Knock, Knock! Who's There?

FIVE

A cup of coffee before him, Johnny sat at a small table and looked around the crowded cafe. There was a steady roar of voices as long-haul truckers greeted each other, ate hamburgers, swigged numerous cups of coffee, then heaved themselves to their feet and went out into the pale sunshine as other truckers came in.

Johnny glanced at his watch. The time was 05.25. He had to get moving soon, he told himself, but up to now, he had held back as every trucker seemed to know every other trucker and he was uneasy about approaching a group of them. He had tried one man who stood near him while waiting for ham and eggs, but the man shook his head.

“No luck, pal. No passengers: against the Company’s rules.”

Then a powerfully-built man came in and Johnny noted with surprise no one greeted him. This man went to the bar and ordered pancakes and syrup and coffee, then looked around for a vacant seat.

Johnny waved to him and carrying the plate of food, the big man came over and sat down.

Johnny looked searchingly at him: an ex-boxer, he thought. The flat nose and the scar tissues made this an easy guess. The face was lined, worried and sullen and yet there was something likeable about this man.

“Hi!” the man said as he set down the food. “Joe Davis. This goddamn place is always over full.”

“Al Bianco,” Johnny said.

Davis began to eat while Johnny lit a cigarette. Again he looked at his watch. Time was moving along. He wondered if Massino had alerted the organization or what he was doing.

“Going south?” he asked.

Davis glanced up.

“Yeah. You ain’t trucking?”

“Looking for a ride,” Johnny said. “I pay my way. Would you be going near Jacksonville?”

“Right through to Vero Beach.” Davis regarded Johnny, ate some more, then said, “You’re welcome. It won’t cost you a thing. I welcome company.”

“Thanks.” Johnny finished his coffee. “You reckon to take off soon?”

“As soon as I’ve got this junk down my throat. It’s a hell of a haul.”

“I’ll be outside, waiting.” Johnny said and got to his feet. “I’ll get myself a wash.”

After paying for his coffee, Johnny went into the toilet, washed his face and hands, then went out into the cool crisp air.

He stood around, watching the big trucks take off and go roaring down the freeway. What a hell of a job! he thought. Then his mind again switched to Massino. He felt a little knot of fear. He knew the organization had never failed to find their man, nor failed to kill him.

There is always the first time, he told himself and grinned mirthlessly. Who knows? He could make history. The first man to beat the Mafia. With the cold wind fanning his face, he felt confident. Who knows?

Davis came out of the cafe and Johnny joined him. They went across to an old, beaten-up truck full of empty orange crates.

“Here she is,” Davis said. “A real hitch! I’ve one more haul, then I get a new one if I’m lucky. Man! Has this old cow done some mileage!”

He swung himself up into the cab. Johnny went around and got into the passenger’s seat. The cab stank of sweat, oil and gas fumes. The springs of his seat dug into his buttocks. This was going to be one hell of a ride he thought.

Davis started the motor. As it came to life, there was a grinding noise as if something had come apart in the engine.

“Don’t worry about the noise,” Davis said, “She’s still got enough guts to get us south.” He rammed in the gear, then drove on to the freeway.

Johnny felt the vibration of the protesting motor shake him from head to foot. The roar of the motor made conversation impossible. He braced himself, thinking of the miles ahead, but at least now he was moving into safety.

“An old cow, huh?” Davis shouted and grinned at Johnny.

Johnny nodded.

The two men sat silent as the tyres ate up the miles. Trucks and cars roared by them. With sixty miles on the clock, the engine note suddenly changed and the din quieted.

Davis looked at Johnny and grinned.

“It takes this far for her to start to behave,” he said. Johnny could now hear him easily. “She hates work, but when she does work, she ain’t all that bad.”

Then he did something that shocked Johnny. He clenched his fist and slammed it against his forehead. He did this three times: powerful blows that would have stunned most men.

“Hey! For God’s sake! You’ll hurt yourself!” Johnny exclaimed.

Davis grinned.

“Anything is better than the way my head aches. Had this bitch of a headache for months. A couple of bangs sets it right. Forget it, Al, as I forget it.”

“You suffer from headaches?” Johnny asked.

“Oh, sure. If you had been in my game, you’d have headaches too.” Davis increased the speed of the truck. “Believe it or not, one time I was heavyweight contender for the crown.” He grinned. “Never made it, but I was sparring partner for Ali at his greatest. Man! Did I have a ball!” He snorted. “All gone now. All I’ve got is a nagging wife and this old truck.”

Johnny suddenly realized there was something badly wrong with this man: something that made him uneasy. He remembered all the truckers in Reddy’s café hadn’t spoken to Davis or even waved to him.

“Your head ache now?” he asked.

“It’s fine. I give the old nut three or four whams and then it behaves itself.”

Johnny lit a cigarette.

“Want a smoke?”

“Not me. Never have, never will. Where are you from, Al?”

“New York,” Johnny lied. “I’ve never been south… thought I’d take a look.”

“Sort of travelling light, huh?”

“My stuff’s coming by train.”

“Good idea.” A long pause, then Davis said, “Did you see Cooper knock Ali on his pants?”

“Saw it on the telly.”

“I was right there. You ever been in London?”

“No.”

“Ali took me with the rest of the mob. Some city.” Davis grinned. “Those chicks! Skirts way up beyond their fannies.” He thumped his head again. “You see Frazier beat Ali?”

“On the telly.”

“I was right there. He’ll come back… the greatest.”

Johnny stared through the dusty windshield. They were driving between citrus orchards, either side of the freeway. He looked at his watch. The time was now 07.30.

“How long to Jacksonville?”

“Ten hours if this bitch keeps going. You in a hurry?”

“I’ve all the time in the world.”

There was a long silence as the truck roared on, then Davis asked, “You married?”

“Me? No.”

“I guessed that. You wouldn’t be on a trip like this if you were. You know something? A guy can find a good woman or a bad woman… I guess I had no luck.”

Johnny didn’t say anything.

“You’re lucky not to have kids,” Davis went on. “I’ve got a girl. Sex is all she thinks about and her mother doesn’t give a goddamn.” Davis thumped his head so violently Johnny winced. “What can you do? If I took a strap to her, the cops would arrive. There ain’t a thing a father can do if his daughter has the hots.”

Johnny thought of Melanie. What was happening to her? Had Massino…? He flinched and forced the thought from his mind.

“Getting hot.” Davis said and wiped his face with the back of his hand. “This is a hell of a haul.” He kept the shuddering truck at seventy miles an hour. They were now out of the farming country and coming to the swamp land. “This I hate,” Davis said. “Snakes, jungle… you watch it. We’ll get by. After a while, we’ll come to the real country… the south!”

Watching this big man as he crouched over the driving wheel, seeing the glazed expression in his eyes, Johnny knew something bad was about to happen.

“You’re driving too fast!” he shouted. “Cut it down!”

“You call this fast?” Davis turned his head to look at Johnny who felt a chill go up his spine. The small eyes with their scar tissue were turning sightless. “The greatest… like me! He’ll come back!”

“Watch the road!” Johnny shouted. “Joe!”

Davis grinned stupidly, then took his hands off the steering wheel and began to beat his head. Johnny made a grab at the wheel but he was too late. The truck roared off the freeway and with screaming tyres, it ploughed into the jungle.

Thrown against the cabin door, Johnny felt the door give and felt himself falling. He landed on his back in a thick flowering bush that broke his fall, then he rolled to the ground.

He lay stunned, listening to the truck ploughing through the thicket, then came the sound of a grinding crash as the truck hit a tree. As he struggled upright, the gas tank of the truck exploded and the truck went up in a roaring sheet of flame.

Johnny started towards the blaze, then saw it was hopeless. His sense of self-preservation asserted itself. Within minutes a prowl car would arrive. It would be fatal if the cops found him. They would question him, search him, and the moment they found he had a gun and three hundred ten dollar bills stuffed into his pockets, he would be cooked.

He started down a narrow path that led into the jungle, aware that his right ankle hurt. He forced himself along, limping now and frightened that he had suffered an injury that might develop into something bad.

He hadn’t gone more than five hundred yards when he heard the wail of a siren. He broke into a limping run, stumbled and fell flat.

Hell! he thought. I’ve hurt my goddamn self! He scrambled to his feet and set off again, but this time he was in bad pain and was dragging his leg. After a hundred yards or so, with cold sweat running down his face, he could go no further. He looked around. To his right was a big clump of tangled undergrowth. He forced his way to it, then collapsed on the damp ground. Sure that anyone coming down the path couldn’t see him, he stretched out his aching leg and prepared to wait.

What Johnny couldn’t know was that this. accident had saved his life. Had Davis delivered him to Jacksonville, Johnny would have walked into the trap Ernie and Toni had set up.

He didn’t know, and he cursed his luck as he lay in the undergrowth feeling his leg slowly stiffening. He had been lying there for the past four hours.

The police, the ambulance and the break-down truck had come and gone. The jungle was cool, and Johnny, badly shaken, was content to lie there and wait. He suffered. His ankle was swelling and when he looked at it, he saw with alarm it looked red and angry. Had he broken it? Maybe it was just a bad sprain. The thoughts of putting his weight on it made him flinch.

Later, he became thirsty. He looked at his watch. The time was now 13.05. He would have to make an effort to get to the freeway. With any luck he would pick up a ride. He had to get to Jackson!

He crawled out of the thicket and on to the path. He could smell the burned-out truck and the undergrowth that had gone up with it. On the path, he forced himself up on one leg, then gently he put a little of his weight on his damaged ankle. Pain raved up from the ankle into his head.

Jesus! he thought. I’m in goddamn trouble! He sank down, feeling sweat break out on his face and a light feeling of faintness that frightened him.

He had better wait, he thought. He had better get back into the undergrowth. Maybe later, he would be able to use his leg.

He began to crawl back towards the undergrowth when he saw the snake.

The thick-bodied Cottonmouth was coiled within eight feet of him. It raised its olive green head and its forked tongue darted.

Johnny turned cold, the pain in his ankle forgotten. He had a horror of snakes. He lay there, motionless, not even blinking, watching the snake. Apart from its darting tongue, it too remained motionless.

Minutes dragged by. Johnny thought of his gun. Should he try to shoot the snake? Then he thought of the danger. Someone might hear the sound of the shot and come to investigate. Maybe the snake would go away if he waited long enough. Would it attack him? It could be harmless. He had no knowledge of snakes and wasn’t to know that a Cottonmouth was lethal.

Then slowly the snake began to uncoil while Johnny watched it with horror. The snake slid into the undergrowth where Johnny had been hiding. With the back of his hand, Johnny wiped away the sweat streaming down his face. Had that green nightmare been in the thicket with him?

He had to get out of here!

The sun was now penetrating the over-hanging trees. What wouldn’t he have given for a drink? The jungle could be swarming with snakes! Again he hoisted himself on one leg. He began hopping down the path towards the freeway. He had only taken four hops when he lost balance. The whole weight of his body came down on his injured ankle. He heard himself cry out as pain raved through him, then he fell, his head thumping - down on a tree root and blackness swept over him.

“If they’re coming they should have been here by now,” Ernie said. He had just finished a can of pork and beans and he released a gentle belch.

He and Toni were sitting in a ditch that gave them a direct view of the small clapboard house where Fuselli lived. Their car was out of sight behind a clump of trees, a quarter of a mile further down the dirt road.

“So okay… so what?” Toni was slightly drunk. To bolster up his nerve, he had been hitting the bottle.

“I’m going into town to call the boss.” Ernie said. “He’ll be wondering what we’re doing. We’ve been sitting in this goddamn ditch for eight hours.”

“So what?” Toni repeated. “They could have had a blow-out. You stick here, Ernie. Don’t get your bowels in an uproar.” He reached for a can of stewed steak. “They could show any minute.”

Ernie got to his feet.

“I’m going. You stay here.”

“The hell with that!” Toni wasn’t too drunk to realize that on his own if Johnny showed up, he could be in trouble. “You stick right here! Let’s give them a couple of hours, then we both go down town.”

“Shut up!” Ernie snarled. “You stick here.” Climbing out of the ditch, he walked down the road to where the car was hidden.

Twenty minutes later, he was talking to Massino. He explained the situation.

“Right now, boss, we’re staked out, out of sight, in front of Fuselli’s pad, but it’s eight hours now. They should have been here four hours back. Toni reckons they could have had a blow-out or something. I don’t know. What do I do?”

“Could be Toni’s right,” Massino said. “Stick around, Ernie, if they don’t show by eight o’clock tomorrow, come on back.”

“Anything you say, boss,” Ernie said, thinking of the discomfort of spending a night in the ditch.

Massino slammed down the receiver, then turned to Andy who

was prowling around the office. He told him what Ernie had said.

“There’s one thing we should have done, Mr. Joe,” Andy said. “We should have checked out Reddy’s cafe. I’ll do it. We should have thought of that right away.”

“I want you here!” Massino snapped: “Get someone to do it! Send Lu Berilli!”

“I’ll do it myself,” Andy said firmly. He was sick of staying in the office listening to Massino cursing Johnny. “I’ll…” Then he stopped as he saw Massino glaring at him, his little eyes like red, flaming buttons.

“You stay here!” Massino snarled. “Don’t forget you’re the only punk who had the key to the safe? So, you stay here until I find Johnny and the money!”

Andy was expecting this.

“And if you don’t find him?”

“Then I’ll start looking at you! Tell Berilli to go to the cafe and ask around.”

“You’re the boss, Mr. Joe,” Andy said and reaching for the telephone he instructed Lu Berilli to go to Reddy’s cafe.

Three hours later, Lu Berilli came hurriedly into Massino’s office. Berilli was a tall, thin Italian, around thirty years of age with a moviestar profile and a success with women. Massino considered him a bright boy and he was right. Berilli had a good brain, but Massino knew his limitations. There was a yellow streak in Berilli: he had no stomach for violence, and that meant he couldn’t rise very high in Massino’s kingdom.

“You’ve taken your goddamn time!” Massino snarled.

“I wanted to get this dead right, Mr. Joe,” Berilli said quietly, “And I’ve got it right.” He produced a one inch to the mile map and spread it on Massino’s desk. Leaning forward, he tapped with a manicured finger nail. “Right here, Mr. Joe, is where I guess Bianda is at this moment.”

Massino, surprised, stared at the map, then up at Berilli.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“From my information, Johnny got a ride with a punch drunk trucker,” Bern said. “Heading south. I was told this trucker was due to blow his top. That’s what he did. The truck went off the freeway around seventy miles an hour just here.” Berilli again tapped the map. “The trucker was killed. There was a hell of a smash. There’s no trace of Bianda, but he has to be hurt. If we act fast, it’s my bet he’s holed up someswhere in this bit of jungle I’ve marked. If we get the mob down there pronto, we could flush him out.”

Massino’s lips came off his teeth in a snarling grin.

“Good work, Lu,” he said, then raising his voice, he bawled for Andy.

Johnny felt cold water on his face that trickled into his mouth. He became aware of a shadowy figure bending over him. Fear clutched at him and he struggled up, shaking his head, forcing his eyes into focus. Then the figure bending over him became clear: a thin, bearded man, wearing a bush hat and khaki drill. He had a hooked nose and the sharpest, clearest blue eyes Johnny had ever seen.

“Take it easy,” the man said gently. “You’ve found a friend.”

Johnny struggled up into a sitting position. He was immediately aware of a dull, throbbing pain in his head and a sharp, grinding pain in his right ankle.

“I’ve busted my ankle,” he said, then grabbed hold of the water bottle the man, was holding and drank thirstily. “Phew!” He lowered the bottle and regarded the man suspiciously.

“You have a bad sprain,” the man said. “No bones broken. Just take it easy. I’ll get an ambulance. Do you live around here?”

“Who are you?” Johnny asked. His hand slid inside his coat and his sweating fingers closed around the butt of his gun.

“I’m Jay Freeman,” the man said and smiled. He was squatting on his heels. “You take it easy. I’ll get you fixed.”

“No!”

The snap in Johnny’s voice made Freeman look sharply at him.

“Are you in trouble, friend?” he asked.

Friend?

No one had ever used that word to him. Friend? It was now Johnny’s turn to look sharply at Freeman and what he saw was reassuring.

“You call it that,” he said. “I’m in a spot, but I’ve got money. Can you put me under the wraps until this goddamn ankle is okay?”

Freeman patted Johnny’s sweat-soaked arm.

“I told you… take it easy. Is it police trouble?”

“More than that.”

“Put your arm around my neck. Let’s go.”

With surprising strength, he got Johnny up on his left foot, then, supporting him, he helped him hop along the path until they reached the edge of the jungle where an old, broken-down Ford stood, parked in the shade.

Johnny was sweating and in pain as Freeman helped him into the car.

“Relax,” Freeman said as he slid under the driving wheel. “You’ve nothing to worry about.”

Johnny relaxed. The pain in his ankle kept him from talking. He just lay against the worn plastic seat, thankful he was moving.

He was dimly aware of being driven along the freeway, then up a dirt road, then along a narrow path where tree branches scraped against the sides of the car.

“Here’s home,” Freeman said and brought the car to a stop.

Johnny raised his head. He stared at a low-built log cabin, set in a clearing with trees overshadowing it. It looked good and safe to him.

“No problem,” Freeman said as he got out of the car. “You can rest up here.”

He half carried, half dragged Johnny into the cabin that consisted of a living-room, two bedrooms and a shower room. It was sparsely furnished and one side of the living-room was lined with books.

Freeman got Johnny into the smaller bedroom and propped him up against the wall. Then he stripped off the cotton coverlet on the bed and with care, steered him around and got him onto the bed. “Just relax,” Freeman said and went away.

Johnny’s ankle hurt so badly, he only half registered what was going on. He lay on the bed, staring up at the wooden ceiling, not believing this was happening to him.

Freeman returned with a glass of ice cold beer in his hand.

“Drink this.” He gave Johnny the beer. “I’ll look at your ankle.”

Johnny drank the beer in one gorgeous gulp. He set the glass down on the floor.

“Thanks! Man! Did I need that!”

“It’s a bad sprain,” Freeman told him. He had got Johnny’s shoe and sock off. “It can be fixed. In a week, you’ll be able to walk.”

Johnny half sat up.

“A week?”

“You’re safe here, friend,” Freeman said, “No one ever comes here. Maybe you’re a stranger in this district. I’m known as the Snake Man, and you have no idea the horror people have of snakes.”

Johnny stared at him.

“Snakes?”

“I catch snakes. It’s a living. I work with the hospitals. They’re always yelling for serum: I supply them. Right now I have three hundred venomous snakes in cages behind this cabin. People keep clear of me.” While he was talking, he bound Johnny’s ankle with a bandage soaked in iced water. Already the pain was lessening. “Feel like eating? I’ve been out all morning and I haven’t had a bite. Want to join me?”

“I could eat a horse,” Johnny said.

Freeman chuckled.

“That’s something not on the menu,” he said. “Won’t be long.”

Within ten minutes he came back with two soup plates full of thick, savoury-smelling stew. He sat on the end of the bed, handed Johnny one of the plates and began to eat. When Johnny had finished, he decided it was about the best meal he had eaten in years.

“You’re some cook!” he said. “Never tasted anything so good.”

“Yes… rattlesnake meat when cooked the right way, is pretty good,” Freeman said, collecting the plates.

Johnny’s eyes opened wide.

“That snake meat?”

“I live on it.”

“Well, for God’s sake!”

Freeman laughed.

“A lot better than horse.” He went away and Johnny heard him washing up.

After a while, Freeman came back into the small bedroom.

“I’ve things to do,” he said. “You don’t have to worry. No one comes here. I’ll be back in three or four hours.” He eyed the beginning of a beard on Johnny’s face. “Want to shave? I have a cordless.”

Johnny shook his head.

“I reckon on growing a beard.”

The two men looked at each other, then Freeman nodded.

“Take a nap. I’ll lock you in,” and he went away.

Although his head and his ankle still ached, Johnny slid into sleep. When he awoke the light was fading and he felt a lot better. His headache had gone away, but his ankle still bothered him.

Lying there, looking out of the window, watching the sun sink behind the trees, he wondered about Freeman. An oddball, he told himself, but someone he felt he could trust. Instinctively, he was sure of that.

He turned his thoughts to Massino. Having worked so long for him, Johnny could guess how he was reacting: like an enraged bull.

How long would it be before he went to Tanza and asked the organization to take over? Maybe the organization was already hunting for him. Johnny thought of all that money stashed away in the left- luggage locker. He thought of Sammy. He would have to get in touch with him. AS soon as his ankle was mended, he would have to telephone him and explain why he had had to take his savings. Sammy might be able to tell him what action Massino was taking.

He saw a movement through the open window and his hand flew to his gun. Then he relaxed as he saw Freeman coming across the clearing, carrying a burlap sack that jerked and writhed in his grasp.

Snakes!

Johnny grimaced.

What a way to earn a living!

Five minutes later, Freeman came into the bedroom, carrying two glasses of ice cold beer.

“How’s the ankle?” he asked, giving Johnny one of the glasses and then sitting on the end of the bed. “Still hurts, but nothing bad.”

“I’ll take a look at it in a moment.” Freeman drank, sighed, then set down the half-empty glass. “I found three Cottonmouths. You’ve brought me luck.” He smiled, “Do I ask your name, friend or would you rather I didn’t?”

“Call me Johnny.” A pause, then Johnny said, “Do you always treat strangers the way you’re treating me?”

“You’re the first. Yes, I believe in helping people when I can. A long time ago I needed a lot of help myself and someone came along and helped me. It’s something I remember. Cast your bread upon the waters.” Freeman chuckled. “I’m not a religious man, but that saying makes sense to me. There’s one thing I’ve learned, living the way I do and that’s not to ask questions and to accept people on face value.”

“That’s as good a rule as any,” Johnny said quietly.

“I guess I’m lucky you found me.”

“Let’s have a look at the ankle, then I’ll help you undress, I’ve got a spare pair of pyjamas you can have.”

Gently, he removed the bandage, soaked it in ice water, and replaced it. Then he helped Johnny out of his jacket.

Only for the briefest moment did Freeman pause when he saw the gun holster and the gun. Then he waited until Johnny unbuckled the harness and put the gun down by his side.

“That’s part of my trouble, Johnny said.

“I guess it’s part of a lot of people’s troubles these days,” Freeman said. “Let’s get your pants off,” and he gently drew Johnny’s trousers over the injured ankle.

There was a tinkling sound and Freeman looked down. He bent and picked up something, then looked at Johnny. “Is this yours?” he asked. “It dropped out of your trousers’ cuff.”

He held out his open palm.

Lying in the middle of his palm was the St. Christopher medal.

Johnny lay staring out of the open window at the moon-lit jungle. From the other bedroom, he could hear Freeman snoring softly. He held the St. Christopher medal in his hand.

It had come back to him, he was thinking, but at what a cost!

All the time he had been searching for it, it had been in his trousers’ cuff as if jeering at him! Had it not been for the medal he would have still been working for Massino, helping him in the search for the missing money! Because he panicked, believing the medal was in Andy’s office, he was now on the run. He felt like throwing the medal out of the window and cursing it, but he was too superstitious to do this.

As long as you have it, nothing really bad can happen to you.

He could hear his mother’s sad, weary voice as if she were in the room with him.

Well, he had it back! So maybe the organization wouldn’t find him. Maybe, after all, he would have his boat. Maybe he would be the first man in history to escape the Mafia’s death sentence!

He hooked the medal onto the chain and squeezed the hook tightly shut.

But lying there, watching the rising moon, listening to the sounds of the wind in the trees, the medal cold against his sweating chest, gave him no comfort.

He lay sleepless until the dawn came and then he slept and while he slept two cars, with the pick of Massino’s mob, converged on the scene of the truck accident.

Lu Berilli was in charge of the operation. The cars pulled up as the sun began to climb, lighting the jungle.

Berilli surveyed the dense jungle facing him and grimaced. This, he now realized, was going to be a hell of an operation. If Johnny was hiding somewhere in these thickets, someone could get hurt, and Berilli had no stomach to come up against a man with Johnny’s reputation for fast shooting. He wished he had kept his mouth shut, but it was now too late. Eight men crowded around him, waiting. They were all tough and trigger-happy: specially picked by Massino.

“This is the spot,” Berilli said, trying to sound confident. “We’ll split up. Three of you to the left: three to the right. Freddy, Jack and me go down the centre. Watch it! He’s in there somewhere. Don’t take any chances.”

The two he had picked to go with him—Freddy and Jack—were button men who had worked for the Mafia and had been loaned to Massino as the New York police were hunting for them: ruthless killers, utterly without nerves.

Freddy was in his late twenties: thin, hard, dark with stony eyes and an irritating habit of whistling through his teeth. Jack was five years older than Freddy. He was a garotte artist, short, squat with restless flat eyes and an inane grin that was a fixture on his fat face.

The men split up and moved into the dark jungle.

Reaching the burned-out truck, Berilli paused.

“Some smash,” he said. He looked down the path that led deeper into the jungle. “Jack, you go ahead. I follow you. Freddy keeps in the rear. Take it slow. He could be holed up anywhere in this goddamn mess.”

Johnny came awake as Freeman opened his bedroom door.

“Good night?” Freeman asked and gave Johnny a cup of tea.

“Fair.” Johnny sat up and gratefully sipped the tea.

“I’m off into the jungle,” Freeman said, “but I’ll take a look before I go.” He went out and returned with a bowl of ice water, changed the bandage, then nodded his satisfaction. “It’s coming along, the inflammation has gone. I won’t be back for seven or eight hours. I’ll leave you some cold stew. You want a book?”

Johnny shook his head.

“I don’t read books. I’ll be okay.”

“I’ll lock you in and pull the shutters. You don’t have to worry. No one ever comes here, but let’s play it safe.”

Johnny’s fingers touched his gun.

“I’ll be fine… and thanks for everything.”

With a bowl of cold rattlesnake stew by his side, a supply of cigarettes and a flask of ice water, Johnny settled down on his hard little bed. Freeman swung the heavy slatted wooden shutter’s closed.

“It’ll be hot later,” he said, “but better too hot than sorry.” He seemed to sense the danger Johnny was in. “Sorry to leave you, but I’ve got to find a cranebrake rattler. The hospital is yelling for its serum. Could take me all day.”

“I’m fine,” Johnny said. “Maybe I could use a book… anything but the Bible.”

Freeman went into the living-room and, after a while, came back with a copy of The Godfather by Puzo.

Johnny hadn’t read a book since he had left school. When he found this book was the story of the Mafia organization he became absorbed in it. Time fled away. So absorbed was he that he forgot to eat the cold stew and it wasn’t until he found the light was fading as it came through the slatted shutters and he had difficulty in seeing the print that he realized he was hungry, that his ankle no longer ached and it was 17.20 by his watch.

“If books are as good as this one,” he thought, “I’ve been missing something.”

He was finishing the cold stew and about to light a cigarette when he heard the lock turn in the cabin door. Hurriedly, he dropped his cigarette and reached for his gun.

“It’s me,” Freeman called and came into the small bedroom. “I think there’s trouble. There are three men heading this way. They didn’t see me. They’re all carrying guns.”

Johnny struggled upright.

“They’ll be here in ten minutes or less. Come on, Johnny, I can hide you where they won’t think of looking.” Freeman hoisted Johnny up on his left foot. “You hop. Don’t put any weight on your bad foot.”

Johnny grabbed his gun and holster, then supported by Freeman, he hopped through the living-room and out into the sunshine. Freeman steered him to the big lean-to behind the cabin.

“This is my snake house,” Freeman said. “You don’t have to be scared. They’re all in cages and can’t touch you.”

He manoeuvred Johnny into the semi-darkness and Johnny could hear the dry rattling sound a rattlesnake makes when alarmed. Freeman propped him up against the wall, then moving to a big eight-foot-high cage, he dragged it forward. Johnny saw the cage was alive with writhing rattlesnakes. Freeman caught hold of him and got him behind the cage and propped him against the wall.

“You’ll be okay,” he said. “Don’t worry. I’ll fix the bed. They won’t know you’re here,” then he moved the cage back on Johnny, wedging him against the wall and out of sight.

Johnny could smell the snakes. Their movements chilled him. Leaning hard on his sound foot, keeping his injured foot slightly off the ground, he set himself to wait.

Berilli, flanked on either side by Freddy and Jack suddenly came on the clearing and Freeman’s cabin.

For hours now they had combed the jungle and they were sick and tired of the search. They had become careless. Berilli had realized after three or four hours that Johnny could be lying, hidden, in any of the big thickets and by keeping still, they could have walked past him.

He realized this operation had been too hastily mounted. What they needed in this goddamn place was a dog to flush Johnny out. But now he was stuck with the operation and he was scared to go back to Massino and report no success.

He, Freddy and Jack had walked through the jungle for six gruelling hours. The only thing they had seen that moved was a snake. Then just when Berilli was about to call off the operation and admit defeat, they came on the clearing and the log cabin.

The three instinctively dodged back behind thicket.

“He could be here,” Berilli said.

They started across the clearing at the cabin, then they saw a tall, thin man, wearing shabby khaki drill come out of the cabin. He walked over to the well and began drawing water.

“Jack… you talk to him,” Berilli said.

“Not me, pal,” Jack said. “You chat him up… I’ll cover you.”

“So will I,” Freddy said and grinned. “You’re the boss, Lu.”

So Berilli moved out of the clearing, his heart thumping, wondering if Johnny was holed up in the cabin, taking aim at him through the slatted shutters.

Freeman looked up as Berilli approached him.

“Hi, stranger.” His voice was soft and calm. “Have you lost your way? I haven’t seen anyone this way for months.”

Berilli eyed him, keeping his gull behind him, out of sight.

“You live here?” he demanded.

“That’s right.” Freeman was perfectly at ease. “Jay Freeman: I’m the snake man.”

Berilli stiffened.

“Snakes? What do you mean?”

Patiently, Freeman explained.

“I collect serum for hospitals.” He paused, looking directly into Berilli’s suspicious eyes. “Who are you?”

“Have you seen a short, thick-set man with black hair, around forty years of age? We’re looking for him.”

“As I said, you’re the first human I’ve seen in months.”

Berilli looked uneasily at the cabin.

“You’d better not lie to me. If he’s in there, you’re in trouble and I mean trouble.”

“What’s all this about?” Freeman asked mildly. “Are you the police?”

Ignoring the question, Berilli signalled to the other two who came out from behind the thicket.

“We’ll take a look at your cabin,” he said to Freeman as Jack and Freddy joined him. “Go ahead, bright boy, and stop flapping with your mouth.”

Freeman walked into the cabin. Using him as a shield, Berilli entered behind him, his gun in hand, his heart pounding, while Jack and Freddy waited outside. After a quick search, pushing Freeman always ahead of him, Berilli came out of the cabin and into the sunshine. He shook his head at the other two.

“What is that?” he demanded, seeing the lean-to.

“My snake house,” Freeman said. “Have a look. I’ve just caught a cranebrake rattler. Have you ever seen one?”

Crouched behind the snake cage, Johnny heard every word and he thumbed back the safety on his gun. He could hear a soft whistling sound and he knew who was out there: Freddy, a Mafia killer and more dangerous than any of the snakes, writhing and rattling around him.

“Go ahead,” Berilli said and prodded Freeman with his gun.

Again sheltering behind Freeman, Berilli peered into the lean-to, saw the cages, smelt the snake smell and backed away.

He crossed over to Freddy and Jack.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said. “We could search this goddamn jungle for months and still not find him.”

“That’s the brightest thing you’ve said so far,” Jack said.

Freeman watched the three men move off into the jungle, then he fetched a bucket of water from the well and returned to his cabin. He waited some ten minutes, then leaving the cabin, he moved into the jungle as quietly and as swiftly as one of his snakes. Without being seen or heard, he caught up with the three men and watched them meet up with six other men, watched them talk, then saw them get into two cars and drive away.

Then he returned to his cabin to release Johnny from his hidingplace and assure him the hunt was over.