Sammy wondered vaguely what in hell a “hammer dry head” was, but his attention came back to the matter at hand in a hurry. From the shadows behind the parapet an arm reached out to give the snake wrestler a glass flask with rubber stretched across its mouth. The guy with a handful of cobra brought the flask up to the snake, and it zapped its fangs deep in the rubber top. Sammy was revolted, but he couldn’t make himself look away as the yellowish venom drooled down the inside of the glass. The snake’s glittery little eyes looked like he was having a fine old time sinking his fangs into something.
Then Sammy shook his head to break the tight little string of horror that had tied him to the cobra. And he got a look at the guy who’d handed out the flask.
He was tall, with neatly styled black hair and sharp green eyes in the kind of face Sammy had seen as mercenary of the month on Soldiers for Hire magazine. Just the kind of good-looking, overconfident guy Sammy liked to whack. “Gives me a lot of satisfaction,” he had relayed back to Don Carli up there in ’Sing. What he didn’t say, but knew was true, was that whacking a guy like Biorkin here made up some for Sammy’s being so little that everybody was always looking down at the top of his head.
While the spidery snake doctor went on with his show for the tourist trade, Sammy edged over to the parapet where the glass-flask supply ace was idling now that he’d had his big moment. Yeah, this was sure as hell who he’d come here for. Sammy recognized him from the photo the Family had thoughtfully provided.
He felt so good about it, so pleased at the way this was working out, that he smiled at the target and said quietly, “Hi, Biorkin.” Call it bravado or whatever, it was his trademark. The murmured greeting with a big smile just before the whack. It confused them, and a confused target was an easy target.
Biorkin didn’t react at all. Maybe he hadn’t even heard him. Too bad. For Sammy the edge was gone now, and the rest of this would be nothing more than mechanics.
Dr. Brushcut was folding up his act now, and Sammy stayed on the fringe of the crowd as it ambled to the big courtyard door. Near the door, though, he drifted off to the left, then fitted himself neatly behind the roof column in the southwest corner of the yard.
Everybody was out of the place now except for the snake charmer and Biorkin, who was obviously his assistant. Having the two of them in here made things dicey. Then Sammy heard the doc call out, “Good night, Lou,” and he made out the little snaker walking up the hallway on the other side of the courtyard. The light was getting really bad now. The guy turned the corner and came straight down the west hall toward Sammy. But, as Sammy had figured, the snake doctor stopped at the main door, pushed it open, and stepped out of the exhibit yard into the lobby.
This was beautiful, Sammy realized. Only he and “Lou” Biorkin were left in here. Couldn’t have engineered a better setup if he’d planned it.
He listened. The courtyard was dead silent. Had Biorkin somehow slipped out with the crowd? Or maybe out the back? Sammy racked his memory. Was there a back door down there?
Then he heard a rattle. A rattle!! Come on, calm down, he ordered himself. Rattlesnakes don’t make door noises. There was a door back there, and son of a bitch Biorkin was going through it!
Sammy sprinted down the south hallway, first running flat out, then getting a lot more careful as he realized he was ramming along only a foot from the snake cages that lined the outside wall.
He skittered around the southeast comer of the corridor, raced along the east side, and — hell, here it was, a rear door. He shoved down the panic bar. The door wouldn’t budge. It was locked by a key-operated deadbolt. Biorkin had gone out this way, now Sammy had to run all the way back to the main entrance and—
Wait a minute! What was that? He turned toward the courtyard and listened. Footsteps. Sounded like they were going up the north corridor toward the door. The guy was still in here! He’d locked this rear door from the inside, and he was still in here.
Then Sammy heard the stealthy footsteps pause. There was a grating noise, like wood sliding on concrete, and Biorkin’s padding steps picked up again, heading for the main entrance.
Sammy launched himself straight up the middle of the courtyard. Biorkin was still over on the north side, and if Sammy was quick enough, he could reach the main door the same time Biorkin did.
At the midpoint, where the two walkways intersected, Sammy’s leather-soled shoes slipped. He went down on one knee, cracking it painfully against the bricks. He’d told himself he ought to start wearing rubber soles, but he hadn’t found a pair that looked decent. He was up again almost as soon as he’d gone down, but the slip had cost him. He caught a dim glimpse of Biorkin’s white coat as the big main door opened, a flash of the lobby lighting, then the door slammed shut again.
Biorkin was in the lobby, no doubt racing for his car. Now Sammy would have to go out there, get in his own car, tail him until he pulled into his driveway or stopped at some store on the way home, and improvise from there. This thing was getting more complicated than Sammy liked. He reached the end of the main walkway and lunged for the door.
Locked. He shook the handle. Locked with a keyed deadbolt like the door behind him.
This was crazy. Him, Sammy Little Shot Pippitone, the world’s greatest snake hater, locked in with a world-class snake population. He sagged against the door, pulled great ragged breaths, and tried not to go into giggle-sob hysterics. Wait till Big Shot Orsini heard about this! There’d be no end to the ragging Sammy’d have to take.
He tried to concentrate on that funny side of it, but there was no getting around what was going on here. He had let a dumb-ass taxi jock outflank him and lock him in here with hundreds of—
A hot needle of panic speared through Sammy’s tumbling brain. He banged on the door with both fists. “Let me outta here! I’m locked in. Let me OUT!”
He put his ear to the door. Nothing. Biorkin must have been the last person in the place, and now he was gone. Sammy slowly turned and faced the courtyard. Silence. Silence blanketed by darkness thick as a quilt. He could barely make out the rim of the courtyard wall against the overcast, starless night. To his right, almost at his elbow, it seemed, he heard the faint jitter of scales against something dry. A snake over there was shifting around in his cage. An icy tremor skittered down Sammy’s back.
A flicker of dim blue light silhouetted the east wall of the courtyard. What could— Then distant thunder rumbled. He felt it more than heard it, felt it through the thin soles of his city Thom McAns. Did the snakes feel it, too? All around him, he heard rustlings and twitchings.
He didn’t belong here, for Chrissake! Not here in snake city, Florida, ten miles from nowhere.
Out on the Tamiami Trail, a truck howled past. There were people going by not a hundred yards away, but he might as well be on the moon.
Come on, Sammy, think. He backed tight against the door. At least this way nothing could sneak up behind him. Climb out of here, maybe? The only access to the roof over the perimeter hallway was up one of the supporting columns. If they’d been narrow enough to get a grip around, he might have been able to shinny up to the roof. But the columns were too thick for that.
Lightning flickered again. The seconds between flash and rumble were fewer. Damned storm was getting closer. Like he needed that on top of all his immediate problems.
Slow down, Sammy, he urged himself. There were only two problems: get out of here, then whack Biorkin. He wasn’t too worried about the Biorkin part. He had a line on where the guy lived, and the Family had feelers everywhere in case Biorkin skipped. Like he had in Miami. The big problem was right now: getting out of this hell hole before he went... batty.