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."
"Yes . . . rattlesnake meat when cooked the right way, is pretty good," Freeman said, collecting the plates.
Johnny's eyes opened wide.
"That snake meat?"
"I live on it."
"Well, for God's sake!"
Freeman laughed.
"A lot better than horse." He went away and Johnny heard him washing up.
After a while, Freeman came back into the small bedroom.
"I've things to do," he said. "You don't have to worry. No one comes here. I'll be back in three or four hours." He eyed the beginning of a beard on Johnny's face. "Want to shave? I have a cordless."
Johnny shook his head.
"I reckon on growing a beard."
The two men looked at each other, then Freeman nodded.
"Take a nap. I'll lock you in," and he went away.
Although his head and his ankle still ached, Johnny slid into sleep. When he awoke the light was fading and he felt a lot better. His headache had gone away, but his ankle still bothered him.
Lying there, looking out of the window, watching the sun sink behind the trees, he wondered about Freeman. An oddball, he told himself, but someone he felt he could trust. Instinctively, he was sure of that.
He turned his thoughts to Massino. Having worked so long for him, Johnny could guess how he was reacting: like an enraged bull.
How long would it be before he went to Tanza and asked the organization to take over? Maybe the organization was already hunting for him. Johnny thought of all that money stashed away in the left- luggage locker. He thought of Sammy. He would have to get in touch with him. AS soon as his ankle was mended, he would have to telephone him and explain why he had had to take his savings. Sammy might be able to tell him what action Massino was taking.
He saw a movement through the open window and his hand flew to his gun. Then he relaxed as he saw Freeman coming across the clearing, carrying a burlap sack that jerked and writhed in his grasp.
Snakes!
Johnny grimaced.
What a way to earn a living!
Five minutes later, Freeman came into the bedroom, carrying two glasses of ice cold beer.
"How's the ankle?" he asked, giving Johnny one of the glasses and then sitting on the end of the bed. "Still hurts, but nothing bad."
"I'll take a look at it in a moment." Freeman drank, sighed, then set down the half-empty glass. "I found three Cottonmouths. You've brought me luck." He smiled, "Do I ask your name, friend or would you rather I didn't?"
"Call me Johnny." A pause, then Johnny said, "Do you always treat strangers the way you're treating me?"
"You're the first. Yes, I believe in helping people when I can. A long time ago I needed a lot of help myself and someone came along and helped me. It's something I remember. Cast your bread upon the waters." Freeman chuckled. "I'm not a religious man, but that saying makes sense to me. There's one thing I've learned, living the way I do and that's not to ask questions and to accept people on face value."
"That's as good a rule as any," Johnny said quietly.
"I guess I'm lucky you found me."
"Let's have a look at the ankle, then I'll help you undress, I've got a spare pair of pyjamas you can have."
Gently, he removed the bandage, soaked it in ice water, and replaced it. Then he helped Johnny out of his jacket.
Only for the briefest moment did Freeman pause when he saw the gun holster and the gun. Then he waited until Johnny unbuckled the harness and put the gun down by his side.
"That's part of my trouble, Johnny said.
"I guess it's part of a lot of people's troubles these days," Freeman said. "Let's get your pants off," and he gently drew Johnny's trousers over the injured ankle.
There was a tinkling sound and Freeman looked down. He bent and picked up something, then looked at Johnny. "Is this yours?" he asked. "It dropped out of your trousers' cuff."
He held out his open palm.
Lying in the middle of his palm was the St. Christopher medal.
Johnny lay staring out of the open window at the moon-lit jungle. From the other bedroom, he could hear Freeman snoring softly. He held the St. Christopher medal in his hand.
It had come back to him, he was thinking, but at what a cost!
All the time he had been searching for it, it had been in his trousers' cuff as if jeering at him! Had it not been for the medal he would have still been working for Massino, helping him in the search for the missing money! Because he panicked, believing the medal was in Andy's office, he was now on the run. He felt like throwing the medal out of the window and cursing it, but he was too superstitious to do this.
As long as you have it, nothing really bad can happen to you.
He could hear his mother's sad, weary voice as if she were in the room with him.
Well, he had it back! So maybe the organization wouldn't find him. Maybe, after all, he would have his boat. Maybe he would be the first man in history to escape the Mafia's death sentence!
He hooked the medal onto the chain and squeezed the hook tightly shut.
But lying there, watching the rising moon, listening to the sounds of the wind in the trees, the medal cold against his sweating chest, gave him no comfort.
He lay sleepless until the dawn came and then he slept and while he slept two cars, with the pick of Massino's mob, converged on the scene of the truck accident.
Lu Berilli was in charge of the operation. The cars pulled up as the sun began to climb, lighting the jungle.
Berilli surveyed the dense jungle facing him and grimaced. This, he now realized, was going to be a hell of an operation. If Johnny was hiding somewhere in these thickets, someone could get hurt, and Berilli had no stomach to come up against a man with Johnny's reputation for fast shooting. He wished he had kept his mouth shut, but it was now too late. Eight men crowded around him, waiting. They were all tough and trigger-happy: specially picked by Massino.
"This is the spot," Berilli said, trying to sound confident. "We'll split up. Three of you to the left: three to the right. Freddy, Jack and me go down the centre. Watch it! He's in there somewhere. Don't take any chances."
The two he had picked to go with him—Freddy and Jack—were button men who had worked for the Mafia and had been loaned to Massino as the New York police were hunting for them: ruthless killers, utterly without nerves.
Freddy was in his late twenties: thin, hard, dark with stony eyes and an irritating habit of whistling through his teeth. Jack was five years older than Freddy. He was a garotte artist, short, squat with restless flat eyes and an inane grin that was a fixture on his fat face.
The men split up and moved into the dark jungle.
Reaching the burned-out truck, Berilli paused.
"Some smash," he said. He looked down the path that led deeper into the jungle. "Jack, you go ahead. I follow you. Freddy keeps in the rear. Take it slow. He could be holed up anywhere in this goddamn mess."
Johnny came awake as Freeman opened his bedroom door.
"Good night?" Freeman asked and gave Johnny a cup of tea.
"Fair." Johnny sat up and gratefully sipped the tea.
"I'm off into the jungle," Freeman said, "but I'll take a look before I go." He went out and returned with a bowl of ice water, changed the bandage, then nodded his satisfaction. "It's coming along, the inflammation has gone. I won't be back for seven or eight hours. I'll leave you some cold stew. You want a book?"
Johnny shook his head.
"I don't read books. I'll be okay."
"I'll lock you in and pull the shutters. You don't have to worry. No one ever comes here, but let's play it safe."
Johnny's fingers touched his gun.
"I'll be fine . . . and thanks for everything."
With a bowl of cold rattlesnake stew by his side, a supply of cigarettes and a flask of ice water, Johnny settled down on his hard little bed. Freeman swung the heavy slatted wooden shutter's closed.
"It'll be hot later," he said, "but better too hot than sorry." He seemed to sense the danger Johnny was in. "Sorry to leave you, but I've got to find a cranebrake rattler. The hospital is yelling for its serum. Could take me all day."
"I'm fine," Johnny said. "Maybe I could use a book . . . anything but the Bible."
Freeman went into the living-room and, after a while, came back with a copy of
The Godfather
by Puzo.
Johnny hadn't read a book since he had left school. When he found this book was the story of the Mafia organization he became absorbed in it. Time fled away. So absorbed was he that he forgot to eat the cold stew and it wasn't until he found the light was fading as it came through the slatted shutters and he had difficulty in seeing the print that he realized he was hungry, that his ankle no longer ached and it was 17.20 by his watch.