By the Balls

by Jim Pascoe

  The room had many walls that zigged and zagged every which way, giving the space an odd shape. Habitat doors of various sizes, each sporting its own padlock, covered each wall. A stack of metal cages filled with rabbits, rats, and mice sat in the middle of the room.

  I pointed at the stack of cages. “This what you feed the snakes?”

  “Woo hoo! That’s right, Mr. Drake. You’re a good detective, I can see that. The smaller snakes, like Anastasia, the jungle carpet python, get the mice; your middle-sized snakes, like Roscoe, our ball python, get the rats; and the big snakes, like Georgia, get the rabbits.”

  “Seems to be plenty of rabbits here, Bobby.”

  “Absolutely there are, Mr. Drake. We keep pretty well-stocked on all our rodents.”

  “Okay, but on the phone you mentioned that Georgia hasn’t eaten for something like two months . . .”

  “Well, you’re right again there, Mr. Drake.”

  He adjusted his hat in the special way that let me know I was about to get another lesson.

  “Y’see, snakes don’t eat like mammals. No sir. Let’s take Georgia for instance. She doesn’t really need food that often.” As he talked he pointed from rodent cage to snake cage and back again like a broken circus puppet. “When we feed her, it’s usually two rabbits at a time, and that keeps her pretty satisfied until she’s ready to eat again.”

  “And that’s two months later?”

  “It depends on the time of year, really. In the spring and summer she eats more often, but in the fall and winter, two months is pretty normal.”

  “So that’s why you think she’s pretty hungry by now.”

  “Oh yeah. I’ve never known Georgia to go much longer than a few months between meals, except for once when she was sick. And when she’s ready to eat, boy oh boy is she hungry.”

  “I bet that’s something to see,” I mumbled.

  “It sure is, Mr. Drake. Say, it’s about time for Roscoe to eat. Do you want to see him in action?”

  “That’s all right, Bobby. I’d rather take a look at the door to Georgia’s cage, if you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all. You’re all business, I can see that.”

  Regardie strolled over to the biggest cage door.

  “I’ve left everything just as I found it this morning.”

  I took a closer look. A pair of bolt cutters had sliced the padlock cleanly open. And with the lock out of the way, access to the inside of the cage was no problem.

  “You can’t think of anyone who might have done this?” I thought I’d let fly with the routine.

  “No, no. No one at all. Do you have any ideas?”

  “Yeah, this was done by someone who works at the park.”

  His eyes widened and he gasped, putting a hand over his mouth. “An inside job?”

  I nodded in friendly agreement. “Who else has access to this room?”

  It took a moment for him to answer. “Anyone with a key, I guess.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Of course. And who would that be?”

  “All the animal handlers . . . the maintenance staff . . . I guess that would be about it.”

  “Can you get me a list of those people?”

  “Sure as sunshine I can, Mr. Drake, but it might take a little time.”

  “I can wait. And while you’re doing that, is there someplace I can grab a bite to eat?”

  I realized I hadn’t had anything but coffee past my lips all morning. And that realization got my stomach to complaining. I always work better with a little food in my gut.

  “Hungry, eh? Well, no need to worry about that, Mr. Drake. We got some of the best cooks right here at the park’s cafeteria. Yes sir. You’re in for a real treat.”

  Regardie locked up the reptile house before we hiked halfway across the park to the staff cafeteria, a squat, unimposing building next to the noisy aviary.

  All this walking wasn’t helping to ease my hunger any.

  “Here you are, Mr. Drake. Why don’t you go on in and get yourself a nice meal, while I head to admin and get you that list.”

  “Sounds like a good plan, Bobby.”

  I started through the door, mouth watering at the prospect of food.

  “Say, Mr. Drake,” Bobby called to me.

  “What is it, Bobby?” I replied, slightly annoyed.

  “Ummm . . . well . . . I was just wondering if . . . if it’s okay if I call you Ben,” he stammered. “I mean, ’cause we’re buddies now . . . right?”

  “Sure, we’re buddies. Of course you can call me Ben,” I sighed.

  “Wowie, Ben . . . thanks!”

  Bobby bounced off to get the list, finally leaving me to fend for myself in the cafeteria.

  * * *

  Unfortunately, as it was well into the afternoon, the cafeteria had finished serving lunch; all they had left was a selection of appetizers. It was better than nothing, so I helped myself to a plate of deep-fried mushrooms, mozzarella sticks with marinara sauce, and some delicious-looking crab cakes. And of course, I rounded out the meal with a big cup of coffee.

  A few other folks hung out in the cafeteria, most of them reading the paper and drinking coffee; all except for one fellow, a big blond gorilla whose green eyes kept drifting my way. After a little while he came over and pulled up a section of bench next to me.

  “Hey, I haven’t seen you around before . . . friend.”

  It wasn’t a greeting. It was a threat.

  “Yeah, I’m just visiting.” I showed him the sticker on my lapel. “See? I’m a Park Pal.”

  “Yeah? You got business out here . . . pal?”

  He was trying to scare me, but I don’t scare easy. I stopped eating and looked at him. His pale lips twitched behind his unkempt beard. He wore a grease-stained, dark gray work shirt with the sleeves cut off. A tattoo of a coiled cobra writhed on his huge bicep. He gripped the edge of the table with a white-knuckled hand. The air between us crackled with raging testosterone. He wanted to start something, and not something pretty.

  I calmed myself, keeping my eyes on his.

  “As a matter of fact, I do—looking into the disappearance of Georgia.”

  “That snake?”

  “That’s right. Know anything about it?”

  His eyes flicked downward before he responded. “No.”

  Just then Bobby Regardie breezed through the cafeteria’s swinging doors.

  “Hey, Ben! I got that list for you.”

  He moved my way with a sheet of paper clutched in his fist, then took note of my companion.

  “Oh, I see you’ve met Kirby Doyle. He takes care of all the official park vehicles around here.”

  I looked at Doyle. “That so?”

  “Yeah, that’s so.” Doyle stood up and rolled his shoulders. “See you around.”

  “Yeah. See you around.”

  I took the list from Bobby and scanned it. About thirty names filled the page. Kirby Doyle’s was one of them.

  “What do you know about this Doyle fellow?” I asked Bobby.

  “Not hardly a thing; he keeps pretty much to himself. I hear he’s a real good mechanic, though.”

  Initially politics seemed like a reasonable reason for the crime. However, after my run-in with Doyle, the motive started to smell like money.

  “Bobby, how much is Georgia worth?”

  “How much is she worth? She’s priceless!”

  “To you, sure. But let’s say someone wanted to sell her.”

  He gasped. “Do you think . . . ? Oh, God, I’ll never see her again!” His rag-doll body dropped down on the bench next to me. His fingers dug into my shoulder and he flopped his face against the back of his hands like he was going to cry.

  “Relax, Bobby.” I palmed his head like a basketball and lifted it from my shoulder. “Try to work with me here. What could someone get for her?”

  “Well, it’s hard to say. Not many pythons of her size are in captivity, so if a collector really wanted one that big—I mean really, really
wanted one—they’d probably pay more than ten thousand dollars.”

  “That’s a lot of cash to own a snake.”

  “Yeah,” he agreed. “But let me tell you, Ben, Georgia’s a lot of snake and worth every penny. I’d pay that much to get her back.”

  “Good to know. Thanks, Bobby.”

  He stood up and collected himself. “No sense falling to pieces; I’ve got to be strong for Georgia.” He paused a moment, taking a deep breath and furrowing his brow. “What’s our next move, Ben?”

  “I’ve got a few people to talk to. After that, well, let’s just say I have a few hunches.”

  “Wowie, Ben! Already? You sure do work fast, I can see that.”

  “I’m just doing my job. Say, Bobby, if I want to come back out here to follow up on some clues, is there an easier way to get into the park than going through the main gate?”

  “Sure thing, Ben, just follow the signs to the employee lot. You can park there. I’ll let the security guy know that you’re okay.”

  “I appreciate that, Bobby.” Despite being a little odd, the guy was jake in my book. “You’re okay too.”

  Bobby grinned and his face turned a bright crimson. For once he seemed speechless. I stood up and clapped him on the back.

  “I’d best get going. It’s getting late, and I still have work to do tonight.”

  * * *

  It was early evening when I got back to my car, still waiting for me under the blue-and-white koala sign like a faithful pet.

  My whole body ached after following Bobby all over the park. I opened the door and slipped into the driver’s seat. Not counting the leather easy chair in my apartment, this was the most comfortable seat I owned. I closed my eyes for a moment and thought about snatching a little rest. I didn’t have time to waste, though; I had a case to solve.

  I cranked the ignition, and the car roared to life. I shook my head in a futile attempt to energize myself, then began the job of navigating back to the highway.

  Keeping my eyes open on the drive back to town wasn’t easy. The sun was sitting low in the sky, washing the desert with a red glow the color of a fire’s smoldering remains.

  I was rarely in the open desert at sunset, but when I was, it always made me want to smoke. I indulged myself; it kept me awake as I drove the rest of the way into town.

  Darkness had settled upon the city by the time I arrived. I had some thinking to do, so I headed to the agency. Everyone had gone home. The place was pretty quiet—just how I liked it.

  I sat down at my desk and noticed I still wore my Park Pal sticker. For some reason it amused me. Maybe it was the image of Kirby Doyle calling me pal. Or maybe it reminded me of my wife. Either way, I peeled it off and stuck it to the side of my old typewriter.

  I slid open the bottom drawer of my desk and pulled out a fifth of Old Grand-Dad. I checked my cup; a tiny brown ring of dried coffee rested in the bottom. I poured myself a little nip anyway. The bourbon’s sweet sting soothed my aching muscles and helped me think about my next move.

  I picked up the phone and dialed “Steady” Freddie Edison, a fence I knew in Las Vegas. I heard a soft click as someone picked up the line on the other end. Then there was nothing but the low hum of long-distance static. It was Freddie all right.

  One of Freddie’s rules is that the caller talks first. If Freddie doesn’t know you, he hangs up. Another rule of Freddie’s is that he doesn’t do business with strangers. Luckily, we weren’t strangers.

  “Hey, Freddie, it’s Ben Drake.”

  “Ben, baby! How’s life up in ol’ TC?”

  “Pretty good, Freddie, pretty good. How’s business?”

  We exchanged a few more trifles before I got around to the reason for my call.

  “I’m wondering if you’ve heard anything about someone trying to sell a stolen snake.”

  “A stolen snake? I’ve moved some weird goods in my day, but that’s tops.”

  “So you’ve heard nothing.”

  “Zip. Zilch. Nada. Why? What’s up?”

  “Someone swiped a big snake from the Gesner Wild Animal Park. I’m thinking they’re going to try to sell her.”

  “What sort of dollar figure we talking about?”

  “Around ten thousand, give or take a little.”

  “For a snake? That’s too crazy!” he spluttered. “Besides, ten large is way too south for most of my customers.”

  “That’s what I figured, but I know you got ears. Let me know if you hear something, will ya?”

  “Shall do, my man. You keep cool, now.” I heard him snap his fingers at me before he hung up.

  I eased back in my chair, sipped my bourbon, and closed my eyes. I couldn’t get Kirby Doyle off my mind.

  I pulled out my copy of the Testacy City phone book—a thin volume that combined the yellow and white pages. I set the book on my desk and opened it to the D section of the residential listings. I found thirteen Doyles, but not one of them had a Kirby next to it. I didn’t want to do a door-to-door tonight, so I thought I’d try a different approach. I flipped until I got to the Pets heading in the yellow pages. Testacy City boasted three pet stores: Desert Fish and Pets; Fins, Feathers, and Fur; and Jan’s Pets.

  A fierce rumbling started up in my stomach. I glanced at the watch I kept tacked to the wall next to my desk. Eight o’clock was about to break. No wonder: the only meal I’d eaten all day was the grub at the animal park, and those small servings didn’t satisfy my appetite.

  I ran my eyes over the store listings again. Looked like Jan had set up her pet store right downtown, not too far from the office. It wouldn’t be a bad idea to swing by the place, just in case it was still open. After that I’d grab a burger or something from the malt shop down the street.

  I poured the rest of the bourbon down my throat and left the office to the roaches.

  * * *

  I found Jan’s Pets right where the yellow pages said I would: at 9337 Oak Street in downtown Testacy City, just around the corner from the police station. It inhabited a nondescript, two-story building stuck between a dry cleaners and a liquor store. I must have passed it a million times before but never paid much attention to it. Then again, I don’t have any pets.

  A Closed sign hung at a rakish angle on the wood-and-glass door, but the lights still blazed brightly inside the small shop. I peered in, looking for any sign of life. A lot of movement caught my eye, but nothing human.

  I tapped on the glass a couple of times with a quarter, hoping to attract some attention. I did.

  A woman appeared from somewhere near the back of the room and walked toward the door. Her dark brown—almost black—hair tumbled down to her shoulders in gentle, natural waves, making her bright blue eyes seem that much brighter. Her red-checked dress, which sort of resembled a Purina dog food bag, didn’t do much to hide her pleasantly plump figure. I got the impression she liked it that way. She had a country-gal wholesomeness; I wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d been raised on a farm. In short, she was an attractive woman.

  A tiny brass bell jangled as she opened the door. It was a wonder I heard the bell with all the racket going on in the joint. The dogs barked and the birds screeched—even the fish seemed to be making noise.

  The place had the same earthy sort of smell as every other pet store I’d ever been in: a combination of fur, dried food, and the sharp tang of animal waste.

  “Evening, ma’am,” I said, tipping my hat like a gentleman. She seemed to inspire that sort of behavior. I offered her a business card. She took it.

  “Good evening.” A genuine smile beamed out from her broad, attractive face.

  “I closed awhile ago, but I guess I have time for one last customer. Please come in.” She held the door open for me.

  As I walked into the store, her smiling eyes left mine while she read the contents of my card.

  “A real detective here in my store!” she exclaimed. “Well, what can I do for you, Mister . . .” her eyes flicked back to the card for
a second to grab my name, “Drake?”

  “Please, call me Ben, Miss . . .” I went fishing for her name.

  I caught it: “Just call me Jan, Ben.”

  “Jan it is, then.”

  “Now, I bet you’re here for a dog. You look like a dog sort of fellow to me.” She started down an aisle to the left. “Follow me,” she coaxed.

  I never had a dog, and although I had wanted one when I was a boy (what boy doesn’t?), I couldn’t see having one right now. I’d watched Rhoda Chang’s dog once when she went out of town, and the thing nearly destroyed my apartment. No, there was no way I could have a dog. The demands of being a detective kept me away from home too much.

  Nevertheless, something about the way Jan walked prompted me to follow her down the aisle. She stopped in front of a cage and lifted out a little dog. I had to admit it was cute.

  Jan introduced us. “Ben, this is Rufus.”

  Rufus squirmed and wiggled in her arms as I reached out to pat him on the head. His long tongue flicked out across my hand. As I said, cute.

  “What sort of dog is he?”

  “She, actually. Someone mistook the poor dear for a boy, and now it’s too late to change her name without confusing her. Isn’t that right, Rufus?” Jan put Rufus back into her cage. Rufus whined at the prospect of further imprisonment. I certainly couldn’t blame her for that.

  Jan locked the cage and turned around, straightening a few boxes on a nearby shelf. “She’s a Jack Russell terrier. Good breed.”

  “I’m sure it is, but I’m afraid I couldn’t get a dog right now.”

  “Well, that’s too bad, Ben.” She smiled that winning smile again. “Then what brings you down here to my little shop?”

  “I was hoping you could help me with some information.”

  “I’ll try. If it’s easy, I won’t even charge you,” she winked.

  “I’m sort of wondering what you’d feed a python . . . or is it a boa constrictor?” Bobby’s explanation of the differences between the species had the two types all twisted around in my head. “Either way, what you’d feed a big snake.”

  “Well, depending on the size, either rats or rabbits.”