Characters in Rattlesnakes

Signed, Alita Marie Bell There was another signature below it, in a different hand: Roberto M. Garcia, Witness.

… in the lobby of the Hilton Hotel the night before, waiting for my compatriots, Jim Woolsy and Andre Dubose, to come down from their rooms. The plan was to go out to Olive Garden and brainstorm, the ultimate goal being to come up with two good …

“You know what, that’s a good idea,” Zane said. “Who’s Super Gramp?” I asked. “Andy Pelley,” Zane said. “Semi-retired. Refuses to go all the way to full retired. He helps out when we need a hand.”

… wheel on that squeaky stroller,” Canavan said. “Maybe she liked it,” I said. “Or...” “Or nothing,” Canavan said, and laughed. “Nobody likes a squeaky wheel. Don’t they say that’s the one that gets the grease?” Zane didn’t reply. I didn’t, either, …

The other members of my team at the agency would have laughed—except maybe for Cathy Wilkin, who had an imagination that stretched further than taglines for toilet bowl cleaner—but I had no other way to explain it.

Some of the snakes swam away and probably drowned. The rest were killed right there. Uncle Devin said another four or five hundred, which has got to be bullshit, pardon my French. But I guess there were plenty.

Before he could answer, there was a loud clattering. Eddie Ito had driven onto the tennis court after all. “Oy, oy, oy!” Mr. Ito screamed, and ran toward him, waving his arms.

… a shower, put on a pair of gym shorts, closed the door to the en suite bathroom, and lay down on Greg Ackerman’s big double bed. As a more-or-less swinging bachelor, he’d probably shared it with any number of honeys. My own honey was gone. In the …

But I guess there were plenty. Henry Bell was part of that group, but he wasn’t in at the finish. He fainted from the heat and the excitement. And the sorrow, I guess.

I heard a final shriek of anger in my head; that was Jake Bell, the stronger of the two. The next time the stroller came around on its watery carousel, only the handles were above water.

Then my old friend Jerry Gant, Palm Village Fire Chief, long gone, fired up a Bernzomatic propane torch and flung it.

The swing bridge was a 24/7 deal. That night it was being manned by Jim Morrison (“Not of the Doors,” he always liked to say), a guy who was probably older than either Pelley or me.

… I was sitting in the lobby of the Hilton Hotel the night before, waiting for my compatriots, Jim Woolsy and Andre Dubose, to come down from their rooms. The plan was to go out to Olive Garden and brainstorm, the ultimate goal being to come up …

Of course he hadn’t had a vision of snakes crawling all over Joe Bell as he shrieked. “Somebody played a practical joke on you.

He and I attended the funeral. So did Zane and Canavan, an old party named Lloyd Sunderland (accompanied by his dog), and half a dozen swing bridge operators.

My lawyer, who I didn’t consult when I wrote this, is Nathan Rutherford in Palm Village. Signed, Alita Marie Bell There was another signature below it, in a different hand: Roberto M. Garcia, Witness.

After the stars come out, I’m okay. I’ll see plenty tonight. I’m on until twelve, then Patricia takes over.” “I wouldn’t think you’d get many boats wanting to go through at this time of the year, especially at night.”

Most people don’t, unless they’ve got free coupons from Disney World.” If he had talked to Pete Ito, I was sure he knew. Yes, this was an interrogation, all right. “My wife died recently. I’ve been trying to come to grips with it.”

He stopped when he saw the stroller. “Huh. Preston Zane told me you returned that to Mrs. Bell’s garage.” “I did. Someone brought it back. Again.”

Signed, Alita Marie Bell There was another signature below it, in a different hand: Roberto M. Garcia, Witness. I forgot about the squeaking from the garage (or maybe it stopped). I read her death-letter—nothing else to call it—over again.