“I told her to stash it in a safe place,” Carla explains.
The snake is oblivious and somewhat lethargic, a condition attributable to a bunny-sized lump in one of its coils.
“Now what?” I ask Carla.
She points to a pair of barbecue tongs. “Slow and easy, remember.”
“How much do you adore me?”
“Not that much, Jack.”
“Honestly, my reflexes aren’t what they used to be.”
“Come on. It’s practically in a coma,” Carla says.
Carefully I lift the plastic lid off the tank.
“You want, I’ll try and distract him.” Carla presses her nose against the glass but jumps back when the rattler halfheartedly flicks its tongue.
“Screw that,” she says.
Wielding the barbecue tongs, I take aim at the hard drive. Twice I panic and yank my arm away before getting a solid grip. On the third try I snatch hold of the box but, while lifting it, I see the snake’s skin ripple and its nose turn slightly toward me. Then comes the rattle, which is unlike any other sound in nature. Brilliantly I pull my hand from the tank just as the beast strikes, fangs ticking harmlessly against the glass. Carla squeals as the tongs and the hard drive clatter to the floor.
Somewhere, Jimmy Stoma must be laughing his ass off.
If I’d checked my voice mail like a real reporter I would have known that Janet Thrush was neither dead nor being held captive by her sister-in-law. She’d left three messages, starting with: “Hi, Jack. It’s Janet. Something super weird happened and I had to get outta Dodge for a while. I’m staying with some girls down in Broward. Call me, soon as you get a chance. It’s, uh, 954-555-6609.” The number connected to a service, where I left word for Ms. Thrush to phone me at home as soon as possible.
But when I returned from Dommie’s house, the tape on my answer machine was empty. So I’m sitting here, in the same faded old armchair where Emma and I made love, waiting for calls and plotting the big rescue. The most ambitious version of my plan is to save Emma, get Cleo busted, break open the Jimmy Stoma story and sail onto the front page of the Union-Register for the first time in 987 days.
But I would gladly settle for saving Emma, period.
Nothing momentous will take place at the club; of that I’m sure. They’ll want the exchange to go down somewhere else, someplace quiet and remote. They might not even agree to do it tonight. I’ve tried to convince myself that all Cleo cares about is Jimmy’s song, and that once I give it up she’ll free Emma. Except that Emma is now a major problem because she can nail Cleo—or at least Jerry—for abduction and assorted other felonies. So can I. Thus a case could be made for eliminating both of us. It would be moronic, true, but the prisons of Florida aren’t overflowing with Mensa candidates.
Here’s something: When I told Carla I had a heavy meeting with some unpleasant characters, she offered to loan me a pistol.
And I took it. Guns scare the daylights out of me, but dying scares me more. So on my kitchen counter now sits a loaded Lady Colt.38, which supposedly is more petite and purse-friendly than the macho-oriented model. That’s fine by me; I’ve got my dainty side. Also on the counter are two external hard drive units—Jimmy’s original, and an identical copy made this afternoon by Juan’s whiz-kid pal in exchange for twenty dollars’ worth of Upper Deck baseball cards.
Juan is the person I most need to consult, but he’s over in Tampa covering a Devil Rays game. He’s the one fellow I know who is intimate with the primal impulse; he could tell me what it’s like to make that decision and then live with it. My plan doesn’t include killing anybody but I believe I might do it for Emma; that and more. Once the realization sinks in, I feel oddly liberated and energized. Emma’s alive, and I’ll do whatever it takes to get her back. No other option exists, so why fret?
When I asked Carla Candilla why she owned a pistol, she said, “Get real, Jack—hot single chick, living alone. Hul-lo?”