogator that he harbors no ill feelings toward the snake. “I made him irritable, you see.” Touching a scar on his forearm. “Fortunately, with the prompt administration of antivenin, I recovered without any lasting ill effects.”
In her modest but thoughtfully furnished apartment, responding to a hushed and commiserative reporter, Ms. Arline Simpkin, friend of Roddy Bamberger, second victim of the snake in the park: “Although it was only our first date, I realized that he was a rare type of person—warm, cultivated, and so in tune with life.” Large eyes brimming with tears. “And to be struck down in the full flush of virile manhood.” She pauses, ponders, seems to wonder if her remark is open to sexual interpretation, and flushes. “It isn’t fair. It just isn’t fair.”
The anchorman: “Ms. Simpkin’s statement provided the police with their first clue as to the possible whereabouts of the snake. It is, or was, in the environs of the Delacorte Theatre.”
In a cluttered kitchen, with two small, solemn-eyed children wandering in and out of camera range, Mrs. Carmen Torres, mother of the deceased Ramon Torres, pretty, plump, wearing her hair in a towering beehive, rattles away in animated Spanish that is translated by a tall lean man with a scarred face and deep black eyes. The interpreter says, “She say her Ramon is a good boy.” Mrs. Torres rattles on. “Once or twice he is arrested and the police try to frame him because he is Puerto Rican, but God is just, and he is sprung.” Mrs. Torres waits impatiently for him to finish his translation, regarding him with a glittering, wary eye. She spouts Spanish again. “He was the sole support of herself and his three little brothers and one sister. And now that he is gone, who is to pay the rent and for the food? She wishes to know this.”
The reporter asks the interpreter what Ramon was doing in the park at 3 o’clock in the morning. The interpreter puts the question to Mrs. Torres, who answers indignantly. He translates: “She say he is in the park to cool off, and because it remind him of the verdure of his beloved Puerto Rico. So he stroll in the park, never expecting to be stung by a snake.” Wrapping up, the reporter asks the interpreter if he is a member of the Torres family. “I am Roberto Ortiz, lawyer. I represent Mrs. Torres in this matter. We are filing a suit in the morning against the city for negligence. One million dollars for depriving this fine lady of her sole support and darling son.” Mrs. Torres says in English, “Wuh mee-yun dolls.”
The anchorman presses his earphone with a finger, listening. “We’re going to take you to Columbus Circle for an on-the-spot report, live, from Marcia Brooks.”
“This is Marcia Brooks, live, from Columbus Circle, where, as you can-see, there is plenty going on.”
The camera pans over a crowd milling around near the Merchant’s Gate entrance to the park and clustered around the marble Maine Monument. Standing out among dark complexions, bare chests, shorts, is a group of young, well-scrubbed, neatly dressed young men and women who seem to be haranguing the crowd, or any part of it that will listen. They are jeered at, laughed at, mocked, but they seem impervious to it.
Marcia Brooks whispers into her microphone. “These self-contained young people are Puries, members of the Church of the Purification, followers of the well-known religious sect led by the Reverend Sanctus Milanese. Let’s listen.”
She insinuates her microphone near a pale intense young man in a white, open-collared shirt, who is speaking to a young black man wearing a colorful bandanna around his head and an earring in his nose. “The snake is Satan, or rather Satan’s messenger, who has taken the form of a serpent. It has been sent here to earth by the devil to subvert and proselytize and recruit sinners for the legions of hell.”
The young black man: “Man, you full of….” His bad word is alertly blipped. “Onliest thing it recruit so far is two stiffs.”
The crowd cheers, laughs, slaps thighs. The young black man grins and takes a bow.
Nearby, a young woman wearing a light blue, crisp dirndl, her eyes flashing, says, “You are deluded if you think it is funny. The snake is truly Satan’s messenger. It is wily, it is evil incarnate and it will easily elude the police. It fears only the pure in heart and spirit, the army of Christ.”
Marcia Brooks has edged toward the young woman, but before she can question her there is a commotion. The black man in the bandanna has suddenly become threatening. He is shouting, raging. He takes a boxer’s stance, dances, draws back his fist. But before he can throw his punch, he is seized around the neck by a tall young man dressed in a dark suit, and hurled to the ground. The crowd surges backward, then forward, there is a flash of fists, some shoving, but by now six cops are there, pushing the crowd apart, breaking it open.
Marcia Brooks backs away from the fray. Somewhat breathlessly, she says that the Puries appear to be out in force, not only here in Columbus Circle but near the Pulitzer Fountain at Fifth Avenue and 59th, as well as at other locations on the perimeter of the park. It is her impression that the tall man who threw the man in the bandanna to the ground is a member of the Purie security squad, who call themselves Christ’s Cohorts, but whom some people have bluntly characterized as a strong-arm squad.
Behind her, the police seem to have quelled the outburst. “The Puries took to the streets about ten o’clock this evening, and these ardent young followers of the Reverend Sanctus Milanese have been spreading the word that the snake has been sent to earth from, well, I guess from below, to….” She pauses, listens to the voice in her earphone. She nods, then says quickly, “I asked one of the Puries if they would be among those represented at City Hall tomorrow morning. I was told that they would not, definitely not, because, and I quote, ‘we do not seek intercession from mortal man, but only from God Himself, Who speaks to us with the voice of the Reverend Sanctus Milanese.’ That from a Purie—”
She
is cut off. In the studio, the anchorman says hurriedly, “Thank you, Marcia. We take you now, live, to Purity House, the Fifth Avenue mansion of the Reverend Sanctus Milanese.”
A tall blond man wearing a black suit, a white shirt, a dark tie, stands in the opening of a high, carved, gleaming doorway, facing a thicket of microphones. He says expressionlessly, “The Reverend Milanese is not available. He is at prayer.” Reporters shout out questions. He responds, “Yes, I believe he will make a statement.” “When?” “When God instructs him to.”
The door is shut firmly. The camera holds on its polished elegance for a moment, then fades back to the studio.
“A final note, just in,” the anchorman says. “Police cars will continue into the night to patrol the park with loudspeakers, urging the public to stay away.” He consults a slip of paper. “We are informed that the Central Park Precinct has received over twenty calls from residents of the buildings rimming the park, on Fifth Avenue, Central Park South and Central Park West, complaining that the blaring of the loudspeakers is interfering with their sleep and, in some cases, the audibility of their television.”
***
Frozen in that extraordinary fossil-like quality of total immobility peculiar to reptiles, the snake watched the rat move along the base of the wall. The rat, which might have been intent on some prey of its own, failed to see the snake until the very last moment before it struck, and then it was too late.
The rat reacted immediately to the venom. Its brown hair stood up spikily, its body curled in on itself in an agonized spasm, and it bit frantically at the site of the bite. It turned away from the snake in terror, and with erratic movement retreated along the base of the stone wall. The snake, driven by its post-sloughing hunger, followed swiftly. It overtook the rat, its head low to the ground now, its mouth gaped, but it did not strike again. It curled in front of the stumbling rat and faced it. The rat made an effort to retreat, but its legs gave out and it collapsed. It lay quietly, its teeth bared in a rictus, its eyes half shut. Although the snake customarily waited until its prey was dead, it did not do so now. It opened its mouth wide and took the feebly struggling rat between its teeth. With one side of its mouth hooked firmly into the rat’s head, the snake pushed the teeth of the other side forward a short distance and engaged them. It did not take notice of the shudder that preceded the rat’s death, but continued to push forward by alternate investment of its teeth until the rat was completely swallowed.
SEVEN
When Mark Converse opened his eyes, the python was in the direct line of his vision and appeared to be staring at him.
The python was under four feet long, just a baby, but lately it had taken to having notions about the cat. A few days ago it had curled down the lamp standard and begun to constrict the cat. The cat had raked a claw across its ventral area before bounding away, leaving a bloody streak on the python’s body, but it could just as well have taken out an eye with the same effort. Eventually, Converse knew, one of them would have to go. Probably the python, considering the expense involved in keeping it fed with mice and rats and small snakes. The cat could make do with a can of something off the supermarket shelf.
Wait a minute. He’d have to dispose of both of them, wouldn’t he, when he went to Australia? Dunce. Better start thinking about it. He could probably farm out the cat, but who would take a python? So it would doubtless go to the zoo. Meanwhile, it had made a nice pet, and even seemed to show some affection, or at least tolerance, for him.
It was sprawled on the bottom of its glass cage, still with the appearance of staring at him, though he was sure it was asleep. The air conditioning was on, and the cold made it lethargic. Normally, out of the cage, it would have found a sunny place on the floor to bask. That was another thing: it was a nuisance having to cage it every time he had a girl around. He hadn’t found a woman yet who liked snakes, and that included his ex-wife and both of his serious ex-relationships. Maybe, if he ever found a girl who liked snakes, he might marry again. Jesus, no! He bounded up off the pillow and looked at the clock. Quarter of seven. In the morning, most likely, though you couldn’t tell one way or another with the dark-green, light-tight windowshades drawn.
The telephone rang. Must be evening. Nobody would phone him at quarter of seven in the morning. The phone rang a second time, and he reached for it across the red-gold head on the other pillow. She was buried to the nose under the blanket, and she hadn’t stirred. She has earned her rest, he thought tenderly, and picked up the phone as it rang for a third time.
“This is Captain Eastman of the New York Police Department. Excuse me for calling you at this hour of the morning. I hope I didn’t wake you.”
Morning. Okay, morning. His heart began to thump. “Who?”
He meant who has died, which of my distant parents has had a fatal heart attack. But his caller misinterpreted his question. “Captain Eastman, NYPD. Emergency Service Unit. Remember me? That rattle-snake up in Washington Heights last year? I guess I was still a lieutenant then.”
Converse breathed out in relief. “Oh, sure.” He didn’t remember any Eastman, captain or lieutenant, only a faceless lot of jittery, blundering cops. “Got another snake?”
There was a very long pause, during which Converse thought he heard Eastman muttering to himself. But when he spoke it was still in an apologetic tone. “I got your home number from the night man at the zoo. He said you’re not with the zoo anymore?”
“Yeah, I quit a few weeks ago. I’m supposed to be going off to Australia with an expedition, to bring back specimens….” Autobiography at seven in the morning? Forget it. The head on the other pillow was stirring. Converse said, “Where’s this one?”
There was another protracted silence, and now Eastman spoke very slowly and with exaggerated clarity. “I guess I must have woken you from a pretty deep sleep. I’m sorry. I’m talking about the snake in Central Park, Mr. Converse.”
“There’s a snake in Central Park?” The girl was turning toward him. Her eyes were circled. She was smiling, showing her small white teeth. “On the loose? Another rattler?”
Eastman’s voice became suddenly edgy. “Are you putting me on, Mr. Converse?”
Converse reacted to Eastman’s tone. He said peevishly, “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
Eastman said, “Chrisesake,” and then, with wonder in his voice, “Where the hell have you been since twelve noon yesterday?”
“In the sack. Is there a law against it?”
“In the sack for twenty hours? You’re some hell of a sleeper.”
“Well, it hasn’t been all sleep.” The girl’s hand was moving slowly toward him under the sheet. “I mean, we got up and… I got up and had something to eat every once in a while. You know, it wasn’t all sleep.”
“Be damned,” Eastman said. “Still, didn’t you turn on the TV or the radio or see a newspaper?”
“Well, you know, there wasn’t time.” Converse reached under the sheet and captured the girl’s hand, stopping its movement. “You mean this snake has been on the radio and TV? Honestly, I didn’t know.”
“Look,” Eastman said, “I haven’t got time to fill you in on everything you’ve missed, except to tell you that this particular snake has bitten two citizens and they’re both dead.”
“You’re kidding.” It wasn’t at all what Converse had meant to say, or what the occasion seemed to call for, but he felt stupefied. He released the girl’s hand in order to gesture. “Killed two people? Are you sure it’s a snake? In Central Park? Christ—what kind of a snake is it?”
“We don’t know. It’s a snake, all right, and it’s still at large. The reason I’m calling—I remember how quickly you found that rattlesnake, and I’d like you to help us out again.”
“Christ, yes.” The girl had turned toward him. The sheet had slipped down, or she had helped it slip down, baring her breasts. He faced away from her, and felt the soft warmth of her breasts against his back. “In Central Park
? That’s all you know about its whereabouts?”
“We think it’s in the area of the Delacorte Theatre. At least, that’s where it was when it bit one of the victims. So far as I know, it could be anywhere.”
“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. Ah.” 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?”
