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"Snake and the Spider Lady"
Chapter Three of a novel
by Claude Hall
She was extremely dumb, Snake thought, or extremely
desperate. Too many people around. Too many
witnesses. The chance of hitting an innocent
bystander was high. The opportunity for the victim to
escape also high.
Then, belatedly, he realized that she wasn’t dumb; she
had calculated with rather exacting precision his
direction and destination. Upon reflection, she may
have selected the perfect site; there were fewer
people in Central Park in this kind of weather and
thus a bullet missing its target would more than
likely plow into a tree off out there.
Yet, she had missed him.
Therefore, the conclusion had to be that she was an
amateur. Maybe very bright, but nevertheless an
amateur. At this distance, a professional would have
used a rifle; she had tried to kill him with a pistol.
Some kind of small pistol. The kind, probably, that
a woman might carry in her pocketbook under the
mistaken impression that it offered security.
It was a well-known fact that most crimes are
committed by amateurs. These included a vast array of
crimes of passion or anger, although such emotions,
especially when violent, are usually each a part of
the other. A professional, on the other hand, had
better things to do than kill for fun or sport. Most
killers that he’d met and the very few he got to know
personally didn’t even hunt; the quail and the fox
were simply not their game. A professional kills
because of an assignment with a paycheck on the end or
because of necessity. Seldom for any other reason.
No second shot came.
He slowly climbed to his feet behind the pillar,
poised for instant flight, just in time to see her
climb into a taxi. The cab pulled around the fountain
and went on down Fifth Avenue.
With great care, he surveyed the area from the front
entrance of the Plaza Hotel to the old Hotel Pierre.
Then he leaned with his back against the pillar and
searched the park. He could see nothing unusual. A
couple wrapped in several layers, pudgy as if they
were each wearing more than one heavy coat, strolled
hand in hand down the sidewalk past him and his eyes
followed them as they walked on down the sidewalk and
around a bend and vanished into the depths of the
park. Several people walked on the sidewalk, going up
and down Fifth Avenue.
If anyone had noticed the shooting, they hadn't paid
any attention. Or didn't care.
In the old days, this had been a very ritzy area.
William Saroyan had written a novel about a
child–actually, his daughter–who grew up living in the
Plaza Hotel. Fiction, of course. The ghost of Audrey
Hepburn in "Breakfast at Tiffany," a ghost of a movie,
still danced around the Plaza fountain. Fiction, too.
Of course, both Truman Capote and Saroyan always
wrote with a lot of truth.
But things had changed throughout the city and even
changed here by the Plaza. Two homeless men now made
their home over a grating at the front of the hotel.
A different world; Capote wouldn't have liked it.
Very few people actually lived in the city any more;
what people were here merely existed in a bland,
mindless state of shove and be shoved. The rest, of
course, were merely debris thrown up by life.
Snow began to fall again. Hard. And wind began to
pick up, gusting. A swirl of leaves that had somehow
missed being snowed under brushed past him.
Instead of entering the park, he changed his mind. He
walked over to Fifth Avenue. After buying some
chestnuts from a sidewalk cart, he continued on down
Fifth Avenue. As far as he could tell, she did not
pull a javalina trick this time. The javalina, when
hunted, will sometimes double back and attack out of
the brush. In essence, that's what she had done here
near the entrance to Central Park.
She could easily have taken a taxi just now to lead
him off the track, but once around the corner, stopped
the taxi and got out to begin the hunt again.
As far as he could tell, though, she had kept going
this time. Going where?
He needed to rest a while. No human being can remain
at an intense level for more than a few hours; then he
or she must take a break. Or fall apart.
He walked on down Fifth–constantly alert–until he
found an entrance to a subway. In a moment, he was
below ground and speeding toward downtown Manhattan
and half an hour later climbed above ground in
Brooklyn not too far from a library. He had not been
followed and not even the brightest amateur in the
world could have predicted his destination.
He took down a copy of "Double Star" by Robert A.
Heinlein and found a chair at a table in the back of
the library, his back to a shelf of books against a
wall, a window at his right that opened several feet
above the ground and provided no view of him from
outside. Here, he was fairly secure. Anyone seeking
him could only come from his left down a long corridor
of books. And he would see them at least as soon as
they saw him.
Snake had read "Double Star" a couple of times before
in years past. Now and then, he tried a new book, but
most of the time he preferred his old friends among
books and Heinlein had written some highly
entertaining novels. A year or two ago, he'd read
somewhere that Heinlein had written some of his
novels, including this one, for teenagers. If so, god
bless him. Snake had been aware for years that some
part of him, something deep in his soul, had remained
basically a kid. He had no fondness for chestnuts,
some of which he sneaked out of a pocket and nibbled
as he read, but he still liked science fiction. He
had never liked chestnuts. They were too bland for
him. However, they were high in protein.
He made a mental note to buy some dry roasted peanuts
tomorrow for lunch.
An hour passed quickly. At the end of an hour, he
stood up, placed the book back where he'd found it
after noting the page, and left the library. At a
YMCA not too far away, he showered. With a small pair
of scissors he carried in a jacket pocket, he trimmed
his beard and mustache slightly in a mirror in the
men's locker. His hair was getting a little long, but
there was no barbershop in town that he trusted; a
trim could wait. The scar on his left cheek from a
scuffle down in Rio was healing nicely.
A few minutes later, he was on the street.
It was time to go to work again.
His problem was that he didn't know where to start. A
man was missing. He'd left no clue. There was no
reason for his disappearance except for his close
relationship with a rather mysterious figure who
operated in a shadowy world that may have been
illegal; the word on the streets was that Caraboo
Edwards may have been involved in criminal activities.
However, the criminal activities were never
specified, never detailed. They remained nebulous and
anyone who mentioned Caraboo always gave the
impression that they knew, but couldn't talk about it
for obvious reasons.
It was time to find out what the reasons were.
Snake found a telephone stand a block away from the Y
and made a call. He told the woman that answered the
phone his name and the information he wanted and
immediately hung up the phone.
Whatever information she might find on Caraboo Edwards
would be available the next time he called.
The next problem was the hunter and his friend Rabbit.
Who hired them? Why? The hunter had recognized him,
knew something about him. Vague rumors, of course.
Snake knew about the rumors. He didn't like them.
Any publicity was bad publicity.
Then, the thin-faced girl. What did she have to do
with the disappearance of Susman? Unless she was part
of the team of the hunter and Rabbit, which he was now
beginning to doubt. But why bother to try to kill
someone who was merely hunting a missing man? This is
assuming, of course, that both the two men and the
woman even knew who Susman was or cared.
But it had to be Susman! It certainly wasn't Rio.
That matter in Rio de Janeiro had been concluded
satisfactorily. A rather substantial sum of money had
changed hands, a person had been turned over and they
had both come back stateside on the next available
flight. No loose ends. No antagonist left angry.
And the person with the state department had been very
grateful to be rescued.
Was it something else before that? No, not likely.
The probability was strong that both the two men and
the woman were somehow connected to Susman's
disappearance.
He was surprised when he telephoned again a few
minutes later from a phone booth in lower Manhattan
just two blocks from the Greenwich Village area to
discover that there was no information whatsoever
available on Caraboo Edwards.
There was no need to ask if the person on the other
end of the phone to check again. He's visited "the
room" once a few years ago. The woman–and they were
rotated every hour or so–sat in a very pleasant easy
chair facing a computer terminal. It was the best
computer facility in the world. Regardless of the
person sitting in the easy chair, they waited only for
his phone call. No one else used that particular
phone number.
"Is there any message at all?" Snake asked. "Perhaps
the information is classified."
"The screen merely goes blank," she said.
"Interesting," said Snake.
"First time this has happened to me," said the woman.
"Me, too," said Snake.
Obviously, the man who said he was into "a little bit
of this, a little bit of that" had lied. He was
actually into quite a bunch of this and perhaps a
whole lot of that. The computer database contained
information on just about everyone who was anyone and
everyone who wanted to be anyone. And a lot of those
who never would. The few who were not on the database
were something special. Snake, in his one visit to
the room, had keyed up his own name; he wasn't
mentioned on the database. But that was to be
expected. As for Caraboo, his name would ordinarily
have been at the top of the list. Or somewhere close
to the top.
A strange sensation tugged at Snake's neck muscles.
It was almost as intense as the pain caused by lifting
too much weight. He didn't like the feeling. At the
moment he didn't know what he could do about it.
Except conduct a little personal research.
He asked for Caraboo's home address.
"I told you: The screen goes blank. He doesn't
exist."
He thanked her and hung up the phone.
>From force of habit, he checked out the terrain.
Nothing going on around him within at least a hundred
yards. Two kids threw snowballs at each other over
across the street. Wind whipped snow off a roof and a
white curtain fell near the kids.
He observed the roof closely. No one up there. It
had been the wind after all.
His death–and he knew he would eventually get it–would
come from far away. He had thought about it often and
logic told him that was how he would die. It would be
the person he couldn't see and the bullet he never
heard, never expected. His death would be sudden.
And it would be painless. Or relatively painless.
He thought about death a lot these days. Too much.
He had developed, he realized, almost a form of psycho
neurosis about dying.
Unfortunately, there was no shrink in America who
could treat him.
He focused his attention on the roof top. No more
snow fell. Wind.
Then he walked quickly past the building and as soon
as he could turned right and headed north.
In a few minutes, using that curious walk that was
almost a loping motion, he was several blocks away.
The office of Allied Global Destination Ltd. was on
33rd Street. The entire area had undergone a
metamorphis in years past. Down that way once had
been an area of Greek cabarets–Port Said, Cafe
Kephisia, the Egyptian Gardens–until the value of the
real estate had risen so outrageously that they all
been forced to move to Long Island.
The Greek cabarets had been replaced by towering
apartment and office buildings. That was the fate of
Manhattan. At some point in the future,
unfortunately, all of Manhattan would be a building.
A pity. Except for maybe Central Park. And Central
Park had become a jungle. Even on a day like this.
The jungle had also moved downtown. A couple of punks
were trying to break into a car. Snake stopped and
watched them for a while before moving on.
He walked around the block a couple of times. The
blocks in this part of the city were quite long east
and west. He noticed nothing unusual.
The two punks had managed to get the door open and
were now trying to hot-wire the car to get it started.
A police car was double parked just twenty yards
away. The light on top of the car blinked. It was
empty.
Snake entered the address that had been on the
business card presented to him by Caraboo Edwards.
Allied Global Destination Ltd. was on the 14th floor.
Allied Global Destination occupied, evidently, the
entire floor. There was a reception area with a desk.
Beside the desk was a towering plant with huge
leaves. Against the wall was a couch that was neither
comfortable nor plush. A coffee table was in front of
the couch.
As he stepped out of the elevator, he saw that the
thin-faced girl who'd shot at him was being questioned
by the police. Both stood by the desk. Two uniformed
officers stood by the couch; they stood in an
informal pose that was very close to being at
attention. He didn't recognize her at first. She was
not wearing the cap. Nor coat. And, at the moment,
she wasn't pointing a gun at him. It was the same
person, though; he knew that without question.
Snake moved to the side and waited, shoulders
slouched, one shoulder lower than the other, head
tilted slightly to the side and eyes lowered just a
little but not so much that he couldn't survey every
detail in the room. She had recognized him, of
course. But only a flicker of her eyes revealed that
to him.
He'd walked into an uncomfortable situation. If he'd
tried to flee, one or more of the uniforms would have
been after him in an instant. And there would have
been a series of questions he could not answer. Under
the circumstances, he felt it better to face the
situation.
After a moment, one of the uniformed police officers
came over.
"Can I help you?"
"I have an...an appointment with Mr. Edwards," said
Snake, stuttering, keeping his voice very flat and
very dull.
"Just a moment," the policeman said. He walked over
and talked to a man, obviously a detective, dressed in
a plaid sports coat and gray slacks.
The detective paused in his questioning of the
thin-faced girl and walked across the reception room
to where Snake stood near the elevator.
"What was your business with Mr. Edwards?" he asked.
"I don't know," said Snake. "I do odd jobs. Maybe he
wanted a desk moved or something."
The detective examined him for a moment. "Got any
ID?"
"No, sir," said Snake in what he hoped was a very
humble voice.
"Driver's license?"
"I don't drive," said Snake.
"What's your name?"
"Bill," said Snake. He smiled just slightly, but it
was a lopsided smile like someone might smile who was
mentally deficient.
"Bill what?"
"Bill...." Snake let his voice dribble off. He stood
there with his little smile coming and going on his
face.
After a while, the detective nodded. "Never mind," he
said.
He went back to the girl and continued his
conversation with her.
Snake continued to stand in the same place.
"You can go now," the detective said, speaking a
little louder so he could be heard across the room.
"What about my job?"
"Forget it," said the detective.
The girl merely stared at him without expression.
"I want to talk to Mr. Edwards," Snake insisted.
"Mr. Edwards is dead," said the detective.
(continued next week)
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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September 6, 2004
Commentary
by
Claude Hall
George Wilson
Where George Wilson tread, gods feared to follow
Radio at cliff's edge drew only a few
Top 40 no science, your gut had to do
While the "circus" moved on, new towns like a song
Gary Allyn, Guy Williams, new disc jockies, too.
Radio stations in chaos, the reason unknown
Playlist in shreds, promotion budget gone
Equipment like history, salaries a mystery
Radio your friend and your enemy, too
Radio was oft good to him, maybe not for him
Even today, long years gone, this he would deny
Without lament, for while life's failed segue
Brought wind and the rain, storm
Perhaps his love for the music, harm
He never failed--Milwaukee, Bartell
Later managed in Los Angeles, Albuquerque, too
Loved his family, though radio was what he knew
Except, of course, for a stray horse or two
Not all was glory, life's not built that way
But when the NAB thought to demean him
By putting programming down via verbal darts
George won the packed audience, said he wore no shorts
Now, here near the end of years, no tears
For George counts blessings, grand children around
And if he stops to ponder wild radio back yonder
It's without jaundice for the memories he treasures
Are friends without measure, friends always true
- c. hall, 2004
OTHER MATTERS
This below is in regards to a note from George Wilson,
keokiwc@aol.com, printed
last week in Commentary.
Chuck is just kidding, of course. I tapped into the
site, but couldn't find the interview with George
Wilson. Viola! Stuff!
Chuck Blore,
BloreGroup@aol.com: "Damn it, George! I
told Claude he would be the first to know when my
website was ready...Claude, I am about three days away
from 'launching'. I know it's up there, but I'm still
tweaking. So, let's go...on the home page, click on
programming. Then on the programming page click on
Radiopinions. There you'll find George Wilson's
comments along with my good friend, Guy Zapoleon.
This Radiopinions page will change more or
less monthly featuring one of the 'legends' and one of
today's hot Programmers. Kind of a 'Now and then'
look at radio. Couple of other things you might like
in the Programming area as well. In the one called
SiteSeeing, you will see you are listed first, as
promised. So now, if you would please, put a link to
my site...chuckblore.com...on your site and we'll
bounce those visitors back and forth. This is gonna
be fun, ain't it? Your best friend, Chuck"
Later: "Okay...this time you hear it from the horses'
ass...oops...the horses' mouth. My website is ready
for your inspection and as promised, I would like you
to be my first honored guest...be certain you go to
the programming page and while there be ABSOLUTELY
sure to visit the SiteSeeing section. I'd also like
your opinion of the Radiopinion thing. Thank you,
sir."
To:
claude@claudehallonline.com From: Patrick
Robinson, bigpr@comcast.net:
"I'm the web designer
for Chuck Blore's site and just wanted to pass this
along. To find the commentary by George Wilson go to
Chuck's site. then click on Programming...and at the
bottom left, click on Radiopinions."
So, all of you who read this...even if it's next
year...tap into Chuck's new website and write him a
letter telling him how great it is.
Just FYI, George Wilson is very, very popular on the
interview circuit right now, per this following note
from Jack Gale.
Jack Gale,
jackgale@adelphia.net: "Claude...I know you
love George Wilson as much as I do. Check out his
interview on WTMAMEMORIES.COM. A wealth of knowledge
flows from this guy."
BACK AT THE RANCH
A great many of you will remember Dave Diamond. Many
years ago, after KHJ, he got into writing. Then
teaching. Just received a card. He has a novel
called "Cool Hand in a Hot Fire" available from
amazon.com or your local bookstore. Already climbing
Amazon's Top 100 Best New Fiction list. I don't have
an email address handy on Dave. But his snailmail is:
1024 N. 8th, Spearfish, SD 57783. I plan to write
him. I hope that all of you will tap into amazon.com
and, if you think you might like to read something by
one of the best radio personalities of Top 40 radio,
order a copy. The cost is $10.47. Paperback.
Khan Hamon,
khamon@satx.rr.com: "I'm not sure I share
your politics, but I admire your spirit. I respect
your opinion, but I get sceptical when someone is
absolutely, positively, one hundred percent certain
about something. It has been my experience that those
opinions often turn out to be wrong. Send my
regards to Joey Reynolds the next time you talk to
him. I met him years ago in Hartford, and bought his
'sound like' package in the early 70's that inserted
your call letters into the hits of the day at KTSA. He
was one of the leaders."
Dan Hughes,
danwpcd@insightbb.com: "I'm a member of an
internet discussion group called Spectropop, which
began as a Phil Spector site and has grown into a
watering hole for many singers, songwriters, and
producers, most of whom were active in the 50's-60's.
Some of our active members include Al Kooper, Artie
Wayne, Austin Roberts, Phil Milstein, Ed Salamon, Paul
Evans, Mick Patrick, Bob Rashkow, etc. (Wanna join??
Love to have you! Info at
http://www.spectropop.com).
But my reason for writing is that songwriter Alan
Gordon (Happy Together) is trying to reconnect with
Bruce Wendell, and I'm hoping you can help with an
email address for him? Alan's email is
alanette@webtv.net.
Thanks for your help!"
Just FYI, the last time I saw Al Kooper was at the
party on the western street of Universal Studios
tossed by Elton John for about 3,000 of his closest
friends. But I remember him from opening night of the
Blues Project at the Phone Booth in Manhattan and I
also caught his Blood, Sweat and Tears at the Cafe Au
Go Go in Greenwich Village, both the first group and
the second one which featured David Clayton Thomas. I
referred Dan to Steve Meyer,
stephenmeyer@earthlink.net, who worked for Bruce, and
also copied Tommy Noonan, who heads up an association
of people who worked for Columbia Records and knows
everyone in music there is to know.
Jesse Mahl, Jesse.Mahl@ogilvypr.com,
is hunting a
former student of mine--David Walters. Any of you
know where David is these days? He needs to contact
Jesse. Important. And I wouldn't mine hearing from
you, too, David.
Susan Rice,
SusanRice1@aol.com: "Your article was the
best I ever read on the evil's of Bush. I live near
Houston--worked with the skydivers at Houston Gulf
Airport which was owned by Salem bin Laden and watched
the goings on there--out in the middle of nowhere was
this long runway where the shieks would fly in with
their Lear Jets and they would be picked up in style
and taken to the Bush household. News From Babylon:
Airport with bin Laden, Bush ties to close WSJ: Bin
Laden Family Could Profit From a Jump Just a couple
of articles that explain the Houston Gulf
Airport/Bush/bin Laden connection. This was always
kept quiet. The reason I found your article, I was
looking for info for a friend. He wanted to know info
that happened in Houston. Back in 1957, KLBS signed
off the air and KILT signed on. The day before that
happened, KLBS played some song protesting Elvis being
drafted. And they played nothing else but that record
for 24 hours. I can't remember its name and I can't
find anyone who knows. Figured you might know. His
name is Bill Cherry and he might be emailing you too.
I'm curious now of the name of the song--and I'm glad
I helped him look cause it took me to your webpage
that had the Bush Goof on it. I have forwarded your
web to several friends."
And I, of course, forwarded Susan's note to the
legendary Bill Young, once god of KILT.
Joseph Anthony,
jma944roch@yahoo.com: "Claude,I was
pleasantly surprised to find your website the other
day and thought I'd drop you a line to say hello. I
was one of your students back in the SUNY Brockport
days, circa 1986. As a matter of fact, my very first
published article started out as a class project. I've
had work published off and on over the years, however
nothing recently as I've been busy with kids, work and
other priorities. I now have a son attending
Brockport, majoring in math and basketball. The last
time I saw you was when you came over for dinner, not
long before you headed out to the desert. How have you
been, are you doing any teaching? What about the rest
of the family? You've got some interesting information
on your website. I can recall some of the stories you
used to tell about the music industry, entertaining to
say the least. I've bookmarked your site and will read
up on your writing. I'd like to get back to authoring
again, have to wait and see what comes up. Take care."
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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