CROCKER WAS AWAKENED BY the ringing of the telephone next to his bed. He opened one eye and guessed by the amount of light filtering through the drapes that the time must be somewhere around noon. He picked up the phone and gave a mumbled hello.
“Is this Steve Crocker?” a young woman asked.
“Yes,” he admitted reluctantly.
He didn’t like calls from strangers.
“You don’t know me, but my name is Amy Brand. I’d like to interview you for a magazine article.”
“What for?” he asked, sitting up in bed.
“Well, you’re the one they call the Rattlesnake Man, aren’t you?”
“Sorry, I don’t give interviews,” he said and hung up before she could reply.
He got out of bed and pulled open the drapes, squinting his eyes against the brightness of the Las Vegas sun. In the distance he could see the hotels along the Strip, rising like modern monoliths from the desert floor. But he preferred looking in the other direction, toward the hazy mountains with their promise of escape.
Crocker poured himself some orange juice and wondered how the girl had obtained his number. It was in the book, of course, and almost anyone could have told her his name.
He remembered suddenly that it was Monday. Stunt night, when the suckers came to see him perform. What the hell—it was a living.
After he showered, Crocker went downstairs to the lobby of the small residential hotel where he’d lived for nearly a year. It might be time to find another place, he speculated, and get an unlisted phone number.
Sammy called to him from behind the desk. “Got an incoming call for you, Mr. Crocker.”
“Man or woman?”
“Man. Sounds like Mr. Qually.”
“I’ll take it here,” Crocker said, and went to pick up the phone at the end of the desk.
“Crocker?” the familiar voice rasped. “This is George Qually.”
“How are you?”
“Not bad. I wanted to tell you about tonight. There are some Arabs in town with big money. They want some real action. Don’t be surprised if somebody brings them around.”
“That’s your end of it,” Crocker said. “As long as they’re betting real dollars, you can have whoever you want.”
“Another thing,” Qually said quickly, as if sensing the conversation was about to end. “Holston is looking for you. Yesterday he came by my office. You got dealings with him?”
“Not if I can help it. Thanks for the tip.”
“You’ll be here tonight?”
“Have I ever let you down?”
Crocker hung up before Qually could answer. He waved a goodbye to Sammy and went out into the sunlight.
Another day.
But a Monday.
He had breakfast at the Hilton, lingering over his coffee while he played a few losing games of Keno. “It’s not your lucky day,” the red-haired Keno girl told him.
“I hope you’re wrong about that,” he replied.
He gave her a generous tip, maybe to change his luck, and took a cab downtown. The city was full of tourists, as always, and the sight of them depressed Crocker. He wondered why he stayed in Vegas, carrying on his strange Monday-night ritual for the high rollers. Was it only to demonstrate that he could beat this city after all?
A stick man at one casino told him, “Holston’s looking for you.”
“So I hear.”
He went on to another place, nervously killing time as he always did on Monday afternoons. He was looking over the race results from the eastern tracks at one of the betting parlors off Fremont Street when a young woman he’d never seen before came up to him and said, “You’re Steve Crocker, aren’t you?”
Her precise eastern accent was like a voice remembered from a dream. “Yeah,” he admitted.
She extended her slim white hand. “Amy Brand. I called you a few hours ago for an interview.”
“You woke me up,” he said. “Have you been following me? How’d you find me here?”
“You were pointed out to me once. When I saw you walking along the street just now I thought I’d ask you again about that interview.”
“The answer’s still no.”
“I wouldn’t take long. Really!”
She was wearing a white-linen pants outfit that was dressier than usual for Las Vegas by day. With her blonde hair and slim figure she looked more like a model or a high-priced hooker than a reporter. Maybe that was why he said, “Sit down. I’ll give you ten minutes.”
“Thanks!” She brushed the hair from her eyes and slipped a tiny cassette recorder from her purse. “You don’t mind if I tape this, do you? It saves taking notes.”
A shout went up from some of the customers as the late results from another track were posted. “Maybe you’d like someplace quieter,” he suggested.
“This’ll be all right. I sometimes think there’s no really quiet place in Vegas.”
“Try the casinos on a Monday morning, when everybody’s sleeping off the weekend.”
She snapped on the recorder and began. “Mr. Crocker, there have been a great many stories circulating about the Monday-night game that’s played at a secret location here in Las Vegas. I understand that only important people—movie stars, special visitors, and the casino owners themselves—are admitted.”
“You know more than I do,” he said with a smile.
“Hardly, Mr. Crocker. Among certain people you’re known as the Rattlesnake Man because of your participation in these Monday-night games.”
“That’s just a nickname. I got it years ago because I used to catch snakes in the desert and sell them to zoos and research labs.”
She smiled sweetly, letting him know he wouldn’t get off that easily. “I’m told you’re called the Rattlesnake Man because at these Monday-night games people wager on whether or not you’ll be bitten by a snake. I have that from an eyewitness.”
Crocker smiled. “If you know that much you don’t need to interview me.”
“Then it’s true?”
He reached over and shut off the tape recorder. “Come on—I’ll buy you a drink.”
The afternoon sun seemed hotter than usual along Fremont Street, as he walked with long-legged strides toward the next air-conditioned oasis. Amy Brand had no trouble keeping up the pace. “Why do you do it?” she asked as they walked.
“Do what?”
“The thing with the rattlesnakes on Monday nights.”
He shrugged.
“It’s a living.”
“So’s robbing banks.”
“Let’s go in here,” he suggested, steering her into a little show bar where he knew the sound of the band would make recording impossible.
He realized his mistake almost at once.
Big Holston was playing the silver-dollar slot machine just inside the door. “Well, if it isn’t Crocker! You’re one hell of a hard man to reach.”
“Hello, Holston.”
“Where can we talk?”
“I’m with the lady.”
Holston seemed to notice Amy Brand for the first time. “And a charming lady she is. But we’ve got business. You’ll excuse us, won’t you, Miss?”
Amy Brand smiled at Crocker. “Don’t be too long.”
The band was just starting a new set. It might have been three in the morning, and most of the customers didn’t know the difference. Las Vegas was a city without clocks, with only the sun to tell time—and most bars and hotels kept their curtains drawn. “It’s too noisy to talk here,” Crocker said.
“Come on in the men’s room.”
The place was empty and smelled of disinfectant. Holston leaned back against a sink and took out a cigarette. “Now, then—what about our agreement?”
“What about it?”
Holston tried a smile but it didn’t go with his face. “You were going to deliver one rattlesnake with its rattle removed, exactly like the kind you use on Monday nights.”
“I changed my mind.”
“Why’s that? It’s the easiest five hundred you’ll ever earn.”
“Whatever you’re planning, Holston, count me out. If your plan goes sour I don’t want to be your cellmate for the next five years.”
“It won’t go sour.”
Crocker shook his head. “Rattlesnake venom doesn’t kill instantly. There’s usually time to suck it out or get medical attention. Believe me, if you want to kill someone it’s foolish to use a rattler.”
“Did I say I wanted to kill anybody?”
“Let’s quit fooling around. I’m not selling you a snake, Holston, and that’s it.”
The big man drew on his cigarette and then stubbed it out in the sink. “A thousand. That’s my final offer.”
“No.”
“A thousand. Your name won’t come into it at all. If it goes sour I’ll never mention you.”
“Who the hell else in this town would be supplying rattlesnakes? The cops would come knocking on my door in a minute.”
“You said you’d do it! We had a deal!”
“That was last week. I was young and foolish.”
Holston lowered his voice. “Maybe you’d change your mind if you heard who we’re after. One of the big casino operators, a guy who did you plenty of dirt—”
“I don’t want to hear,” Crocker said, heading for the door. “Don’t follow me out. That’s a reporter I’m with.”
He went back to Amy’s table and sat down. “Did you have a pleasant chat?” she asked sweetly.
“Business. What’ll you have to drink?”
“A glass of white wine. I already ordered it.”
Crocker kept an eye on the men’s room door till he saw Big Holston come out and stroll to the side exit. Then he relaxed. “What were we talking about?”
“Rattlesnakes.”
“Do you think people really want to read about that? Why don’t you do a nice article on what the stars are wearing in Vegas this summer?”
She ignored the question and asked, “How many times have you been bitten?”
“In my life? Five or six.”
“On Monday nights. Since you’ve been doing your act.”
“I’m no performer. You make me sound like a circus star.” But he answered her question, because it was a point of special pride with him. “I’ve been bitten twice.”
“In how many weeks?”
“Tonight will be forty-six.”
“Almost a year. That’s amazing really. As I understand it, the rattlesnake is placed in one of four numbered drums without your knowledge. You come out, choose one of the drums, and plunge your bare arm through the paper lid.”
“Something like that.” He was always uneasy talking about it.
“And they bet on whether or not you’ll be bitten?”
“That’s right. The odds are three to one in my favor.”
“Does the snake always bite if it’s in the drum?”
Crocker nodded. “It’s a reflex action. They’re coiled up in the dark and something bursts through the lid at them. Naturally they strike at it.”
He could see her doing some mental calculations. “In forty-five weeks you should have been bitten eleven times.”
“Those are the odds.”
“But you only chose the wrong drum twice.”
“I guess I’m lucky.”
“Can you hear their rattles?”
He shook his head. “I remove them. There’s no way I can tell which drum the snake is in.”
“Do you remove the poison sacs too?”
“No. They’re still quite deadly.”
She stared at him. The waiter brought her glass of wine and Crocker ordered a scotch. When they were alone again she asked, “Why do you do it?”
“I get five percent of everything that’s bet, either for or against me. Some nights that can be a lot of money.”
“But you’re risking your life!”
“Not really. The two times I was bitten there was plenty of time to get me to the hospital. Qually wanted to have a doctor standing by, but I said no. That takes away a little of the thrill.”
“Who is this Qually?”
Somehow the encounter with Holston had made him more willing to talk with her. “He runs a liquor distributorship here, serving the bars and casinos. He got to know a lot of people and discovered the casino owners had grown bored with their own games. Monday’s a relatively slow night and Qually decided to open a private little game, unlicensed and unadvertised, for a very select clientele. That was when he came to me and suggested the rattlesnake business.”
“How much does he make?”
“He holds out ten percent of the purse and we split it down the middle. The least I’ve ever made is a thousand dollars. One night I made over six thousand.”
“You do this just once a week?”
“That’s all. No sense tempting fate.”
Amy Brand finished her wine and clasped her hands on the table. “I want to see it. Could you get me in tonight?”
“No,” he said at once. “That’s impossible.”
“Why?”
“Admission is strictly limited. Qually would never allow a reporter to be present. He wouldn’t even want me to be talking with you.”
“Look, there are plenty of people who know about this thing, and more are finding out every week. You’ve kept it a secret for nearly a year, but now the word is out. Before many more Monday nights are over, some paper or magazine will be sure to carry the story. It might as well be me.”
“No.” He shook his head. “Qually wouldn’t let the game go on with you there.”
“Tell him I’m your girlfriend. He couldn’t object to that.”
He tried to read something into the words, but her face was all business. “Why should I do that for you?” he wanted to know.
“Does it count for anything that I just saw you plotting some sort of deal with Big Holston, a known criminal?”
“I wasn’t plotting anything with him. He owes me some money.”
“Take me with you tonight and I won’t write about Holston and you.”
“There’s nothing to write!” he insisted.
“Maybe I’d find something.”
She had him and she knew it. “Look,” he suggested, “how about a deal? I take you along and you write it up for your magazine, but without using real names or addresses. How’s that?”
“Why should I hold back the names?”
“Because then the local cops won’t do anything. If you name Qually or me they’d be forced to take action.”
“I don’t know,” she said.
“It’s that or nothing.”
“What time?”
“You agree?”
“I agree. No names. What time do we go?”
“I’ll pick you up here at ten o’clock.”
The temperature dropped after sundown, but not by much. It was still a warm night when Crocker returned to the show bar and met Amy Brand. He’d dined alone at one of the restaurants on the Strip, feeling the tension build as it always did on Monday evenings. Now he cursed himself for ever having become involved with the girl. The last thing he needed was publicity about this foolish weekly ritual.
Why did he do it? He often asked himself the same question Amy Brand had asked and his answer to her—that he did it for the money—was not completely honest. There was something else, something he couldn’t put his finger on. He’d felt it in his youth, catching rattlers in the desert with a forked stick and a burlap bag. It had always been something of a gamble, and with Qually’s help he’d only formalized that gamble, turned it to his own advantage.
“Ready?” he asked her.
She abandoned her drink and went out to the car with him. “Is it very far?”
“Nothing’s very far in this city. We’ll be there in ten minutes.”
He drove to the liquor warehouse south of the business district, where George Qually had set aside two windowless storage rooms—a large one for the Monday-night game and a smaller one for the snake cages. A fair crowd had already assembled and Crocker recognized familiar faces. Most were casino partners or managers, and a few dealers and stick men who worked the day shift had come along too.
The only strangers were four well-dressed Arabs in the company of one of the regulars. Crocker disliked the man who’d brought them, a former singer named Billy Ives who owned five points in one of the Strip casinos. Ives had vetoed Crocker’s attempt to buy into the same casino, and had even tried to get him arrested once on a trumped-up charge.
“Hello, Billy,” he said, sounding friendly. It wasn’t a good place to show one’s true feelings.
Billy Ives grinned. “Still geeking for a living, Crocker? These fellows are in town for the week, and I told them they couldn’t miss your performance.”
Crocker shook hands with the Arabs and introduced Amy as a friend. He found her a front-row seat where she’d have a good view.
By the time the three dozen or so spectators had crowded into the room there was barely space for the four small steel barrels that Qually rolled out. “Quiet down, everyone,” he shouted, “it’s time to begin!” He glanced at Crocker, but didn’t speak. They never spoke just before a game.
Crocker went out to get the snake and returned as Qually was explaining the action for the Arabs. “While Crocker’s gone from the room, one of you chooses the barrel in which the rattler is to be placed. Then the drums are covered with these numbered paper lids. We’ll have a ten-minute betting period, either between individuals or with the house. In any event we retain ten percent of all monies wagered. Agreed?”
“Agreed!” Billy Ives shouted. “Let’s get on with it!”
Crocker was escorted from the room after carefully handing over a heavy canvas sack containing one of his snakes. He kept four of them in cages at the warehouse, and now he went to feed and look after the other three while the bets were made. After about fifteen minutes he was called back in by one of the bettors. Again, he was allowed no words or contact with George Qually, who might have found it advantageous to warn him of the snake’s location.
The spectators fell silent when he re-entered the room, and he could see Amy sitting tensely in the front row. The bets, he knew, had all been made. He studied the four steel barrels, each numbered on its paper lid. Carefully he unbuttoned the cuff of his right sleeve and bared his arm.
One, two, three, or four? Which barrel was safe tonight?
Without further hesitation, he plunged his arm through the lid numbered one.
There was a mixture of cheers and groans from the crowd, but the cheers were louder. The barrel was empty. He’d beaten them again.
“Nice going,” Qually said, coming up to shake his hand.
“Which barrel?” he asked.
“Three.”
Crocker nodded. Later he would return the snake to its cage.
Amy Brand ran up then, pushing through the crowd of bettors collecting their money. “That was amazing! Do you have x-ray vision or something?”
Crocker smiled. “Only luck. You should have seen me the nights I picked the snake!” But he was elated, as he always was when the game went his way.
Billy Ives came up and shook his hand again. “I won two grand on you tonight.”
“How’d your guests do?”
Ives made a face. “Those Arabs—they always bet on the snake!”
Crocker sought out George Qually. “How much was wagered?”
“One hundred thirty-three thousand. The best night we ever had.”
He did some quick calculations. “That makes my cut $6,650. You should invite these Arabs more often.”
Amy Brand joined him as he removed the paper lid on barrel number three. “God, he’s ugly-looking! How do you get him out?”
“This stick with a noose on it. The noose goes around the rattlesnake’s neck—like this—and I lift him back into his sack. Simple!”
“For you, maybe.”
As he carried the canvas sack into the back room with the cages, he saw that Billy Ives had brought his Arab guests over to speak with Qually. They spoke intently for a moment and Qually frowned, glancing in Crocker’s direction.
“I used to adore Billy Ives’ singing,” Amy said. “Why’d he stop?”
“In Vegas there are more ways of making money than most people dream of. Ives found them all, and he liked some of them better than others.”
“You sound as if you don’t like him.”
“Lots of people don’t like Billy,” Crocker said, and realized suddenly that Big Holston was one of them.
Holston had wanted the snake to kill Ives. Crocker should have guessed it from the beginning.
“Crocker!”
Steve turned and saw that George Qually had followed him into the back room. “What’s up?”
Qually gestured toward Amy. “Can she leave us for a minute? I’ve got business.”
“Go on, Amy,” Crocker said.
She retreated with reluctance, and he wondered if she’d be listening at the door. “Something’s come up,” Qually said.
“With the Arabs? I saw you talking to them just now.”
Qually shifted uneasily. “They’re high rollers, Crocker. They’re in town for a week and money’s burning holes in their pockets.”
“So?”
“They want more action. They didn’t understand there was just the one chance to bet.”
“Tell ’em to come back next Monday.”
“They’ll be gone by then.”
Crocker shrugged. “Then they’ll have to settle for roulette and blackjack.”
“They want to bet on this again.”
Crocker studied the man’s face. “What are you trying to say, George?”
“They want another game tonight. I told them we couldn’t do it for less than a hundred grand in bets. They said fine.”
“Oh, did they?”
“That’s five thousand more for each of us.”
“No dice. Once a week is all I do.”
“Five grand for a few minutes’ work!”
“No.” Steve started to walk away.
“Crocker, think about it! We can’t go on doing this forever. Sooner or later something will get in the papers and the Gaming Commission will shut us down. We’ve got to make the money while we can!”
“Once a week is enough for me.”
Qually stared at him. “Damn it, Crocker, if you won’t do it, I will!”
“Don’t be a fool.”
“You said yourself it’s just luck.”
Steve was annoyed with the man, and annoyed with himself when he realized he didn’t want anyone else doing the stunt. He was the Rattlesnake Man, not Qually.
“All right. I’ll do it.”
“Now?”
“Give me fifteen minutes.”
Qually squeezed his shoulder. “There’ll never be another one like you, Crocker.”
“Sure there will. They come in on every plane.”
Steve went outside and found Amy Brand waiting in the hall. “Are we leaving now?” she asked.
“Not yet. The Arabs want another show.”
“You’re going to do it again?”
“It looks that way.”
“Have you ever done it twice in one night?”
“No.”
“I guess I’m going to get a bigger story than I bargained for.”
He looked at her. “I hope not. Longer maybe, but not bigger.”
“Are you afraid?”
“I’ve never been afraid of the snakes, only of the people who try to use them.” People like Holston, he thought, but he didn’t say it.
Qually was back suddenly, looking alarmed. “We got a problem.”
“What now?”
“They want two snakes in the barrels.”
“What?”
“You heard me. They want it to be an even-money bet or they won’t play.”
“That’s out,” Crocker said, feeling his stomach begin to knot. “I won’t do it.”
“I told them that.”
“Good.” Crocker started to walk away.
“Listen—”
“What?”
“If you go for two snakes, even money, they’ll bet a hundred and fifty.”
“Bet it with who?”
“I’ll cover part of it and Billy Ives will take the rest.”
“You’re crazy!”
“I’m betting your luck, Crocker.”
“You’re still crazy, I won’t do it.”
“That’s seventy-five hundred for you.”
“Yeah, and a rattlesnake’s fangs in my arm.”
“You’ve been bitten before. And never for money like this.”
“Get lost!” Crocker said and walked away.
Amy ran to catch up with him. “Why won’t you do it?”
“You want me to? It would make a real story, wouldn’t it?”
“I don’t want you hurt, Crocker, and you can believe that or not. But why is it that much different from what you’ve been doing? You’re willing to gamble with three out of four drums empty, but not with two out of four empty.”
“Damned right!” he told her. “Nobody goes out looking for a rattlesnake bite!”
“But there’s always the chance of being bitten!”
He looked into her face and decided to tell her something he’d never told another person, not even Qually. “It’s a trick,” he said, keeping his voice low. “The odds are a lot better in my favor than three to one.”
“What? But how—”
“It’s an old psychological trick. Ask a person to pick a number between one and four, and most times they’ll choose three. It works the same with the barrels. Someone from the audience picks the numbered barrel the snake is placed in. I’ll bet over half the time they’ve picked the number three barrel. I just avoid that, and I also avoid number two, which is the second most popular.”
“But they must notice that you usually pick one or four.”
“Sure, sometimes they notice. But even if they put the snake there, I’ve got a fifty percent chance of beating them. And if they put it in one or four one week, I figure they’ll do the same the next week, if they’re regulars. So then I go back to picking two or three. Then they switch back to three the following week. Tonight was easy. When there are strangers as guests one of them is usually allowed to pick the barrel. And strangers almost always pick three.”
“That’s right,” she said. “One of the Arabs chose it.”
“But I don’t know how to figure it with two snakes in two different barrels. They might put them next to each other or separate them or anything. I don’t know how to figure it.”
She was standing very close, gazing up at his face. “Has all of your life been some sort of con, Crocker?”
“This is no con. I’m just outwitting them. There’s a difference.”
“Twice the snakes bit you.”
“Yeah. That proves I didn’t outwit them every time.”
They stepped further apart as Billy Ives came through the door. “What’s this Qually says? You won’t go for two snakes?”
“Do I look foolish?”
Ives shot a glance at Amy and then pulled Crocker aside out of earshot. “Look, Crocker, I want that wagering. The Arabs are my guests. Go through with it and I’ll tip you off about the barrels.”
“What?”
“I’ll signal you where the snakes are.”
“How?” Crocker asked.
Billy Ives smiled. “Simple! Figure my right elbow is one, my left elbow is two, my right knee is three, and my left knee is four. When you walk out there I’ll touch two of them to tell you where the snakes are.”
Crocker was dubious. “I don’t know.”
“Come on! Those Arabs don’t care if they win or lose as long as they get action. This way we keep them happy and you and Qually get your cut. It’s harmless fun.”
“You’re banking some of their bets, Billy. You’ll make money on it too.”
“Sure I will! But like I told you they don’t really care if they win or lose. The money they got, it don’t make any difference to them.”
Steve glanced over at Amy Brand, standing out of earshot. Suddenly the whole thing was important to him, maybe because she was there. “All right,” he said, “I’ll do. it. Tell Qually I’ll do it.”
There was a stirring out front as Billy Ives delivered his message. Qually hurried back to shake Crocker’s hand. “Stay here while we place the snakes and make the wagers. Maybe some of the casino people will bet too.” He paused for a moment. “Good luck, Crocker.”
“Thanks.”
Amy didn’t go out front. “I’ll stay back here with you,” she said.
“Don’t you want to see which barrels they choose?”
“I don’t think so.”
Qually came back again for the rattlesnakes and Crocker placed two of the biggest in canvas sacks. “These’ll make them think they’re getting their money’s worth.”
Then he waited.
Amy nervously lit a cigarette. He wondered if the tape recorder in her purse was turned on.
“Are you worried?” she asked.
“No.” He thought about Billy Ives and the signal he’d promised. That would be his salvation.
Then, all too soon, it was time. “Coming with me?” he asked.
“I’ll stay here. I saw it once.”
He strode out purposefully, his eyes seeking Billy Ives with the Arabs in the front row.
Ives smiled slightly and placed both hands on his knees.
Both knees. Three and four.
Crocker swallowed and stared at the paper lids with their bold black numbers. Qually had made up a new number one lid to replace the one he’d burst earlier. One would be safe again this time. He’d tell them he stuck with a winner.
He raised his bared arm above it and then hesitated.
The Arabs always bet on the snake.
But did they?
What if they’d switched to betting on him, and Ives was covering the action by betting on the snake? What if Ives stood to lose if he picked an empty barrel?
He whirled at the last second and plunged his arm through the paper lid numbered four.
The barrel was empty …
She was waiting when he came through the doorway. “I heard the cheers. You picked an empty barrel.”
“Yeah.”
“My God, Steve, you’re the luckiest man I know!”
“It wasn’t luck. It was all in knowing who your friends are. Come on—let’s get out of here.”
“Aren’t you going to wait for your money?”
“Qually’ll hold it for me.”
They went out the back door and were halfway to the car when Crocker heard Billy Ives call to him. “Crocker! Damn it, you cost me fifty grand!”
“How, Billy? By ignoring your signal and not getting bitten?”
“Hell, you’ve been bitten before. I didn’t think—”
A car cut across the parking lot then, targeting them with its headlights. Crocker dove for the ground, pulling Amy with him. There was a quick chatter of gunfire and Billy Ives spun around, falling across Crocker’s legs.
“What is it!” Amy screamed.
“Lie still,” he warned her, but the car sped away without firing again. Crocker eased Billy’s body off his legs and stood up. Qually and the others came running out.
“What happened?” Qually demanded.
“Someone gunned Billy down from a car. Get everyone out of here and then call the cops.”
“Is he dead?” Qually asked, staring at the body.
“Dead as he’ll ever be. I guess Holston decided he didn’t need a snake after all.”
“What?”
“Never mind. Go call the cops.”
Amy Brand steadied herself against the hood of a car. “I need a drink,” she said.
“There’s plenty back at my apartment. Come on.”
“Is every Monday night like this?”
“No. Sometimes the snake bites me.”
“How long do you think your luck will hold?”
He opened the car door for her. “I don’t know,” he said. “I hope at least till next Monday night.”