Mamba Point Page 19

  We waited for almost an hour. In that time I didn’t see one person move off the bench.

  “Charlie Brown’s friend!” A familiar voice boomed behind me. “Tell me, have you come to see if we have arrested any cannibals?” I wheeled around and saw Caesar. He was wearing a uniform with a lot of ribbons and medals on the jacket—the stuff my dad called “chest candy.” In the air force it meant somebody was important, and it was probably true for the Liberian police, too.

  “I didn’t know you were a policeman,” I told Caesar.

  He let out a booming laugh, then explained. “I’m the chief of police.” He didn’t seem to be kidding this time. “So, are you here for business, or just for a tour?” he asked with a big grin. “Either way, maybe there is something I can expedite?”

  I gulped. He could definitely help us, but would he tell Darryl? And what would he say if he saw Sekou passing himself off as Darryl? It was too much to think about.

  “This is my brother, Law,” I told him, just to stall. Law was looking baffled by the whole exchange.

  “You are the Law, and I am the Order, oh,” Caesar said, laughing again and offering Law a snap-shake.

  “Uh, yeah,” said Law. “I guess.”

  “He’s a friend of Darryl’s,” I muttered. Law nodded, then took a quick breath.

  “So, why are you here?” Caesar asked again. “I’d be happy to help you.”

  I had a split second to think, and what I thought was: What would the new Linus do? For that matter, what would the old Linus do? It was a moot point, I realized. The old Linus wouldn’t even be here. He would have let Matt sort out his own mess. Whatever I did, that was what the new Linus would do.

  I decided to come clean. “Matt Miller is here,” I told Caesar. “He’s in trouble.”

  “I see,” Caesar said knowingly. “Perhaps you know, too, who is the country fellow pretending to be his pa?”

  Caesar took us into his office. Law and I waited while he made a couple of phone calls. A few minutes later an officer brought Matt in. He dropped into a chair and hung his head.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “No,” Matt said gloomily. “This is all my fault.”

  “What were you doing?”

  Matt told us, in broken sentences, that he went to the Executive Mansion to help Gambeh’s father find a job.

  “I sneaked by the guards when they were talking to a delivery person,” he explained. “I was going to find you”—he nodded at Caesar—“or Robert or Jerry. I thought you all worked there. I got caught about two seconds later, though.”

  “It was very suspicious,” Caesar said. “He told the guard that story, but he couldn’t tell him the last names of any of these men he knew. Not even the first name of the man he wanted to help.”

  “It went one way in my head, and another way when I actually got there,” Matt admitted. He hung his head again.

  “Hear me now,” said Caesar. “I’m not a job agency. If I make things move around to create a position for this man, it will look bad.”

  “Would anyone even know?” Law asked.

  “I’m sure there are people who see everything I do,” Caesar said seriously. “I am very careful that they don’t see anything that would help them take my job.” He slapped his palm on the desk and laughed. “Maybe it is because my name is Caesar, oh? I beware every day like it is the Ides of March.”

  Matt nodded. “I’m sorry I asked.”

  “It’s no reason to be sorry.” He thought it over some more, drumming his fingers on the desk. “I know Hotel Africa hires many people. The manager there is a good friend. If your friend applies there, he may have good luck. It will not hurt to try.”

  Sekou came in with a policeman, holding the money we’d given him. There were no more chairs, so I jumped up and offered mine. He gave me the cash and sank into the chair.

  “Are you okay?” I asked him.

  “It was all bright lights and yelling and threats,” Sekou said, looking at me with bloodshot eyes. “I was very scared, but they did not hurt me.”

  “I’m sorry you were interrogated,” Caesar told him. “We did not know why a strange man who was not Darryl Miller would come for his son. It was very worrisome to me, and I needed to know the whole story.”

  “I understand,” said Sekou. “It must have been very suspicious.”

  “My men say he would not tell us a thing,” Caesar told us. “Over and over, he said he was Darryl Miller from Philadelphia. Even when they told him we knew he wasn’t.”

  I wondered how far Sekou would have gone for us, and how far they would have made him go.

  “It was a terrible idea,” I said. “I’m so sorry, Sekou.”

  “You did a foolish thing, but for a good cause,” Caesar said. “Just like this boy and this man.” He nodded at Matt, then at Sekou. “You all did foolish and dangerous things, but you are good friends to each other.”

  “Hey, I sold my guitar,” said Law.

  Another officer rapped on the door and entered before he was invited. Caesar leveled a hard look at the man.

  “Sorry, sir, but there is something very urgent,” he said, “and very unusual.”

  “What’s wrong?” Caesar stood up, ready to get back to business. He waved a hand at all of us, letting us know we could go.

  “There are some snakes outside. Dangerous snakes.”

  A chill passed through me.

  “Are they mambas?” I asked. Maybe they were coming to get me. I ran to the window and peered out between the bars. I could see snakes writhing and slithering around the building—at least a dozen of them, maybe more—but they were the wrong size and shape to be mambas. They sparkled in the afternoon sun like they were covered with jewels.

  “They’re cassava snakes,” I said, awed by the spectacle.

  Sekou looked at me with wide eyes.

  “Come on,” I told him. “See for yourself.”

  He got up and walked to the window. “They’re so beautiful,” he said in a whisper. “But why? Where did they come from? Why are they here?”

  “They must have known you needed them,” I guessed. Sekou had been frightened. Men had been yelling at him and threatening him. The snakes had come to the rescue.

  “My kaseng is gone,” he reminded me. “I have no connection to the snake anymore.”

  “Nobody told them that.”

  Sekou dropped a heavy hand on my shoulder, then walked out of the office and into the hallway. I followed him as he made his way through the crowd to the front door. When Sekou started to push it open, everyone shouted and backed away.

  Sekou edged out of the door, then crouched down and let the first snake he saw climb up his arm and settle around his shoulders. He stood and let another snake coil up his leg. I could see he was muttering something, perhaps a prayer, but I couldn’t hear a word.

  Some policemen pulled the door closed, and I was pulled back into the crowd.

  CHAPTER 23

  A policeman took us home in a white patrol car, but without the cherry flashing or the siren going. Law was quiet. He fiddled with the window a bit, then realized he couldn’t open it and settled for looking out as we headed into Mamba Point, turning onto Fairground Road.

  “You all right?” I asked him. “Seeing all those snakes would freak anyone out, especially—”

  “Especially when he just almost got killed by one?”

  “Exactly.”

  He looked out the window a bit longer, watching the ocean disappear behind some buildings, then reappear. “So, were those snakes friends of yours?”

  “No, those were cassava snakes. I like mambas.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m sure they’ll introduce you,” he muttered.

  “It’s not like that,” I said. I told him about kasengs, the connections between people and animals. “Sekou has a kaseng with the cassava snakes, and I have one with mambas. Just black mambas. I don’t know why.”

  “I wish I had a kaseng,” he said
. “That would be cool.”

  “Maybe you do. Maybe everyone does. You just have to find the right animal.”

  “Yeah, right. With my luck it’s probably something dumb, like a cockroach.”

  “That would suck,” I agreed. “Besides, you sort of take on the habits of the animal, and … well, I don’t know what you’d do if you acted like a cockroach. Hide under the sink? Eat garbage?”

  “I’ve felt like scurrying lately, whenever a light goes on,” he admitted.

  The car squealed to a stop in front of our apartment building. It was after five o’clock. We were cutting it close. Mom and Dad would be home any second, if they weren’t home already.

  “Thanks,” we told the cop, piling out and running up the steps.

  It was all clear. We sighed in relief and sacked out in the living room.

  “How did the snake change you?” he asked me.

  “Um … it made me, kind of, bolder?” I told him about the new Linus.

  “Yeah, I can see that,” he admitted. “You’re not as nervous as you used to be.”

  “I don’t know if I can be the new Linus anymore, though. My snake is gone.”

  “Dude, you went to bust a guy out of jail, practically. You hit up the chief of police for a favor. You skipped out on being grounded. You did all of that without a snake.”

  “Yeah, I know.” I didn’t feel brave at the time, though. I just felt like I needed to do those things.

  We heard the clink of a key in the door. I grabbed one of the books I’d left on the coffee table, Law grabbed his magazine, and we both made like we’d been reading for hours.

  “Oh, hey,” said Law when Mom came in. I just waved, like I was so into my book I couldn’t tear myself away.

  “I tried calling just before I left work and nobody answered,” she said. “What’s going on?”

  “I guess we weren’t back from the police station,” Law said. “The cops just let us off a few minutes ago.”

  “Hilarious,” she said. “What’s that?” She pointed at the dining room, where Sekou had dropped his big bag of masks and carvings.

  I tried to tell a miniature version of the story that didn’t involve Law or Matt, but accidentally mentioned them both before I was done. By that time, Dad was home, too, and I’d been over parts of the stories two or three times.

  “Well, I guess there’s no point in grounding them if they just up and leave anyway,” Mom said in exasperation.

  “Really? We’re not grounded anymore?” Law asked.

  “That’s not what I meant,” Mom said.

  “I guess I’d better tell Darryl,” Dad said. “I’d want him to tell me if my kids were up to no good.”

  “But Matt was up to some good,” I argued. “He was trying to help some kids we know. Anyway, he was doing it for me.”

  “Well, we have to trust that Darryl will see that, too,” Dad said. I wasn’t sure he would, though. I remembered him talking about his fragile friendships and diplomacy and everything. What Matt did was ten times worse than barging into the living room and asking about cannibals, if you looked at it that way.

  Dad made the call, but first he patted his jacket pocket—he wore a suit every day, no matter how hot it was—and handed me an envelope. It was a letter from Joe.

  Joe hadn’t written much, but he’d done a great drawing of me sitting in front of a hut and a monkey mailman bringing me a letter. You could see some cannibal-looking guys in a little jail cell behind me, like I’d taken care of them, no problem. Some of his drawing was dead-on—for example, the banana trees looked real, and the monkeys did, too. But now I felt bad for my making those jokes about cannibals and the monkey mail. I’d have to write back and tell him what Liberia was really like, and draw him some real Africans—Sekou and Gambeh and Tokie and Artie.

  The next day I swore I’d make good on being grounded. I’d even clean up my room. There wasn’t much to clean because of Artie, but I dragged my laundry hamper out to dump the dirt and sticks.

  Law was on the phone, pleading with Marty to let him have the guitar for the same thirty bucks he’d sold it back for. “Fine, thirty-five,” he finally said. “But you have to bring it here, because I’m grounded. Oh, come on, Marty! It’s only four blocks.” He covered the receiver with his hand and looked at me.

  “You can go. I won’t tell,” I promised.

  Law uncovered the receiver. “I’ll be right over.”

  I lugged the hamper to the back balcony, sand trickling out and leaving a trail behind me. I’d have to vacuum. There was a breeze blowing off the ocean. I saw a toddler running in and out of the water, his mother watching from a few yards away. They both looked completely happy.

  I dropped the sticks first, watching them spin as they fell. I opened the hamper and heaved it up to the railing, tipping it enough for the sand to pour out. Most of it was carried off by the wind in clouds, but some of it sifted through the wicker, tickling my legs and feet.

  I put down the hamper and stooped to brush off the sand when I felt something dry and scaly. I peered down and saw my snake pushing its head weakly into my hand, touching me with its fangs. It wasn’t trying to bite. It wanted my attention.

  I gently picked it up and brought it inside. I set it on the bed, coiling it up like a garden hose. It was so weak it could barely move on its own.

  “What am I going to do with you?” I asked.

  I ran through the halls of the WHO, hoping that Mom wouldn’t see me, and banged on the door of the snake building.

  “Have you ever been startled when you were milking a bush viper?” Rog asked when he finally let me in.

  “Sorry, I need your help.” I set the Mork bag on a desk and took out the snake. Rog took a step back.

  “Do you know how dangerous that thing is?”

  “Yeah, but it’s practically dead. I thought you might be able to help it. Do you have vet stuff for snakes?”

  “I do, but first let’s make sure it doesn’t kill anybody.” We went back to the snake room. Rog set the snake down on one of the tables and put its head in a clamp.

  “Don’t choke it,” I said.

  “Who’s the professional snake guy?” he reminded me.

  “Sorry.”

  He put on gloves and inspected the snake, feeling it from neck to tail. “It seems to have some broken vertebrae,” he said. “Now, snakes break vertebrae all the time. It can recover if it didn’t puncture any organs, and I don’t think it did. What happened to it?”

  “I threw it from a third-floor balcony.”

  “Hmm. Mambas are arboreal snakes and they’re made to withstand falls,” he said. “That’s still a pretty big fall.”

  “I think it landed on some rocks.”

  “That’s not so good,” he acknowledged. “So, do you mind if I ask you why you tried to kill it then, and why you’re trying to save it now, and how you did either one without getting yourself killed first?”

  “It’s hard to explain,” I said, my voice cracking. I told him a sketchy version of everything that had happened up to Law being bitten.

  “I knew there was an incident at the American Embassy,” he said. “I never would have guessed it was your brother, or, um, your fault.” He looked serious for a moment, then shrugged. “Well, who am I to criticize? I kept a mulga in my backyard for a while. I only let it go because it kept trying to eat my other snakes.” He continued inspecting the snake, shining a light in its eyes and even prodding open its mouth and looking down its throat. I expected him to get a tongue depressor and ask the snake to say “ah.”

  “It’s dehydrated and hungry, but snakes can go a long time without food and water,” he said. “I think it’ll pull through.”

  I nodded. A lump was growing in my throat and I couldn’t speak.

  “So, do you want me to probe its cloaca while it’s clamped down?” Rog asked.

  “Huh?”

  “So I can find out what sex it is,” he explained. “I usually don’t do i
t to poisonous snakes, but this one’s docile right now.”

  I shook my head. Having your cloaca probed didn’t sound like much fun to me.

  “I thought you’d like to know in case you want to give it a name,” he said. “You need to know if it’s a Jack or a Jill, right?”

  I’d never thought about naming my snake.

  I loosened the clamps and crouched down to touch the crown of the snake’s head. I had to swallow a couple of times to find my voice.

  “What’s your name?” I asked, looking into its eyes. Do you even have a name? I wondered. Even if you’re solitary, like Rog’s book says, and you never talk to other snakes, did your mother call you something when you were a baby? Did she whisper hisses to you when you were a little noodle writhing and crying for—well, not milk, but whatever mama snakes feed baby snakes?

  No, I never had a name, the mamba replied. I don’t call myself anything. My mother never called me anything, either. Snakes don’t need names.

  It didn’t say all that, at least not with words, but I knew it was true.

  So you can be whoever you want, I thought.

  It poked its head up, as if it wanted me to pay close attention to its next point: So can you, it said.

  I tried to take being grounded seriously, I really did. I fell short again on Thursday, when Matt called me up and said he had some big news, but he was stuck doing something at home and I should come down. So I did.

  Matt was packing. That’s what he was stuck doing, and that was his big news.

  “I’m moving back to Philadelphia,” he told me. “I’m leaving tomorrow. I’m going to a private school there.”

  “Your dad’s sending you to military school?” I’d read where kids who got into a lot of trouble got sent to military school, but I never saw it happen in real life.

  “It’s not a military school,” he assured me. “It’s not even a boarding school.”

  “Do you have to wear a uniform?”

  “Yeah, but it’s a school uniform, not a soldier uniform, and I get to go home at night. I mean to Uncle Greg and Aunt Beth’s.”