was prowling around the office. He told him what Ernie had said.
“There’s one thing we should have done, Mr. Joe,” Andy said. “We should have checked out Reddy’s cafe. I’ll do it. We should have thought of that right away.”
“I want you here!” Massino snapped: “Get someone to do it! Send Lu Berilli!”
“I’ll do it myself,” Andy said firmly. He was sick of staying in the office listening to Massino cursing Johnny. “I’ll…” Then he stopped as he saw Massino glaring at him, his little eyes like red, flaming buttons.
“You stay here!” Massino snarled. “Don’t forget you’re the only punk who had the key to the safe? So, you stay here until I find Johnny and the money!”
Andy was expecting this.
“And if you don’t find him?”
“Then I’ll start looking at you! Tell Berilli to go to the cafe and ask around.”
“You’re the boss, Mr. Joe,” Andy said and reaching for the telephone he instructed Lu Berilli to go to Reddy’s cafe.
Three hours later, Lu Berilli came hurriedly into Massino’s office. Berilli was a tall, thin Italian, around thirty years of age with a moviestar profile and a success with women. Massino considered him a bright boy and he was right. Berilli had a good brain, but Massino knew his limitations. There was a yellow streak in Berilli: he had no stomach for violence, and that meant he couldn’t rise very high in Massino’s kingdom.
“You’ve taken your goddamn time!” Massino snarled.
“I wanted to get this dead right, Mr. Joe,” Berilli said quietly, “And I’ve got it right.” He produced a one inch to the mile map and spread it on Massino’s desk. Leaning forward, he tapped with a manicured finger nail. “Right here, Mr. Joe, is where I guess Bianda is at this moment.”
Massino, surprised, stared at the map, then up at Berilli.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“From my information, Johnny got a ride with a punch drunk trucker,” Bern said. “Heading south. I was told this trucker was due to blow his top. That’s what he did. The truck went off the freeway around seventy miles an hour just here.” Berilli again tapped the map. “The trucker was killed. There was a hell of a smash. There’s no trace of Bianda, but he has to be hurt. If we act fast, it’s my bet he’s holed up someswhere in this bit of jungle I’ve marked. If we get the mob down there pronto, we could flush him out.”
Massino’s lips came off his teeth in a snarling grin.
“Good work, Lu,” he said, then raising his voice, he bawled for Andy.
Johnny felt cold water on his face that trickled into his mouth. He became aware of a shadowy figure bending over him. Fear clutched at him and he struggled up, shaking his head, forcing his eyes into focus. Then the figure bending over him became clear: a thin, bearded man, wearing a bush hat and khaki drill. He had a hooked nose and the sharpest, clearest blue eyes Johnny had ever seen.
“Take it easy,” the man said gently. “You’ve found a friend.”
Johnny struggled up into a sitting position. He was immediately aware of a dull, throbbing pain in his head and a sharp, grinding pain in his right ankle.
“I’ve busted my ankle,” he said, then grabbed hold of the water bottle the man, was holding and drank thirstily. “Phew!” He lowered the bottle and regarded the man suspiciously.
“You have a bad sprain,” the man said. “No bones broken. Just take it easy. I’ll get an ambulance. Do you live around here?”
“Who are you?” Johnny asked. His hand slid inside his coat and his sweating fingers closed around the butt of his gun.
“I’m Jay Freeman,” the man said and smiled. He was squatting on his heels. “You take it easy. I’ll get you fixed.”
“No!”
The snap in Johnny’s voice made Freeman look sharply at him.
“Are you in trouble, friend?” he asked.
Friend?
No one had ever used that word to him. Friend? It was now Johnny’s turn to look sharply at Freeman and what he saw was reassuring.
“You call it that,” he said. “I’m in a spot, but I’ve got money. Can you put me under the wraps until this goddamn ankle is okay?”
Freeman patted Johnny’s sweat-soaked arm.
“I told you… take it easy. Is it police trouble?”
“More than that.”
“Put your arm around my neck. Let’s go.”
With surprising strength, he got Johnny up on his left foot, then, supporting him, he helped him hop along the path until they reached the edge of the jungle where an old, broken-down Ford stood, parked in the shade.
Johnny was sweating and in pain as Freeman helped him into the car.
“Relax,” Freeman said as he slid under the driving wheel. “You’ve nothing to worry about.”
Johnny relaxed. The pain in his ankle kept him from talking. He just lay against the worn plastic seat, thankful he was moving.
He was dimly aware of being driven along the freeway, then up a dirt road, then along a narrow path where tree branches scraped against the sides of the car.
“Here’s home,” Freeman said and brought the car to a stop.
Johnny raised his head. He stared at a low-built log cabin, set in a clearing with trees overshadowing it. It looked good and safe to him.
“No problem,” Freeman said as he got out of the car. “You can rest up here.”
He half carried, half dragged Johnny into the cabin that consisted of a living-room, two bedrooms and a shower room. It was sparsely furnished and one side of the living-room was lined with books.
Freeman got Johnny into the smaller bedroom and propped him up against the wall. Then he stripped off the cotton coverlet on the bed and with care, steered him around and got him onto the bed. “Just relax,” Freeman said and went away.
Johnny’s ankle hurt so badly, he only half registered what was going on. He lay on the bed, staring up at the wooden ceiling, not believing this was happening to him.
Freeman returned with a glass of ice cold beer in his hand.
“Drink this.” He gave Johnny the beer. “I’ll look at your ankle.”
Johnny drank the beer in one gorgeous gulp. He set the glass down on the floor.
“Thanks! Man! Did I need that!”
“It’s a bad sprain,” Freeman told him. He had got Johnny’s shoe and sock off. “It can be fixed. In a week, you’ll be able to walk.”
Johnny half sat up.
“A week?”
“You’re safe here, friend,” Freeman said, “No one ever comes here. Maybe you’re a stranger in this district. I’m known as the Snake Man, and you have no idea the horror people have of snakes.”
Johnny stared at him.
“Snakes?”
“I catch snakes. It’s a living. I work with the hospitals. They’re always yelling for serum: I supply them. Right now I have three hundred venomous snakes in cages behind this cabin. People keep clear of me.” While he was talking, he bound Johnny’s ankle with a bandage soaked in iced water. Already the pain was lessening. “Feel like eating? I’ve been out all morning and I haven’t had a bite. Want to join me?”
“I could eat a horse,” Johnny said.
Freeman chuckled.
“That’s something not on the menu,” he said. “Won’t be long.”
Within ten minutes he came back with two soup plates full of thick, savoury-smelling stew. He sat on the end of the bed, handed Johnny one of the plates and began to eat. When Johnny had finished, he decided it was about the best meal he had eaten in years.
“You’re some cook!” he said. “Never tasted anything so good.”
