Saffron spoke to Clapper only once. That was four years following her parents’ death. Clapper had been convicted of involuntary manslaughter and was sentenced to only six years jail. He was a rich Hampton kid and his influential parents hired the best defense attorneys and they did their job. There were no witnesses to the crash and Saffron’s father, who was driving, was found to have alcohol in his body. So, mitigating factors were introduced and twisted in Clapper’s favor. Warren Clapper served only two and half years at a go-easy prison farm in Connecticut.
He had been out of prison a year or so when he ran into Saffron. She waited for him in an old beat-up white clunker in a car park opposite Clapper’s favorite tavern. She had done her homework and knew that Clapper would arrive soon, which he did. He parked in the same car park, some distance from her. She watched him slide out of his blue BMW Sports and head toward the tavern; with that loping snaky gait she had observed before many times.
Saffron waits a few minutes and then goes in after him. She sees him already knocking back a shot followed by a beer chaser. Her stomach churns.
He drank alone and Saffron walked over to him.
“Hello,” she smiles, “Is that your blue Beemer parked over the road?”
Clapper grins, “Sure is. You like it?”
“Sure do,” Saffron smiles back then changes from being demure, “There are two guys looking inside it. Looks a bit suss to me.”
“It happens all the time,” Clapper shakes off the warning. “It’s a high performance M5 Beemer, and goes like a rocket. Most dudes around here don’t see that many. You want to take a ride in it later?”
Saffron laughs, “I would, but I’m working late tonight. Maybe next week. You come here often?”
“Sure do. How about next Wednesday? Suit you?”
This time Saffron gave out a girly giggle, “OK, you’re on,” and gently scraped her fingernails over his hand. “Got to go now, see you then, rich boy.”
Saffron walks away, looks back to see Clapper checking her out, smiles at him and walks out the door, which banged shut behind her.
After three more shots and beers to follow, Clapper decides to take a visit to the john. As he handles his dick, he thinks, ‘I’m going to do some banging at the Viper Room tonight.’
Not bothering to wash his hands, he returns to his stool at the bar to down the last of his beer and looks for his car keys. He is sure he left them on the bar. He searches though his pockets and swears, “Fuck,” out loud. No one notices.
“Must have dropped them, as I know I locked the fucker,” he mutters as he leaves the tavern.
He looks anxiously on the ground as he walks to his BMW, which is still parked, much to his relief. As he approaches his car, he still has not found his car key. He pulls on the door handle and the door opens. Surprised, he looks down into the illuminated driver’s floor well and sees his key.
Even Warren Clapper is no meathead. How could that happen? He thinks for a while. The car is not supposed to lock with the key inside. Crazy. Clapper brushes it aside as a tech malfunction to be looked at by the local dealer. He has a bellyful of grog and now a desire to fuck a whore.
He sits into the seat, closes the door, but does not notice a greased movement around the brake pedal. He fastens his seat belt and with the interior lights still on, he now does see a movement! He looks closer. A pair of shining dark eyes in an arrow pointed head slides out from the darkness. Its forked tongue flicks out each second. Clapper stiffens and tries to unfasten his seat belt.
He screams, “What the fuck!”
Fear overtook coordination, but finally his belt comes free. Too late, as the serpent lunges into his inner thigh, repeatedly biting it with vicious venom. Warren stiffens and knows he is in deep shit. He attempts to open the door but starts to lose more coordination. He manages to get his phone out and dials 911. He is just able to state his plight and location to the operator.
From down the street, a car’s headlights switch on and it drives into the car park next to Warren. Saffron is now in the passenger’s seat. She looks at him and he at her. He wants her to come to his aid. No go. She just smiles back at him. Saffron quickly gets out and opens the left rear passenger door. Out slides Apples, who makes a beeline into Saffron’s car.
Within eleven minutes the paramedics arrive and find Clapper in a state of shock with very shallow breathing. Warren is pronounced dead on arrival at the South Hampton Hospital.
3.
When the news got out that Warren Clapper died from snakebite in his car, people freaked out a bit. How could it happen? A lot were happy he got what was coming, but by snake bite?
The local police got involved but found nothing suspicious. There was nothing to indicate that Clapper’s car had been interfered with or such like. He received four fatal bites from a snake yet to be identified. The police did some work on behalf of the Clapper family’s request, and viewed last CCTV images of him. He was captured entering the tavern. Unfortunately, no coverage was available from the over road car park, which is an ugly vacant lot basically, used by locals.
Clapper was seen buying his first drinks and soon after was approached by a woman. She wore a Burger King uniform complete with cap. She had short blond hair and rimmed pink glasses. Her nose was long, a distinguishing mark, and she wore white sneakers with short white socks. She looked eighteen or nineteen but they couldn’t tell exactly. Clapper and her seemed to get on well.
The woman soon left and video saw Clapper drink for about thirty minutes, go off to the john for a piss, return, look for something, then leave the premises.
The police did follow up with images of the woman at the numerous local Burger King’s, but to no avail.
LONG ISLAND
1.
Saffron has retrieved Caviar from the cattery boarding suits. Caviar stayed this time for three days in the Paris suite. Chandelier and a large pic of the Eifel Tower, with sumptuous bedding and care. It slept better than most humans did.
Caviar ran up the steps and into the house. He is happy to be home and went straight to his food corner to see what was there.
Birman’s are very placid felines. They originated as temple cats living around spiritual monks (therefore no angst in their personality), in northern Burma at the turn of the 20thCentury. Not many, and oh, so expensive for the cream of the litter, which Caviar of course was. Recently a Birman adopted the Dalai Lama. Saffron loved that connection.
Herself inside, Saffron walks past her menagerie. A glass dome covers them on a small round oak table. Under the dome are about a dozen Orrefors crystal animals. Also, there is a glass daisy standing on its stalk. Saffron loves them all, but none more that her favorite three, which are always displayed to the fore.
Saffron is exhausted and needs to get back from her travel time distortion. She decides to pour a glass of Shiraz, settle down in front of her television, not look at the Internet and relax.
Saffron’s home has a large basement. In it she has a ‘safe room’ constructed using interstate builders and carpenters. It is invisible when in the basement. It could not be detected. A large old dusty bookcase, shelving half used paint tins is fastened to the outside wall of the safe room. It would slide sideways at the