Jack Daniels and Associates: Snake Wine (12 page)

"What woman?" he said meekly.

I shook him by his scrawny throat as hard as I could and yelled, "The goddamn Asian chick who makes the king cobra venom! I swear to God, I will shoot holes in all these cages and lock you down here. They'll find chunks of you inside chunks of the other reptiles the biggest reptile ate last!"

He grabbed my wrists and cried, "Li Xiao! Li Xiao!"

I stopped shaking him and said, "What?"

"Not what, who. Li Xiao, off of Hanley Harbor. She keep king cobra there. Knows more about them than anybody."

"Does she milk the snakes?"

Tan's lips curled up into a sneer and he started to laugh.

I shook him by the neck again and said, "So help me God, if one more of you idiot men makes a joke about milking the snake, I'm going to crush your nuts into snake powder."

"Yes," he quickly said. "She make very potent venom powder. People all over the world pay her big, big money. Her product is famous."

I thought for a moment and said, "What is her product famous for?"

Tan's hands pulled at my fingers around his neck, trying to loosen them, "Everything from healing to killing. It all depend on the mixture. Doctors in Africa use her venom to knock out patients because it put them to sleep better than anesthesia."

"Describe her," I said.

"Young, like you," he said. "And kind of hot baby, for monkey-faced Vietnamese girl."

I let go of Tan and straightened out my blazer and skirt, making sure the buttons were all fastened and watching him like a hawk to make sure he didn't make any sudden moves. The words flashed across my mind like teletype. Hanley Harbor. Asian woman named Li Xiao. Powdered snake venom that can knock someone out cold. I let go of Tan and wiped off my hand on the side of my leg and said, "Calling someone a monkey face is an extremely racially insensitive thing to say, Tan."

He shrugged, "My English a little bit off. Maybe something get lost in translation?"

"I doubt it," I said. I started for the stairs and felt his eyes fix on my rear end. I waved him up ahead of me and said, "All right, lover boy. You first. Let's go."

11.

The blindfold fell off hours ago, or was it days? He isn't sure. It is laying at his feet, floating in the sickly-yellow swamp that has now risen up to his knees.

Herb sees something moving in the darkness, and thinks his keeper has returned. His eyes are almost swollen shut now, ballooning painfully like every other part of his face and chest. He is dying. He knows that. He accepted that long ago, but now, the only question is when.

Horribly, the only answer that he can manage is, not soon enough.

He takes little sips of air through his nose and mouth, but can never fill his lungs. He no longer feels his arms or shoulders. They are dead things attached to his trunk like brittle branches, ready to break off without warning or concern.

There is a deep, boiling pain in his lower back that runs down the length of his thighs all the way out to the balls of his feet. His feet burn so badly he wonders if the keeper has not been pouring acid on top of him all this time.

He knows that it is not acid though. The same wine the keeper pours over him burns his eyes and throat, but it also numbs the physical pain just enough so that whenever his captor appears overhead with the jug, Herb raises his head and begs for more. But now, after days of soaking in the wine, his skin is pickled. The wine seeps into his cracked feet like parasitic bugs, making them itch to the point of madness, turning the skin into brittle scales. The wine comes up to his knees now and Herb sometimes manages to lift one leg out of the brine long enough to give it air and press it against the warm, dry glass all around him.

He sees movement in the darkness, something that reflects in the dim light and sparkles like colored glass or polished stones. It moves up and down smoothly, as if gliding through the air in movements no human could make.

Herb has learned the aspect and form of his cage. He is being held inside a large glass tank that is round and tall, with perfectly polished surfaces that his wet feet cannot gain purchase on and is both too high to climb and too far beneath his feet to allow him to stand firmly. He has cried and screamed and begged and cursed as violently and mournfully as he could, but his words bounced around the glass like an echo chamber, ringing hollow in his ears. For all he knows, the keeper is not even in the same building.

There is a bright and cruel spotlight directly over his head, hoisted high above the rack that he dangles from. He can see a catwalk that leads up to the edge of the glass where the keeper stands to pour the wine down from. He can see that it is made of wooden planks and built along iron scaffolds, but he does not know where they go, except into the darkness.

The room beyond the glass cage is warped by condensation from his own fetid stench and wine fumes and fluids that sputter up from his tortured lungs.

At first it is a low growl, rumbling softly like a dog might when it hears a car coming down the driveway, an engine revving up and getting ready. The growl is too soft to be a dog, Herb realizes. And it's too raspy to be a purr.

It slithers back into his view then, coming closer and closer until Herb can see the shining black opals it calls eyes.

That is when he hears the thing hiss. A deep, shuddering hiss reverberates up from its coiled length as it weaves silently through the air, its massive, hooded face coming up to the edge of the glass.

Herb looked into the face of a snake that stands nearly as tall as he does, staring him eye to eye, its green and black speckled nose the size of his fist. The beast's neck flares wide at the sight of him, and it coils backwards into a tight S-shape, pushing its thick cream-colored chest against the glass. In his dazed state, Herb wonders if the thing might be able to strike hard enough to break the glass and then he shakes his head, knowing he is dreaming. Knowing he is only hallucinating and that his mind has finally snapped.

He lets out a slow, quiet grunt of laughter at the abysmal ridiculousness of it all. Trapped inside a jar, dangling naked from a pair of handcuffs, standing thigh-deep in wine and bodily fluids, staring face to face with a twelve-foot cobra.

The snake stares at him for a moment longer, then flicks its flat, forked tongue in the air and looks up, inspecting the edge of the glass high above. For Herb, the edge of the glass is an impossible height, but the snake seems to consider the distance and slowly begins to elevate.

Herb watches the creature press itself flat against the glass, its ventral scales turning bright yellow in the harsh light of the spotlight above. Herb can hear its growling hiss resonating against the glass now, the sound filling his ears and drawing him out of his stupor.

He looks up in amazement to realize the tip of the snake's nose is only six inches away from the edge of the glass, and it is still climbing. Herb gasps and lunges forward, kicking the glass as hard as he can where the snake's belly is pressed flat, slamming his bare feet with all his might. He throws back his head and screams, "Get away! Get away from me! Get the hell away!" over and over until his voice breaks, until the dry crust covering his lips cracks and bleeds.

The snake is unmoved and continues to climb, sending Herb into a frenzy of swinging movements and shrieks that leave his voice broken. He knows the snake is real then. He knows that it will swing itself over the edge of the glass and come down onto him to devour him while he swings helplessly. He thinks, "Please God, I'll take anything except being eaten alive. Burning, drowning, dismemberment, but not this. Please not this."

A sharp bark from far away makes the snake stop in mid-climb, just as its tongue is able to slap the inside of the glass jar's rim. It pauses, standing extended in the air for a moment, until another shout of, "Naja, no!" makes it recoil and slide back down into its own coils.

Herb gasps for air as the snake collects itself and slithers off into the darkness, out of view. He hears someone coming across the planks of the catwalk, coming directly under the spotlight over him. He looks up and can only see the keeper's dark silhouette staring down at him. "My apologies," the keeper says, the voice muffled and electronically deepened. "Naja must have figured out how to free himself from the cage. They are quite intelligent creatures with exceptional memories, you know. It is said that they remember any who do them harm for their entire lives, and will strike down their tormentors even years after the fact."

Herb shakes his head and says, "That doesn't make sense. I've never even seen a real cobra. I didn't do anything to that monster."

"Of course not," the keeper says.

Herb can hear a new jug of wine being unscrewed and lifts his face greedily. Jesus Christ, he needs it after that, he thinks. He opens his mouth as the wine cascades down into it, letting it pour down his throat and moisten his withering insides. "More, more," he sputters, trying to catch every last bit of it.

The keeper empties the last of the jug over him and says, "Naja remembers more than just what any human has done to him. He remembers what they taste like, and where he must go to feed on his favorite meat."

"What?" Herb says, but it is too late. "No!" Herb screams. "No, don't do this! Come back!"  The keeper is already walking back across the planks, leaving him alone and defenseless in the cone of light while the green speckled monster waits in the darkness, eager to feed.

12.

The correctional officer was white and he had to speak to three different black inmates in the yard before he could get close enough to the weight bench where Keenan Marvin was pushing up three-hundred on a barbell. Smart C.O.'s didn't flex their authority around ghetto superstar inmates like Marvin. They showed respect. At any given time, there were less than twenty C.O.'s within a feasible response time, and of those twenty, less than ten would come running into a situation where a guard was getting his ass beat. By contrast, Keenan Marvin had more than forty men at his immediate disposal, made up of O.G.'s from his set who'd been locked up for decades, little g's who wanted to make an impression on their elders, and street-hardened soldiers who came in and out of prison like rotating rats in a continuous lab experiment. Cook County Jail was fifty percent black and the inmates outnumbered the guards four-to-one. It was simple math.

"What you want?" one of the goons held up his hand and said as the guard approached.

The guard stopped, looking at the inner circle of men surrounding the weight bench as Marvin pressed up the barbell and counted, "Eight, nine, ten."

"Marvin has a visitor," the guard said.

The goon looked over at Marvin and said, "Wait till he finish. It's his third set anyway, he almost done."

The guard waited patiently, watching Marvin's golden, diamond-encrusted teeth grit and glitter in the sunlight. There was a large, cartoonish drawing of a black man getting shot in the face on Marvin's left shoulder with "Snitchez Always in Season" scrawled across the top. Marvin racked his weights and sat up to wipe his face with his shirt. "Who is it?" he said.

"All I heard was a member of your legal team," the guard said.

"My attorney?" Marvin said.

The guard shrugged, doing his best to keep the annoyance out of his voice. It was one thing to have to show respect to these gang-banger lowlifes. It was another to have to pretend to be their damn bellhop. "Look, I really don't know. You want me to tell whoever the hell it is to go away?"

Marvin looked at him suspiciously, then glanced around at the members of his crew, checking for any reaction from them. "Nah, it's cool. I'm done."

Marvin followed the guard through the yard and back into the prison, going down the long corridor toward the first group unit where inmates were brought for classes and counseling sessions. There was a security booth in the center of the floor where several hallways connected together and the guard tapped on the window and said, "Keenan Marvin here for an interview."

The man inside the booth checked his list and said, "Take him down to Room 3."

The guard selected one of the keys dangling from his belt and walked Marvin down to the large orange door. He inserted the key, jiggled the lock, and turned it until it popped open. The white guy sitting inside the interview room with the goatee and the black polo shirt nodded at the guard, who said, "Okay, then. You guys have fun."

Keenan Marvin came around the corner and stopped in the threshold at the sight of Frank O'Ryan sitting at the interview table, his hands resting on a large accordion folder. Marvin looked back at the guard and said, "This ain't who I'm supposed to see."

"It's fine," Frank said, waving for Marvin to come in. "I came right here from Mr. Davidson's office in Berwyn, Ack Trife. He let me borrow your file here so I could ask you some questions about it."

Keenan Marvin stared at the file on the table but did not move.

"Trust me, you'll want to hear what I have to say," Frank said.

Marvin seemed to make up his mind about something and his posture changed, arms hanging down loose at his sides and he tilted his head side-to-side, cracking his neck each time. The interview room door was thick steel with just a small window at the top to allow prisoners to discuss things with their attorneys without the guards bothering them, to give them the maximum amount of privacy in a place filled with caged criminals. The prison's concrete walls made the tiniest sounds echo down every corridor but back here, hidden away behind such a thick door, things went unnoticed. Marvin had heard of all sorts of crazy shit happening in the seclusion of the interview rooms. He smiled thinly at the guard and said, "Yeah, it's cool. I got plenty to go over with my man in here. Come get us in an hour or so."

Frank watched the guard move aside so that Marvin could sit down on the metal folding chair across from the table. Marvin instinctively reached down to check if the chair was bolted to the floor, just in case he decided he needed to swing it. The chair was, of course. The guard was about to leave and Frank said, "Hey, I'm expecting a phone call that I'll have to take. I know you guys don't like leaving prisoners unattended. I'm guessing you can't wait outside in case I have to run, can you?"

"Not really," the guard said.

"Well, can you secure Mr. Marvin then, in case I have to go and come back?"

The guard shrugged and reached for the handcuffs on his belt, leaning down over Keenan Marvin to fasten a cuff around Marvin's left wrist and then secure the other cuff to a steel bar bolted into the wall. "Just let somebody know at the booth when you need to go," the guard said.

"Thanks, I will," Frank said.

The guard inspected the cuff around Marvin's wrist and then stuck the tip of his index finger in, making sure there was adequate space between the cuff and Marvin's skin. "That loose enough for you?"

"It's fine," Marvin said. "I left my fuzzy ones at your wife's house before I came in here. These ones ain't designed for comfort, fool."

The guard shook his head but said nothing as he stuck his keys back in his pocket and pulled the interview room door shut behind him. Keenan Marvin glared at Frank from across the table and said, "I don't need more than one arm to snap the neck of some crippled asshole who think he gon' come in here and play games with me. You heard me? I don't know what kind of bullshit game you runnin' but I ain't the one, believe that, whiteboy. I ain't the one."

"No games," Frank said. "I came to offer you a deal."

"I don't cut deals with the pigs, stupid. You ain't even a cop no more, so what the hell you talking about a deal for?"

Frank looked at the tattoo on Marvin's shoulder, grimacing at the crude blood and brain matter exploding from the back of the snitch's head, and said, "I know you don't cut deals with cops, Keenan. You cut them with the Feds."

Marvin lunged forward with his free hand, coming across the table to get a grip on the folder, but instead of fighting over it, Frank leaned out of the way and hammered his fist down toward the table. Marvin watched in shocked horror as Frank's hand landed on the metal cuff wrapped around his wrist and clamped down five sizes too tight. Marvin immediately screeched and grabbed for his cuffed hand, crying out that it was breaking his bones.

Frank sat back calmly and said, "What was it you told that guy? You left your comfy ones at his wife's house?"

Marvin grimaced as he stood up and tried to reposition himself to alleviate the pain, but it was impossible. He started panting, and sweat dripped down his face like thick syrup. "Go get the guard. My whole arm's numb. I'm gonna have nerve damage or some shit!"

"That's just awful," Frank said softly as he picked up the file folder and started to thumb through it. He removed one of the files and said, "I'll be honest with you Keenan, when you told me you had something up your sleeve I really believed you were going after Lt. Daniels or her partner." Frank pulled out large black and white photographs of various members of Keenan Marvin's gang, some of whom were locked up right here with Marvin. Frank put the pictures down on the table and said, "I never would've imagined that you'd cut a deal with the FBI to sell out your own crew."

Marvin swept the photographs off the table in one crashing movement, gritting his teeth against the pain as he said, "I still might take that bitch and her fat boy out! I'mma add you to that list, whiteboy. I swear for God I'mma add you to that list for this shit if you don't get somebody in here to undo these things."

Frank looked down at the scattered pictures on the ground and reached back into the file, pulling out a typed document stamped "copy." It was a twenty page statement from Keenan Marvin to the Feds, signed by him and his attorney. "Let's see," Frank said, starting to thumb through the statement. "Information on Oak Street homicide, information on Roseland homicide, god damn, Keenan. They even put the paragraph headings in big bold letters to make sure people could see them." Frank continued to flip through pages, "Here we go, information on rival Latin Kings, information on rival Gangster Disciples, information on, hey, this group sounds fun. The Imperial Insane Vice Lords. Let me ask you a question, Keenan. What will the Imperial Insane Vice Lords do to a guy like you when they find out you snitched them out to the Feds? Will they cut that arm with the tattoo off and beat you to death with it, you think?"

Marvin was collapsed on the table, trying to move his left hand, struggling with the steel cuff that would not budge. "They ain't gonna do shit to me because I ain't gonna be anywhere around here. I'll be in witness protection on some beach in California sipping mai-tai's while you're limping around trying to make a dollar selling out your own people. Call me a snitch? Taking money to help keep people like me out of jail, flipping on your own, what you think that is?"

Frank leaned down on the table over Keenan Marvin and said, "Do you have Herb Benedict?"

Marvin looked up at him with bulging, confused eyes, and said, "Who?"

"The fat guy who works with Daniels. Did you take him?"

"Go to hell," Marvin said. He laid his head down on the cool table and wiped his sweaty face on it. 

Frank picked up the heavy case file with both hands and clapped it down on top of Marvin's head, smashing it against the hard surface of the table with a massive thunk. Marvin's head bounced up and down from the impact and Frank shouted, "Do you have Herb Benedict?"

Marvin flailed and knocked the case file out of Frank's hands, clutching his head with his good hand and squeezing it tight, shouting, "I'm a cut you to pieces, you son of a bitch! I'm a send people after your wife and kids so help me God."

Frank stood up and caught his breath. "Are you sending anyone else after Lt. Daniels?"

"I'm a have that bitch brought here and served up to the whole block for this!" Marvin roared. "I'm a do shit to her that nobody ever−" Marvin's voice became a high-pitched scream as Frank jammed his elbow down onto the handcuff. They were cinched so tightly around his wrist now that his hand was inflating.

Marvin kicked and squirmed, his voice in near-hysterics, cursing and hissing that Frank needed to get someone to help. Instead, Frank went around the table and picked up the scattered files and photographs and put them back in the accordion file carefully before he stood up and looked at Marvin. The prisoner was sprawled on top of the table, banging his forehead on it in frustration.

Frank ran his hand through his hair, feeling that it was damp with sweat. He took a moment to ruffle it and make it look disheveled. "If you give me one straight answer, I will go get someone to help you right away."

Marvin's face was muffled against the table as he cursed at Frank and threatened him again.

"Last chance, Keenan, or I'm walking out the door to take that phone call and telling them to leave you in here until I get back. It should only take them an hour or two for them to realize I'm not. You pick."

Marvin looked up at Frank, his eyes now yellow and bloodshot, and his voice was meek when he said, "What do you want to know?"

"Did you do something to Herb Benedict, and are you planning to do something to Lt. Daniels?"

"No," Marvin said, before laying his face back down on the table. "Now go get me someone to get this thing off me, you psycho."

"All right," Frank said softly. "That's good. I believe you. But before I go, just in case you change your mind, or you decide to send someone after me, I have something else to show you." Frank reached back down inside the file and pulled out a single sheet that contained twenty names and addresses on it. Nearly half of them bore the last name "Marvin."

Frank held the page out for Marvin to see and said, "While you're out there in California sipping mai-tai's, just remember I've got copies of this entire file in a safe location. If anything ever happens to me, to Jack, to Herb, our families, or anybody else involved in this case, those copies get sent to every single person you ratted on, along with this list of your family members and loved ones. You want to learn what it feels like to have your people threatened, there it is. You understand me?"

Marvin never bothered to look up at the page. He kept his face down on the table and mumbled, "Whatever, man. Just go get somebody."

Frank walked over to the door and turned away from Marvin, reaching up to grab the collar of his own shirt and yank it apart, tearing the fabric down to the center of his chest. He looked back at Marvin, still sprawled on the table, lying flat to keep any weight off his arm. Both of Marvin's legs were tucked under his knees on the chair, giving him the balance he needed to stay bent forward. Frank put his hand on the door handle and took a deep breath, making sure he had a tight grip. In one quick motion he lifted his good leg to his chest and mule-kicked the top of Keenan Marvin's chair, striking it hard enough to bend the bolts on the floor and send the prisoner toppling sideways. Marvin's screams were deafening as his knees hit the floor, putting all his weight on his bad wrist as he struggled to get back up on the table. Frank ripped the door open and ran out shouting, "Help, help! He's trying to escape! He's trying to tear the handcuffs out of the wall! He's going crazy!"