The Snake and the Spider

  Larry did not answer. Instead, he turned around and walked away, heading directly for the bar down the street. Back in the cemetery, Bob took a deep breath, placing his revolver back into his jacket. He took out his handkerchief and wiped the perspiration that had broken out across his forehead. Making his way among the tombstones, Bob moved along the length of the cemetery until he had once again positioned himself across the street from the bar where Larry had disappeared.

  Once again, Larry moved into the center of the bar and demanded silence. “Where’s Fat Man?” he asked.

  This time he got a response. “He’s not here, man. Says he’ll be in later.”

  Larry did not thank the man or even pause to acknowledge him. He turned around and left the bar, walking quickly across the street and leaning with his back against the cemetery wall. He stood there casually as if intent on watching the passing traffic. Bob waited a moment and then crept up behind him.

  “What’s up?” he whispered.

  “No one at the first place knew where Snake was,” Larry said, still looking straight ahead so as to not give away Bob’s hiding place. “Fat Man knows where he is.”

  Fat Man! Bob hadn’t been asking about Fat Man much any more because no one had seen him near the boys. But it made sense that he might know where Snake was. After all, the two had been roommates at one time. He listened for Larry to continue.

  “He’s not in there. But he’ll be back. If he knows where Snake is, I’ll get him to talk. Don’t worry.”

  Bob smiled to himself. What a wonderful choice Larry had turned out to be. He was not only reliable, he was brilliant. The perfect man for the job. “I’m going back to Orlando. You have my number. Call if you hear anything at all.”

  “Two hundred bucks, right?”

  “Two hundred bucks.”

  Crouched low to the ground, Bob wound his way toward the entrance of the cemetery and then remained on his knees for a moment in front of a specific tombstone. He read the words and bowed his head respectfully. Then, as if saddened by a great loss, Bob stood up and walked slowly back to his car. When he drove away he was laughing. They were about to catch a snake.

  Larry waited outside the bar until a man who fit Fat Man’s description sauntered into the bar. A tightly clothed woman hung on his arm and the two seemed oblivious of anyone but themselves. Larry walked purposefully toward the couple and firmly took Fat Man by the arm, prying him away from the woman.

  “Hey!” she cried out.

  Larry lowered his head and smiled at the woman. “I’m just going to borrow him for a minute. Don’t you worry your pretty head none, you hear?”

  The woman looked terrified of Larry but she nodded, moving quickly into the bar and ignoring the pained look on the face of the skinny blond-haired man.

  “You Fat Man?” Larry asked as they moved away from the bar and across the street to a full-size pickup truck.

  The man struggled to pull free from Larry but the man’s strength was phenomenal. “Yeah, so what? What’s this about, man?”

  Larry opened the passenger door to the truck and shoved Fat Man inside. “We’re going for a little drive, Fat Man. Sit tight.”

  The truck peeled away from the curb and Larry turned the wheel hard, forcing it into a U-turn. They headed toward the beach, driving until they found an isolated spot along the strip. Larry turned off the engine, walked around, to the passenger side of the truck, and removed Fat Man with one hand. Twisting the frightened man’s arm behind his back, Larry forced Fat Man onto the ground until his pinched pale face was inches from the sand. Larry could feel him shaking with fear.

  “You’re going to tell me where Snake is,” Larry said.

  “Hey, man, I don’t know where . . . aahhhh.” Larry turned Fat Man’s arm another several degrees until the man’s eyes filled with tears from the pain.

  “I’ll say it again in case you didn’t hear me.” Larry spoke in a calm, quiet voice. Something in his gentle tone scared Fat Man to death. “You’re going to tell me where Snake is.”

  Fat Man released a string of profanity, his voice little more than a high-pitched whine. “He’s in Tampa, man, really.”

  Larry kept his hold on Fat Man and moved closer to the quaking biker. “Where in Tampa?”

  “He’s living with his wife … in a trailer park.” The pain was causing Fat Man to speak in short, broken phrases. “He’s driving a truck … for a Tampa trucking company.”

  “More,” Larry demanded. Fat Man winced in pain.

  “All right, all right. What do you want?”

  “He driving a red Chevy Nova?”

  “He’s got the Nova. Gave it to his wife for her birthday, couple of months ago. Sold the stereo for fifty bucks.”

  “You know where the trailer park is?”

  “I think so.”

  Larry twisted Fat Man’s arm just a bit more. “You better know so, you hear me?”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  Larry couldn’t believe the man’s nerve, asking such a question while in such an uncompromising position. He chuckled. “Look, I can get you a hundred bucks, but you darn well better have the information.”

  “I’ve got it, man. I do.”

  Larry yanked Fat Man back onto his feet and shoved him into the truck. Without saying a word to the biker, Larry drove back onto the highway and in utter silence returned to Orlando. Once inside the city limits he drove to the nearest phone booth and dialed Bob’s home number.

  “Hello?”

  “Two hundred bucks, right?”

  It was Larry. Bob felt his heart skip a beat in anticipation. “What’d you find?”

  “I’m back in Orlando. I’ve got Fat Man with me.”

  Bob cringed. “Did he come on his own or did you convince him?”

  Larry laughed. “Yeah, he needed a little convincing. That’s a good way to put it.”

  “That’s a good way to go to jail, Larry. That’s called kidnapping, taking a hostage.” Bob rubbed his temples with his thumb and forefinger. Great, he thought. Now he was hiring operatives who were committing criminal acts in exchange for information.

  “Don’t sweat it, Bob. Everything’s under control. Fat Man here knows where Snake is. But he wants a hundred bucks for the information.”

  Suddenly Bob was grinning like a kid at a birthday party.

  “Get the address first. Pay him and get him on a bus, then meet me at my office with the information. I’ll pay you back and give you your money as soon as I verify that Snake is where you say he is.”

  What seemed like hours later, Bob was sitting in his office when he heard a knock at the door. It was early Sunday evening and Bob knew there was only one person who would come to his office at that hour. He opened the door and Larry walked inside.

  “Here you go.” He handed Bob a slip of paper, then sat down to wait for his money.

  Bob held the paper up and read the information. According to Fat Man, Snake was at the Bay Front Trailer Park, 108 South 28th Street, Lot 40. Bob moved to the telephone and dialed the phone number.

  “Yes,” Bob said when a woman answered the phone. “I need to know if a John Cox lives in Lot forty. Can you help me?”

  “Sure.” The woman at the other end sounded groggy, as if she’d been awakened by the call. “Just a minute.” There was a moment of silence and then she returned.

  “You bet. John Cox is over in Lot forty.”

  Bob thanked her, hung up the phone and let out the loudest victory shout of his life. He peeled off two hundred dollars for Larry, sent him on his way, and in five minutes was back in his car headed for the Interstate.

  Some time later he was in Tampa.

  CHAPTER 25

  The Bay Front Trailer Park was located on the far east side of the city and quite a long distance from the general population of Tampa. It was past seven o’clock and already dark when Bob pulled his car into the parking lot and got out to walk. He
did not know what he was going to encounter, but he wasn’t about to give himself away by driving up to Lot 40 and ringing the doorbell.

  He would sneak around quietly, see what he could find out, and then decide what to do next. Still, he made certain he had his gun with him and that it was fully loaded. He was on a Snake hunt and there was no telling what dangers might lie ahead.

  The trailer park was exceptionally still, with only the sound of muted television voices coming from a scattered number of trailers. Dense Florida scrub brush covered the grounds surrounding the park, and cypress trees filled in the spaces between the trailers. But even with its privacy, the park appeared to be the home of low-income transients. Clothing hung from tree branches, and rusted gas cans and car pieces lay scattered about. The trailers were old and run-down and some of them had boarded-up windows.

  Bob was not surprised that Snake had chosen this as a place to live. He looked up the dirt road that ran through the center of the park and saw that the lot numbers got successively higher in that direction. Moving through the trees, he made a path parallel to the road and began looking for Snake’s lot number. Lot 37, Lot 38, Lot 39. There it was. Lot 40.

  With experienced patience and expert care Bob silently positioned himself between two reedy thin trees so that his body was hidden completely by a palmetto bush. Then he watched.

  The trailer was very narrow and covered with a dingy white coat of paint that for the most part had long since begun to chip away. The windows were dark and no one appeared to be home. Then Bob saw the car. Parked alongside the trailer was a red Chevy Nova, with no license plates.

  It was Daryl’s car, for sure, but Bob wanted to be absolutely certain. He pulled a slip of paper from his pocket upon which was scribbled the serial number of Daryl’s car: “1X27F2W194878.” If Bob could find that same number on the inside of the car’s engine, then there was no denying the fact that this was indeed Daryl’s car.

  Moving on his knees so as not to be seen, Bob crept silently toward the car. He would be able to hear any car that might drive up and he felt there would be enough time to hide. Soundlessly, he lifted the car’s hood and stood up just long enough to read the engraved numbers inside. He looked at them, closely matching each one with those on the slip of paper: “1X27F2W194878.”

  It was Daryl’s car.

  Bob shut the hood and quickly moved back to his hiding spot. He decided that since the serial number matched he now had enough evidence to call the police. At the very least, Snake was in possession of stolen property and possibly guilty of grand theft. Certainly, there was enough here to make an arrest.

  Moving as quietly as he could, Bob crawled through the brush and returned to his car. Bob drove to a convenience store pay phone just a few hundred yards from the trailer park’s entrance and telephoned the Tampa Police. He identified himself and explained the situation.

  “Oh, and one more thing,” he added. “You might want to be careful. Cox is supposed to be heavily armed and dangerous.”

  Then he returned to his spot outside Snake’s trailer and waited. Within ten minutes, five police cars had pulled into the trailer park and surrounded Lot 40, lights flashing and police radios echoing through the area.

  Bob shook his head in disgust as he made his way to the nearest car. “Get these cars out of here!” he ordered.

  “Listen, Mr. Brown, we’ll take over from here,” the officer said.

  Bob sighed. This was the trouble with private investigations. You could solve an entire case and still not gain the respect of the authorities. He lowered his voice and pleaded with the officer.

  “Cox isn’t here. Now what do you think he’s going to do when he finally comes home and sees this sort of welcome committee outside his front door?”

  The officer considered this and nodded. “You’re right. Good point,” he said. Then he picked up his radio and notified the chief that they were going to pull their cars back until someone came home. A trio of officers joined Bob in his hiding spot and waited.

  At ten thirty that evening, less than an hour after the police had set up the stakeout, a car pulled up outside Lot 40. A man and woman, arms draped around each other, fell out of the car and for several seconds were unsuccessful at numerous attempts to stand up.

  “Oooo!” the woman whined, drawing the word out as if it were several syllables long. Then she began to giggle.

  “Stone drunk,” Bob whispered to the officers, who nodded in agreement. At once they stood up from their hiding place, guns drawn, and ordered the couple up against the car they’d arrived in.

  “Watsis all about?” the man shouted. His speech was severely slurred. As Bob and the officers drew near they were assaulted by the heavy smell of sweat and alcohol.

  “Just move back and put your hands up!” Sergeant Joe Williams of the Tampa Police Department was in charge of this scene and he moved forward toward the couple.

  The man and woman obeyed the orders, struggling to keep their hands over their heads without falling down.

  Sergeant Williams shone his flashlight at the man and saw that his clothing was partially undone. “You John Cox?”

  The man shook his head vehemently and laughed. Then he looked at the woman. “Nah, I’m much better looking, right baby?” He burped loudly.

  “Besides, he ain’t coming home for a few days yet, is he, baby?” He tried to twirl a strand of her hair but missed and nearly lost his balance.

  “Hands up!” Williams ordered.

  “Lissen ossifers.” The woman was barely understandable. “I’m Sandra Cox. Snake’s wife. Can I help you?”

  “Snake?” Williams asked.

  “That’s Cox,” Brown interjected.

  Williams nodded. “We’re looking for Snake, ma’am. Is he inside?”

  The woman’s eyes grew wide and she covered her mouth like a schoolgirl with a juicy secret. Then she began to giggle. “I hope not!” She turned and blew a kiss toward the man who had brought her home.

  “Listen, Mrs. Cox, this is a serious matter. We need to know when your husband will be home.”

  “Lesseee,” she mumbled to herself. “Well, not before my friend, here, leaves. Right, baby?”

  “Right, baby.” The man winked at Sandra.

  “Where is Snake now?” Williams was not getting anywhere with this line of questioning and he wanted to find out all he could before the woman passed out. The Tampa Police had agreed to come to the trailer park and if possible impound the vehicle and arrest John Cox for his outstanding warrants. But now that he wasn’t here, this was a simple matter of getting the car. He’d had enough of this drunk woman and her illicit boyfriend. The woman was ignoring his last question.

  “Mrs. Cox, I need to know where Snake is now?”

  “Work.” She smiled lazily. “Good man, that Snake. Got a job and everything.”

  “Ma’am, I’m going to need to know a little information about that car over there,” Williams said, pointing to the Nova. “That your car?”

  “Sure is!”

  “When did you get it?”

  “Well, it don’t have a stereo no more. Darn Snake sold it for his bike or some silly thing. Best stereo you ever wanted to hear. You know what I mean, ossifers? It was real nice, lots of music, too, and then last week we were talking about—”

  “Ma’am!”

  Sandra was suddenly silent. “What was the question?”

  “When did you get it?”

  Bob was frustrated as he stood in the background watching this exchange. He hoped Williams would get to the point of the matter soon—before the woman realized who she was talking to and wisely refused to answer any more questions.

  “Lesseee,” she whined. “Hmmmmm. Oh, yeah! My birthday. Snake gave it to me for my birthday. Brought it to me up in Biloxi. Then we drove on back to Daytona Beach and, oh, lessee. That’s right, after a while we moved it on over here to Tampa.” She turned toward her companion and gave him a cut
esy wave. “Right near my sweet lil’ old friend, here.”

  “Ma’am, I need a date. When did all that happen?”

  “Now, if you’re asking me when my birthday is, then I hope you’re going to get me a present. Are you gettin’ me a present or something, huh? Sure could use a new stereo! A black one with those tiny, eensy, weensy, little knobs and—”

  “What’s the date, ma’am?”

  “Okay, okay.” Sandra sounded like a petulant child with a speech disorder. “August thirteenth.”

  Bob was disgusted. Snake had given his wife a car that in all likelihood was stolen from a couple of dead kids and had had the nerve to call it a birthday present.

  Williams scribbled some notes. “All right, now when did you move to Tampa?”

  “Ohhh,” Sandra said. She was drifting off, starting to sway from side to side, and Bob prayed she wouldn’t pass out before the questions were finished. “Beginning of September. Something like that. Not at Chrismis’ time. I know that much.”

  “Where did he get the car, ma’am?”

  “Well.” she held up her thumb and forefinger and pinched them together. “It was a teensy, weensy little deally-type thing. He worked it out fair and square and, hey, I got the papers. You wanna’ see papers or what?”

  Sandra had started to lurch forward and Williams raised his gun. “Back up and keep your hands in the air, ma’am. We’re not finished.”

  Williams removed from his pocket the photographs of Jim and Daryl that Bob had given him. “Ever see these boys, ma’am?”

  Sandra moved her face dramatically closer to the pictures and opened her eyes wider. “Hey, that one there’s pretty cute!” She burst into laughter and then turned once more and blew a kiss toward her boyfriend. “Just kidding, baby!”

  Williams was nearing the end of his patience. “Ma’am, I need an answer or I’ll have to take you down to jail.”

  “For what?” Sandra shouted back in defiance.

  “Grand theft. We think this car may have been stolen.”