A very pregnant lady was walking toward the house, pushing a stroller with a small child in it. Marty stepped forward.
“Ms. Khalid? Marty Raymond. Gator Aid.” They shook hands. “These are two of my Gator Aiders, Zal and Duncan. You might have seen ’em on TV at the caiman rescue.”
“Thank you for waiting,” Ms. Khalid said. “I just couldn’t stand to be in there any longer, with a child, and me like this.”
“No worries. The GIs and I will have you fixed up in no time.”
“It would be GAs,” Zal pointed out.
“Beg pardon. Now just where did you spot the critter, ma’am? Lend a hand there, men.” We helped Ms. Khalid lift the stroller onto the front porch. She unlocked the door.
“In the clothes dryer,” Ms. Khalid shuddered. “I had a last load because the backyard line is full and I looked in and there it was, all curled up. It was huge! I screamed and slammed the door and Steven started crying and I just got us out of there as fast as I could and called you on my cellphone. We’ve been walking ever since.”
“You did the right thing,” Marty soothed. “Now we will. You can wait out here if you’d rather. Which way’s the laundry?”
“Thank you,” Ms. Khalid said. “Through the kitchen, down the stairs. Aren’t you taking any equipment with you?”
“Just a preliminary assessment. We’ll git ’er done. C’mon, men.”
Marty Raymond strode inside. Zal and I followed cautiously. The sound of a radio from the kitchen made the silence of the rest of the house more ominous. The screen door’s compressor banged it shut behind us.
Zal and I jumped. “I don’t like snakes,” he said again. “What if the place is infested?”
“Not likely,” Marty said over his shoulder. “I scoped the foundation already. It’s in good shape, no cracks they’d get in, and there’s not a lot of undergrowth next to the walls. Your snake likes that stuff. What there is, though, is a dryer vent about a foot off the ground. A snake looking for shade, or maybe smelling a mouse, is gonna head right in there. They like a confined space.” He looked back at us. “Don’t worry, guys. I did snake relocations in South Africa for three years. I know my stuff. C’mon.”
We followed him through the kitchen and down the basement stairs into the cool.
“What’s snake relocation?” I asked
“Farm workers find snakes in fields and orchards and get scared. We’d go out, catch the snakes and release ’em in the wild. Now South Africa, there was a place where your stakes were a little higher.”
Did you ever get bitten?”
“Couple times. Scariest was from a black mamba. They’re a little dull-grey snake, with only the inside of their mouths black. And that’s the part you don’t want to see, because they’re venomous as all get out. We’d caught one, bagged him, put the bag on the scale to weigh him. I put the catcher pole on him. He was lying flat inside, which usually means they’re calm. I went to lift the bag and he struck. Two punctures in my thumb. See?” he showed us his right hand. “Right there; those are the scars. Got me right through the bag. They raced me to the hospital and I could feel myself turning numb: feet, hands slowly shutting down, you know? They shot me full of antivenom serum. That’s when it turned out I was allergic to the serum. Anaphylactic shock. It was a fun few days.” Marty Raymond chuckled.
“And you still like snakes after that?” Zal muttered.
“Hey, my fault, not the snake’s. You’d be pissed too if I stuck you in a bag and weighed you. They’re misunderstood, you know? It’s my thing, it’s in the blood.”
It was an unfinished basement. The washer and dryer stood against the far wall, a small window above them. A fluorescent light glared overhead. Marty Raymond turned it off. He bent to the glass of the dryer door, took a small flashlight from a pocket and shone it in.
“Milk snake,” he pronounced. “No wonder she’s upset. They look like rattlers.” He straightened up. “All right, team. Here’s what we need: Zal, I know you don’t like these critters and I appreciate your hanging in. How about you go on up to the truck please, and get me a snake stick and a hook, both about four footers, and one of the green bags? A stick is one with a handle grip and lever at one end, and jaws at the other. You’ll know it. While you’re there, tell Ms. Khalid that everything is A-OK, under control, piece of cake, et cetera, not venomous and all but done. You may not like snakes, but I can tell you’re a snake charmer. Work a little magic, son.”