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 movie-
star 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?”
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“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,
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.
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“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
87
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.
Aslongasyouhaveit,nothingreallybad canhappen toyou.
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
89
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, utterl
y 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 TheGodfatherby 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