The Snake and the Spider

by Kingsbury, Karen

  Bob did not even consider changing his clothing style before venturing into the biker bars. He could tattoo his body, don a false beard and leather clothing, and cover his face with dirt, and still he would only look like a minister at a costume party. Better, he decided, to go as he was and make a straightforward approach.

  It was just past five o’clock on Friday afternoon and Bob knew the timing couldn’t be better. Bikers tended to gather early on Fridays and stay late. By now, the action had probably already started to pick up. He sat in his car outside the Boot Hill Saloon adjacent to the old cemetery and began to pray.

  “Lord, protect me and give me wisdom as I search for this Snake,” he whispered. “Only you know how best I can solve this case. Please lead me and direct me. In Jesus’ name I pray.”

  He felt his pocket for the money, none of it spent yet, and walked toward the front door where a row of polished Harley-Davidson bikes were parked outside. Bob stood a bit straighter and walked inside.

  The moment the door closed behind him, Bob felt as if he had entered another world. The eyes of a dozen large faces were instantly on him and all conversation and movement in the room had stopped completely. Bob looked around, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness, and then walked up to the bar. He decided not to waste any time in getting to the point.

  “I’m looking for Snake.” He leaned forward over the bar and allowed the bartender to catch a glimpse of the cash he was holding.

  “Who are you?” The bartender moved closer to Bob and narrowed his eyes menacingly. “You got an invitation, mister?”

  “It’s a public place,” Bob stated calmly. A thin layer of sweat had begun to break out across his forehead. He was definitely out of his usual realm. Even those people who had fired guns on him in the past had not represented the kind of pure danger he felt in this bar.

  “You tellin’ me my bar’s a public place?” The bartender raised his voice and several muscle-bound bikers moved in around Bob, glaring at him from where they stood.

  “Yes.” Bob ignored the threats. “I need to know where Snake is. I’m willing to pay for the information.”

  “You hear that boys?” The bartender laughed heartily. “Mr. Mighty Mouse here in the suit is going to pay us so he can find out where Snake is!” He towered over Bob, staring straight down at him. “Now, tell me, Mighty. What you gonna do when you find Snake? Invite him to dinner? Take him to the movies?”

  The entire room seemed to burst into spontaneous laughter and backslapping at the bartender’s words. Sensing that he had overstayed his welcome and realizing that no one was about to give him any leads in this setting, Bob stood up to leave. As he did, he was immediately circled by a wall of bikers.

  “Where you going, Mighty?” one asked, moving forward and pressing his chest into Bob’s face. Bob reached his hand under his jacket and felt the handle of his loaded revolver. If they wanted trouble, he was ready.

  “None of you wants to make some money, so I’ll find someone who does,” he said, squeezing his way past the man. He kept his hand on his hidden gun.

  As he moved toward the door, two or three bikers kicked him and pushed him so that Bob lost his balance and fell onto the floor. He stood up and stared at them. Despite the danger they represented, Bob was not afraid of them. They disgusted him, everything about them. Besides, he had his gun if he needed it. He stared each of them in the face.

  “I’ll find Snake,” he said as he opened the door. “And maybe bring a few of you reptiles down with him.”

  The guffawing quieted and several bikers appeared puzzled, as if they were trying to understand the significance of what Bob had said. Then they shrugged at each other and resumed their laughter. Whoever the little gray-suited man was, they weren’t going to worry about him now. It was Friday night and the celebrating had only begun.

  After receiving the same reception at two other biker bars, Bob stumbled upon a lone biker in one of the bar parking lots.

  He cleared his throat as he approached the man and held out his hand. The man glanced down and saw a single hundred dollar bill. In a matter of seconds he related to Bob a conversation he’d overheard in a biker bar around the time the boys disappeared.

  He had been at a nearby table when two bikers walked in and took seats at the bar.

  “Hey,” the bartender had said to the newcomers, leaning forward and lowering his voice. “Either of you seen Snake?”

  The men, both dressed in jeans and leather jackets, both with tattoos covering their bodies, shook their heads.

  “Well,” the bartender continued, “word is they scored a heavy lick over the weekend.”

  Bob looked confused and the man smiled, holding his hundred dollars tightly, and explained.

  In biker lingo of the late 1970s, the man told Bob, a heavy lick was something spoken of in hushed tones. Even in an area like Daytona Beach where bad things happened on a regular basis, a heavy lick meant that something very big, very bad, and very illegal had happened. It also meant that the person responsible had made out with a significant windfall in the process. And so it was with raised eyebrows and awe-filled voices that the men at the bar listened to this information from the bartender.

  “Oh, yeah,” one of the two men had said, downing the remainder of his beer. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know, man. But Snake disappeared Saturday night and no one’s seen him since.”

  “Heavy lick, huh,” the other man had said, shoving his glass toward the bartender for a refill. “Anyone hurt?”

  “Don’t know.” The bartender turned to fill the glass with draft beer. He spun around again and raised his eyebrows. “But knowing Snake, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  That was it. The biker in the parking lot knew nothing more. He pocketed his hundred dollars, flashed a crooked smile at Bob, and walked into the bar. Bob considered the information and decided the money was well spent. He was definitely on the right trail.

  He walked back toward his car and climbed inside. He needed more information, new leads. Maybe he’d have more luck talking with bikers who didn’t hang out at the same places Snake and Spider frequented. Maybe rival gang members would be more willing to talk.

  That was it! He should have realized it sooner. Bob chided himself for not first thinking like his potential informants. The only way to find out about Snake and his associates was to get the information from a rival gang. Of course, the people he would have to talk to would be just as dangerous. But their hatred for the rival gang might be enough to cause at least one of them to act as an informant. Especially if it meant bringing down a rival gang member.

  He started his car and cruised slowly up the street toward the beach. Since Snake was a Pagan, he would need to talk with an Outlaw. He read the insignia on the bikes and jackets of people hanging around outside the different bars until finally he saw a trio of bikers, two men and one woman, lounging against motorcycles. Emblazoned across the back of each of their jackets was the single word, “Outlaw.”

  Bob circled around the block once and then parked his car just a few feet from the group. He ignored their blatant stares and the whispers they exchanged under their breath. Apparently this was protocol for biker gangs and by ten o’clock that evening Bob was getting used to it. He walked up to the group and began to speak.

  “I’m looking for Snake.” His eyes moved from one biker to the next, checking for a response.

  “What’s it to you?” one of them asked.

  Bob took out a few bills and showed them to the group. “I’ve got two hundred dollars if one of you wants to tell me where he is. A hundred now. Hundred when I get the information.”

  For the first time that evening, this group of bikers did not seem offended by the idea.

  “He in some kind of trouble, man?” the woman asked. Her top was very low cut and Bob noticed she had a tattooed rose on her chest.

  “Might be.” Bob didn’t want to share too mu
ch information. There was a silence while the bikers exchanged glances with each other. Bob used the moment to add to the offer.

  “I’ve got the same deal for anyone who knows the real names or the whereabouts of Spider or Fat Man.”

  One of the men leaned toward the other and said something Bob couldn’t understand. Then he looked up at Bob and smiled.

  “Deal,” he said.

  “What do you know?”

  “Nothing about Snake. Too bad, too. I’d love to bring that Pagan to his knees.”

  “So what do you know?” Bob was not interested in small talk. There was only a sliver of moon in the sky and the number of bikers in the area was growing by the minute.

  “Where’s my money?” The man leaned back on his bike and crossed his arms defiantly.

  “Here.” Bob handed the man a one-hundred dollar bill. “You talking or you getting someone who will?”

  “I’ll do the talking. Spider. His real name is Earl Smith. Oh, yeah. About Snake. He’s dangerous, man. Real bad. Carries two loaded guns—a .38 in his waistband and another pistol in his boot. Most of the time he has an ice pick with him. Bad, bad, bad.”

  Bob stared at the man and determined that he was telling the truth. He peeled off another bill and handed it to the man.

  “Anything else?” Bob was hopeful. He wanted to get the most for his money.

  “Nope. That’s it.” The man was looking down, examining the cash in awe. It was the fastest money he’d ever made and he seriously wished he knew the answers to this man’s other questions.

  At that moment another trio of Outlaw bikers joined them and stared at Bob angrily.

  “Who’s the narc?” one man asked.

  Another moved closer to Bob. “I don’t think you belong around here, mister.”

  The man who had revealed the information about Spider suddenly spoke up on Bob’s behalf. “Tourist,” he said to his fellow bikers. “He was just asking for directions.”

  The man turned and stared at Bob knowingly. “And now you’re leaving, right?”

  “Right,” Bob said, nodding cordially. “Thanks for the directions.”

  Bob smiled to himself as he got into his car. He had his lead, even if he did have to buy it. And that, Bob thought as he drove back to Orlando that evening, was something a police detective never could have done.

  CHAPTER 19

  The meeting took place late Friday night at the Barbers’ house. The investigator had notified the families that he needed more money. Twenty thousand dollars to continue the investigation another four weeks. And it was time to examine the facts for what they were.

  Around the dining room table sat all four parents, empty-eyed, their faces drawn. It would have been impossible to pick out the couples from among the four adults because they each sat by themselves, their pain forcing them into isolation even from the people they loved the most. Ron Barber spoke first.

  “We have to make some decisions,” he stated flatly. He was staring at a pad of paper upon which were scribbled dozens of figures and calculations. He held a ballpoint pen and twirled it mindlessly as he waited for their response.

  “Let’s look at what we do know,” Faye said. Her eyes were bloodshot from what had become three months of sleepless nights. She had not been eating well and her hair had lost its shine. She was thin and frail-looking and she barely resembled the upbeat, pretty young woman she’d been the morning Jim and Daryl left for Florida.

  “That’s easy,” Ron said. He flipped through his notepad until he came to an outline.

  “The boys left here August twelfth. They arrived in Ormond Beach outside of Daytona late that evening and telephoned us from a pay phone. After that, it seems they hooked up with a character named Snake.” Ron took a deep breath and sighed. “People saw our boys at this Snake’s trailer home, a place where Spider, Fat Man, and some girls also lived at some point. After that Snake disappeared for a while and when he came back he had Daryl’s Nova. The boys were not seen again as far as we know.”

  There was silence as everyone considered these facts. Faye crossed her arms tightly around her body and began rocking. Roy, weakened from so much illness in the past weeks, leaned back in his chair and folded his hands behind his head.

  “Do you think they’re dead?” he asked softly.

  Marian sat up straighter and leaned closer to the others. “I think they could be alive,” she said. When no one acknowledged her statement she shook her head angrily. “I know it doesn’t look good. But we owe it to our sons to believe the best. There has to be a chance, doesn’t there?”

  “Marian, I want to believe, too.” Faye reached across the table and took her friend’s hand. “We all do.”

  Ron stood up and began pacing near his chair. “Of course we want to believe they’re alive, Marian. But we have to look at the facts. We’ve spent forty thousand dollars and they still haven’t found the boys.”

  “They’re closer than they were!” she said defiantly.

  “Yes, they’re closer than they were. But we need to decide how much more money we’ll spend so that they can bring us street information about someone’s nickname. We don’t have a thing to really go on.”

  “Suppose they’re somewhere being held as hostages or captives or something,” Faye said. She had begun to cry and this only frustrated her husband. He could not take much more of this. Especially when Faye cried. He was her husband, the man who had promised to love her and cherish her and take care of her. But when it came to stopping Faye’s grief, there was nothing he could do. He could stand by her, be strong for her sake. But otherwise he was completely helpless. He moved closer to her and put his arm around her shoulder.

  “Faye’s right,” Marian said. “We have to see this through. If they’re alive, then they need our help right away.”

  Ron nodded and returned to his seat. “Okay, have we all agreed to continue the investigation?”

  The others nodded their heads.

  “All right, then let’s look at the cost. Mr. Byrd says it’s going to cost another twenty thousand dollars to keep investigating another four weeks. We have to get the money together somehow.”

  “How long do we have?” Roy asked.

  “Two weeks. He says since we’ve paid so much up front he’ll give us some leeway.”

  None of them said anything. The cost was overwhelming, but so was their desire to find their sons. They had been in a perpetual fog, a haze of shock since the boys had failed to return. And so they were neither thankful nor resentful about the investigation. If they’d had their way there wouldn’t be any investigation. The boys would have come home like they were supposed to and they’d be discussing Christmas presents right now.

  “Roy, are you and Faye going to be able to come up with your half?” Ron asked the question as sensitively as he could. He and Marian could more easily afford the expense, even though it would mean something of a sacrifice. But the Bouchers were probably beyond sacrifice. They had already sold land to pay for the initial investigation.

  “Well, Ron, it’s like this,” Roy said. “We’ve had a lot of help from the community, church friends, that kind of thing. The church raised a couple thousand dollars; some of it’s been given to us by fund-raisers. Then there was the land.” At this point Roy’s voice cracked. He had hated the idea of selling the land. After all, they had purchased it for their children, especially the four older boys. Selling half their property had been like selling their dreams. But they hadn’t had a choice. And their dreams were dead anyway if they couldn’t find Jim.

  Roy steadied himself and continued. “Now, it looks like we’re left with just one choice.” At this point, Roy’s eyes filled with tears. Throughout the past three months, none of them except Faye had ever seen Roy cry. He held so much in, trying desperately to be strong for Faye and the others. But now, with what he was about to say, he could no longer hold back. The tears welled up in his eyes and spilled over the
edge of his chiseled face.

  “We’re going to have to use Jim’s money,” he said, his voice choked with emotion. “I never wanted to do this. That’s his money. My name’s on the account, too. Still, I guess I feel like spending it now is almost like admitting he’s not coming home. But I don’t see any other way.”

  He hung his head and buried it in his hands. Around the table the others were silent, each sharing in Roy’s grief. Faye began to sob and Marian had moved close to her husband, streams of tears pouring down her face.

  “I’m so sorry, Roy,” Ron said. “Are you sure? Is that what you’re going to do?”

  Roy nodded, wiping his tears and trying to compose himself. “I want my son to have his money,” Roy said. “But more than that, I want my son.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Jeff Kindel also wanted to find the missing teenagers.

  It was Sunday morning, November 12, and he had placed himself on Daytona Beach near where two robed men with shaven heads were soliciting teenagers. Bob Brown had told him that the chance of the boys joining a cult was unlikely. But it was worth a shot.

  Now here he was, dressed like a beach-going tourist, in swim trunks and a T-shirt, clean-cut with an intentionally naive look about him. Perfect fodder for a recruiting cult member. Almost immediately, the robed men idled up to Jeff and began asking him questions about his life.

  “Are you really happy in this materialistic existence?” one of them asked.

  “The way of life, the way of truth and happiness is by giving up all your belongings, living in a fellowship of brothers who are all under one law,” the other said.

  Jeff listened to them, at first enjoying the game of it. Then, so they wouldn’t become suspicious, he acted doubtful about their organization. But after a while he agreed to follow them to a bus which would take him to some kind of home base.

  In a matter of minutes Jeff was traveling fifty miles an hour in a run-down school bus with a dozen robed men, wondering if taking this job had been such a wise choice after all. Investigations had always seemed exciting, as if the investigator knew no rules and could spy on the lives of anyone he chose. But he hadn’t figured he would feel this helpless. Here he was heading to some unknown “home base” and with no way to contact Bob Brown if there was a problem.