The Night People

by Edward D. Hoch

  He came on from the side, dressed in a tight sequined suit that shimmered in the sunlight. Edna knew without asking that it was the suit Mama Lopez had made for him. He staggered slightly as Manuela left him alone in the center of the ring.

  “What’s the matter with him?” Edna demanded, jumping to her feet. “What’s he doing out there?”

  But the mayor’s firm hands were gripping her, pulling her back to her seat. “There is nothing to fear,” he said above the growing chant of the small crowd.

  She looked on, unbelieving, as Manuela returned, carrying the traditional red cape and sword. Arthur accepted them and turned to gaze up at her for just a moment. His eyes were blurred as if by drink.

  “He’s no bullfighter!” Edna screamed above the crowd. “What have you done to him?”

  Mayor Friega kept his grip on her. “The doctor has administered certain drugs which diminish the sense of fear and inhibition. He is a strong man. He will do well.”

  And then she saw the black van with its rear doors open, saw the raging bull released into the ring. “That bull will kill him!”

  “No, no …”

  “He has no training! He’s never done this!”

  “The odds are still good. Last summer the man killed the bull.”

  “Last summer …” The full horror of what was happening began to dawn on her. “And the summer before that?” she asked, remembering Rita Quinn’s husband. “What about the summer before that?”

  But Rita was holding her down now too, and her cries went unheard against the roar of the crowd. The bull charged and Arthur stepped aside, barely dodging the deadly horns.

  “Ole!” the crowd shouted with one voice.

  Mama Lopez said into her ear, “Don’t you understand? It’s the sport that is important here, not whether the man or the bull wins! It is the sport that brings back the old life to this poor town, once each year. Our men will no longer fight, so we must depend on outsiders like your husband.”

  The bull charged again, barely missing Arthur’s thigh, and the crowd cheered once more. Arthur looked dazed. He was shaking his head, perhaps wondering what he was doing there. But even as Edna saw him weaken she knew it wouldn’t matter. This was what they had come here for, and Mama Lopez was right. It didn’t matter who won. The sport and the town were all that mattered to them.

  And as the bull made its next deadly pass she was on her feet with the others.

  “Ole!” she shouted, “Ole!”

  The Rattlesnake Man

  CROCKER WAS AWAKENED BY the ringing of the telephone next to his bed. He opened one eye and guessed by the amount of light filtering through the drapes that the time must be somewhere around noon. He picked up the phone and gave a mumbled hello.

  “Is this Steve Crocker?” a young woman asked.

  “Yes,” he admitted reluctantly.

  He didn’t like calls from strangers.

  “You don’t know me, but my name is Amy Brand. I’d like to interview you for a magazine article.”

  “What for?” he asked, sitting up in bed.

  “Well, you’re the one they call the Rattlesnake Man, aren’t you?”

  “Sorry, I don’t give interviews,” he said and hung up before she could reply.

  He got out of bed and pulled open the drapes, squinting his eyes against the brightness of the Las Vegas sun. In the distance he could see the hotels along the Strip, rising like modern monoliths from the desert floor. But he preferred looking in the other direction, toward the hazy mountains with their promise of escape.

  Crocker poured himself some orange juice and wondered how the girl had obtained his number. It was in the book, of course, and almost anyone could have told her his name.

  He remembered suddenly that it was Monday. Stunt night, when the suckers came to see him perform. What the hell—it was a living.

  After he showered, Crocker went downstairs to the lobby of the small residential hotel where he’d lived for nearly a year. It might be time to find another place, he speculated, and get an unlisted phone number.

  Sammy called to him from behind the desk. “Got an incoming call for you, Mr. Crocker.”

  “Man or woman?”

  “Man. Sounds like Mr. Qually.”

  “I’ll take it here,” Crocker said, and went to pick up the phone at the end of the desk.

  “Crocker?” the familiar voice rasped. “This is George Qually.”

  “How are you?”

  “Not bad. I wanted to tell you about tonight. There are some Arabs in town with big money. They want some real action. Don’t be surprised if somebody brings them around.”

  “That’s your end of it,” Crocker said. “As long as they’re betting real dollars, you can have whoever you want.”

  “Another thing,” Qually said quickly, as if sensing the conversation was about to end. “Holston is looking for you. Yesterday he came by my office. You got dealings with him?”

  “Not if I can help it. Thanks for the tip.”

  “You’ll be here tonight?”

  “Have I ever let you down?”

  Crocker hung up before Qually could answer. He waved a goodbye to Sammy and went out into the sunlight.

  Another day.

  But a Monday.

  He had breakfast at the Hilton, lingering over his coffee while he played a few losing games of Keno. “It’s not your lucky day,” the red-haired Keno girl told him.

  “I hope you’re wrong about that,” he replied.

  He gave her a generous tip, maybe to change his luck, and took a cab downtown. The city was full of tourists, as always, and the sight of them depressed Crocker. He wondered why he stayed in Vegas, carrying on his strange Monday-night ritual for the high rollers. Was it only to demonstrate that he could beat this city after all?

  A stick man at one casino told him, “Holston’s looking for you.”

  “So I hear.”

  He went on to another place, nervously killing time as he always did on Monday afternoons. He was looking over the race results from the eastern tracks at one of the betting parlors off Fremont Street when a young woman he’d never seen before came up to him and said, “You’re Steve Crocker, aren’t you?”

  Her precise eastern accent was like a voice remembered from a dream. “Yeah,” he admitted.

  She extended her slim white hand. “Amy Brand. I called you a few hours ago for an interview.”

  “You woke me up,” he said. “Have you been following me? How’d you find me here?”

  “You were pointed out to me once. When I saw you walking along the street just now I thought I’d ask you again about that interview.”

  “The answer’s still no.”

  “I wouldn’t take long. Really!”

  She was wearing a white-linen pants outfit that was dressier than usual for Las Vegas by day. With her blonde hair and slim figure she looked more like a model or a high-priced hooker than a reporter. Maybe that was why he said, “Sit down. I’ll give you ten minutes.”

  “Thanks!” She brushed the hair from her eyes and slipped a tiny cassette recorder from her purse. “You don’t mind if I tape this, do you? It saves taking notes.”

  A shout went up from some of the customers as the late results from another track were posted. “Maybe you’d like someplace quieter,” he suggested.

  “This’ll be all right. I sometimes think there’s no really quiet place in Vegas.”

  “Try the casinos on a Monday morning, when everybody’s sleeping off the weekend.”

  She snapped on the recorder and began. “Mr. Crocker, there have been a great many stories circulating about the Monday-night game that’s played at a secret location here in Las Vegas. I understand that only important people—movie stars, special visitors, and the casino owners themselves—are admitted.”

  “You know more than I do,” he said with a smile.

  “Hardly, Mr. Crocker. Among certain people you’re known as the Rattlesnake Man because of your participati
on in these Monday-night games.”

  “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. I
t 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.”