The Snake And The Weasel

Crime Fiction by Thomas Koperwas

A snake and a weasel were fighting with one another inside a house.. *

Jewels, the gangland chief, threw open the doors to the hideout and unceremoniously escorted in a slight young man limping with a gunshot wound to his leg.

“Boys!” he proclaimed to the grim-faced men gathered around the mahogany table in the center of the room, “Let me introduce you to Pete Mondale, AKA The Weasel. He just took a slug, a red badge of courage, on his first job for us. Ain’t that sweet?”

An old man, Barney O’Dell, AKA The Snake,sat alone in the back of the room, his beady eyes squinting at the imposing figure of his boss — six foot six, muscular, elegantly dressed in an expensive custom suit with a jeweled stickpin and carnation — and the diminutive figure of The Weasel standing next to him: thin and wiry, trussed up in a cheap, ruffled, and bloodstained suit. Sneering indignantly, he thought about the seven slugs he carried in his own body, collected over the course of a long and violent career.

“Welcome,” gurgled Lump. The immense gangster bulged out of his colourful, oddball outfit, looking like a caricature of  a balloon man. “And why, pray tell, do they call you The Weasel?”

“I can answer that,” said Jewels in a low, melodramatic voice, keeping his glittering eyes locked on those of The Snake. “They say he’s an expert shadow. That he follows his prey like a weasel. That he can track his mark by scent alone…”

“I can shadow anyone!” interjected the skinny young man, puncturing the air with an index finger.

“Sure you can,” chuckled Jewels. Winking at the old man with the dark, beady eyes, he whispered, “You can shadow anyone. Anyone but The Snake! No one can shadow him.”

The hideout fell silent. Everyone turned and gazed at the aged gangster sitting alone at the back of the room, dressed in black, his scarred and time-worn face an inscrutable mask. The Snake knew what that wink meant. He had just been given the task of humbling this newcomer to the gang. A bullet wound wasn’t enough. Jewels wanted a more thorough means of initiation. The boss had set the bait; now The Weasel would have to prove his reputation and worth to everyone in the gang. 

First things first, though. There was some business in Chicago to take care of. The comedy of bad manners would have to wait until he returned.

The Snake grinned. Unknown to anyone, he’d made his retirement plans. He had decided it was time to step away from the life of roaring guns, extreme violence, and blood money. No one, of course, could ever voluntarily retire from a gang. Membership in the criminal organization was for life. Death, natural or otherwise, was the only way out. But the old gangster had come up with a plan, a foolproof means of escape. And he would have the pleasure of humbling The Weasel while simultaneously performing his disappearing act…

***

The Snake smirked at the image of the plain Ford in the rearview mirror, following stealthily at a discreet distance. The Ford had picked up his trail at the airport parking lot, tailing him all the way downtown to the gang’s hideout in an aging brownstone. Parking his Escalade out front, The Snake entered the building carrying a briefcase stuffed with cash. Jewels gave the old man a pat on the back before taking the money and transferring it to the office safe, then proposed a toast to a job well done in the Windy City. The Snake downed his drink in concert with his boss and excused himself. Walking down a nearby stairwell, he came to an unmarked door in the basement. Only the oldest senior members of the gang knew about the secret escape tunnel running out the back of the building to the small garage in the alley. Stooping so as not to bang his head on the low ceiling, he went through the dimly lit tunnel to the garage, where a small, late-model automobile waited. Wheeling the vehicle into the alley, he sped off toward the entrance ramp of a nearby freeway, leaving The Weasel parked in front of the building.   

He was several miles down the freeway, cruising at 70 miles per, when the plain Ford pulled in behind him. “Impressive,” he murmured, his beady eyes staring into the rearview at the little man gripping the steering wheel in the pursuing Ford. “The Weasel couldn’t have known about the tunnel and the garage. He’s an expert shadow, all right.”Smiling, he whispered, “This is gonna be fun.”

The Snake waited until he’d almost passed the exit of the approaching off ramp before yanking the steering wheel hard, sending his car careening off the highway. Looking out the rear window, he saw The Weasel slam on the brakes, pulling the Ford over to the shoulder.

He’ll back up to the ramp, then follow as quickly as he can, thought The Snake. Enough time for my next trick.

Ten minutes later, The Weasel drove up to The Snake’s empty car, which he’d abandoned in the parking lot of a long strip mall. The engine was still running, the driver’s door wide open. Looking up and down the mall, he saw a dozen stores, banks, and offices, all of them open for business. The old man could’ve gone into any one of them, he thought bitterly.

The Snake had, in fact, gone into one of the businesses and straight out the back door. Following a woodland trace through a dense thicket, he came to a county highway and a quiet bus stop. Boarding the incoming bus, he headed back to the city.

 Sitting at the back of the bus, he gazed out the rear window. His beady eyes bulged out of his head when the plain Ford reappeared, following close behind.

“Maybe he can track by scent!”he exclaimed. “Never mind. The next trick will be the final one.”

The bus soon entered the outskirts of the city, where the industrial corridor lay. When The Snake saw a massive storage lot filled with innumerable vehicles, he slid over to the back door. The bus slowed down and squeezed into a bus stop between several parked commercial car carrier trailers. Forced to pass the line of parked vehicles, The Weasel turned the Ford around and raced back. The Snake, meanwhile, had cleared the bus and was running through the storage lot’s gate. Locating a large group of identically painted fleet vans, he entered one. Hot-wiring the truck took only a moment for the old professional. Starting the vehicle, he  drove it to one of the distant gates and merged it with a convoy of identical vehicles exiting the lot.

 The Weasel spent the latter half of the day driving from one gate to another, eyeing the drivers and vehicles, but to no avail. The Snake had given him the slip.

***

Two days of soul searching passed before The Weasel got up enough nerve to return to the gang’s hideout. No one knew he’d failed to shadow The Snake. No one even knew he was going to try. He’d acted entirely on his own. But no one could stop the old man from bragging to the crew about how he’d beaten The Weasel at his own game. His reputation as a shadow would be in tatters. He’d be scorned, maybe even whacked. Pushing open the doors to the old brownstone, he stepped nervously inside.

 “The Snake’s disappeared,” shouted Jewels from the large mahogany table where he sat, searching maps of the city on several desktop monitors, “and no one has a clue as to his whereabouts. Do you?”

“No,” replied The Weasel, “I surely don’t.”

Sitting down at the big table, he took a drink and reflected on his changing fortunes. The Snake never returned to the gang after he shook me off, he mused. If he had, he would’ve bragged to them about what he’d done.

The Weasel’s eyes widened with wonder.

 That means I was probably the last person to see him alive! The old man must have skipped out on the gang and me at the same time! There’s a slim chance I may find a clue of his whereabouts if I retrace the steps I took tailing him. It’s worth a try. That strip mall, for instance…

“I’m going to make some inquiries, Jewels,” he declared, as he stood and walked out the door. Outside, The Weasel paused a moment and pondered his future prospects. “I’ll get in solid with Jewels if I can find the old man. The truth is, I may be the only one in the gang who can…”

***

The Weasel sat in his car and studied the businesses inhabiting the long strip mall.

The banks don’t have any back doors for their customers, he thought. Neither does the liquor store or the high-end clothing outlets. That just leaves the offices...

Getting out of the vehicle, he walked into one with a plush reception room. Happy pictures of retirement homes and smiling seniors hung everywhere on the walls. 

“My father is quite elderly,” he said to the small blonde receptionist.

“I understand,” she replied eagerly. “We have several excellent retirement home settings in our holdings. Perhaps one of them would meet your father’s particular needs. Here’s a list of our facilities with phone numbers and addresses,” she continued, pressing a fresh pamphlet into his hand. “Feel free to visit any of them at your own convenience.”

Thanking her, The Weasel exited the office.

The first two retirement homes provided no leads. Neither the management nor the clients recognized The Snake from his photograph. The Weasel then drove out of the city to a long, paved driveway running off the highway into a thickly wooded lot. The sign hanging over the entrance, painted with two large, benevolent eyes, read, “Welcome to the Golden Eyes Retirement Village. We watch over your loved ones and provide them with the care and service they need 24/7.” 

Inside the woods, he came upon a tiny village with a town hall (the office), a gazebo in the town square, an ice cream shop, and restaurants, all of them surrounded by a ring of quaint little homes. A staff member dressed in casual wear approached and greeted him. “Golden Eyes is a dementia village,” explained the young man, “a unique environment that provides support, peace of mind, and quality long-term care. Welcome.” The Weasel thanked him and looked at the elderly people seated in the gazebo and the restaurant: people in the sunsets of their lives, living peacefully at a slow and leisurely pace. Many of them appeared happy, others sad, some simply vacant. Could The Snake be living here amongst these people?

The Weasel wasn’t surprised when no one recognized The Snake from the photograph. Experience had taught him the old gangster was a wily man. So he reentered his car and drove out of the village, back to the highway. Putting the vehicle in low gear, he cruised slowly around the large wooded lot. Sure enough, there was a ramshackle gate and a primitive dirt road running into the back of the woods. The gate was in rough shape, but it was functional. A close examination of the dirt road revealed it had been traveled upon recently. Leaving the car behind, he walked into the woods.

Nestled amongst the trees he discovered a small, isolated house hidden from the village and the world at large, with its own private entrance and exit. Checking to make sure the gun in his shoulder holster was loaded, he approached the quiet house.

No one answered the knock on the door. Pushing it gently open, he saw an ancient codger sitting in the shadows, a blanket covering his legs for warmth. The Weasel politely introduced himself, but the old man remained silent. He was big like The Snake, but there were some clear differences. The codger’s hair was long and white, and he had a full beard. The Snake’s face had been clean-shaven, his salt-and-pepper hair short. The codger’s ears were long and pendulous. The Snake’s were small and pointed. Still, there was something oddly familiar about him.

The Weasel did a double take. The old man’s dark, beady eyes were squinting at him, glittering with an intense malevolence.

The Weasel reached frantically into his jacket for his handgun. Too late! A shot blasted out from beneath the old man’s blanket. The Weasel collapsed onto the floor, dead.

The old man removed the blanket and rose up out of his chair. Pulling off his false beard, wig, and prosthetic ears, he tossed them onto the floor.  

“I did it!” The Snake shouted. “Only The Weasel had the smarts to find me here, and he always worked solo. Now I’m free of the gang! Free to live my life the way I want to!”

Bending down, he took hold of The Weasel’s limp body. Grunting, he lifted the lifeless little man onto his shoulders. Taking hold of a shovel leaning against the outside of the house, he proceeded into the woods, sweat dripping from his face. Dropping the body onto the ground, he began to dig. The work was hot and exhausting, so he decided to dig only a shallow grave. Still, it was a job of hard work. Covering the body over with dirt and leaves, he returned to the little house and fell down on the bed, breathing heavily and uneasily.

Thirty hours later, The Snake woke up, wondering what day it was. Struggling to his feet, he looked into the mirror. What he saw there shocked him. His hair was white, his face gaunt and pale. “Is that really me?” he asked weakly, in a confused and disoriented voice.

The Snake fell back on to the bed and passed out.

The following days were filled with confusion and fear. The gangster didn’t know who he was or why he was living alone in the woods in the little house. Then one day, the fog in his head cleared a bit, as it sometimes did.

“I must have overdone it when I carried the body and buried it,”murmured the gangster, staring at the ragged, unshaven face in the mirror.“Maybe I had a stroke. Whatever it was, it changed me. I escaped my life in the gang, only to fall into a trap of dementia!”

(* ‘The Snake, The Weasel and The Mice’,  Aesop’s Fables: A New Translation, by Laura Gibbs. Oxford University Press (World’s Classics): Oxford, 2002)

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Bio: Thomas Koperwas is a retired teacher living in Windsor, Ontario, Canada who writes short stories of horror, crime, fantasy, and science fiction. His work has appeared, or is forthcoming in: Anotherealm; Jakob’s Horror Box; Literally Stories; The Literary Hatchet; Literary Veganism; Bombfire; Pulp Modern Flash; Savage Planets; Dark Fire Fiction; The Sirens Call; Yellow Mama Webzine; 96th of October; Underside Stories; Danse Macabre; A Thin Slice Of Anxiety; Androids and Dragons; Chewers & Masticadores Canada; The Piker Press; Stupefying Stories Showcase; Metastellar; The Yard: Crime Blog; Blood Moon Rising Magazine; Corner Bar Magazine; Free Bundle Magazine; The Chamber Magazine; Suburban Witchcraft Magazine; Black Petals Magazine; Freedom Fiction Journal.  

 Read more Organized Crime Fiction on The Yard: Crime Blog

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