The Night People (29 page)

“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.”