Could the woman who’d given Weed the Cuban Amazon be the very same Elena who’d sent the photos I’d found at Alberto’s? Bambi continued to pace angrily, her bare feet slapping against the grimy floor.
“What do you know about this Elena?” I asked.
Bambi stared blankly at me, preoccupied with chewing on her broken nail. “Who?” she asked.
“The woman who gave Willy that bird.”
Bambi leaned back against the Formica countertop, balancing on one foot, as the other performed figure eights in the air.
“She’s some rich Cuban bitch that calls herself a photographer. I’ve seen her work and trust me—it sucks. She’s just a fag hag.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
Bambi rolled her eyes and sighed. “She specializes in taking photos of beefcake. But the guys are all pansies, ya know? You tell me what she gets outta that, huh?”
Bambi raised her foot higher and I saw that the sole was encrusted with dirt.
“Now to me, that’s sick. You oughta see some of the pictures she takes. Those guys pose with their equipment just about hanging out like it was flagpoles.” Bambi hoisted herself onto the counter, her skirt riding up past her thighs. “I’m telling ya, that Elena’s just an example of what’s going on. The damn Cubans have taken over Florida, and you know how they did it?”
She stared at me sullenly, demanding a response.
“Working hard and starting businesses?” I ventured.
“Hah!” Bambi’s mouth pulled into a tight, straight line. “That’s exactly what they want you to believe. But the truth is, the good ol’ US of A hands them a pile of money just for coming over here and getting off their boats. It’s all a plot to make Castro look bad so that the Cubans back home will revolt. Meanwhile, good Americans like me are stuck in shit holes like this, and runaway Cubans are living high on the hog.”
The back door suddenly slammed open as Bambi’s two boys tore through the kitchen and then sped out the front door, allowing the dog to slip in. The critter immediately homed in on Bambi.
“I dare you to tell me that life’s fair!” Bambi complained as she tried to pry the dog off her leg.
The subject of government handouts brought me back around to Willy. “By the way, I saw some medals hanging up in Willy’s trailer. I didn’t know that he’d been in the military.”
Bambi shoved the dog out the back door, bribing it with a biscuit. “Yeah. He was training to be in the air force. I think he was in for about four months before he got kicked out. It near broke his heart. All due to some captain’s wife hitting on him, wouldn’t ya know. But he still stays in touch with an old buddy of his from the base.”
“He told me that he got those medals for serving in Desert Storm.”
The dog yelped as it tried to claw its way back in.
Bambi gave a harsh laugh. “Desert Storm, my ass. Don’t you believe a word he tells you. Hell, he told me that he was a one-woman man.”
“Then where do you think he got the medals from?” I prodded.
“Where do you think?” She stared, clearly finding it hard to believe I could be so dumb. “Where he gets everything else from, of course—some truckload of hot goodies.” She looked at the bird in its cage. “You think this thing would taste any good if it was cooked?”
The bird squawked as if it understood.
“You don’t want to do that, Bambi. I’d have to report it and you’d just get in trouble.”
“Boiled, baked, or broiled, whadda ya say? How about I just fricassee this noisy pile of feathers?” Bambi grinned. “Relax, Porter. I’m not gonna touch the thing. Besides, who knows? Maybe I’ll go back to dancing and use the damn bird in my act. If I fry anything, it’s gonna be Willy’s ass. You tell him from me to start coughing up some bucks before I begin to turn the heat up on him.”
I left Bambi’s, the remnants of my chloroform headache beginning to kick into high gear. Calling it a day, I veered onto the Palmetto and joined the rest of the flock heading north.
I tried taking deep breaths, driving the speed limit, and pretending I didn’t care as car after car passed me by. After five minutes, I was sure the relaxation would kill me. I changed gears, cut into the fast lane, and floored the Tempo for all it was worth. By the time I turned off onto Bird Road, my tension headache was gone.
I stopped in at a pet store, determined to make Bonkers a happy bird. I was easy pickings for the saleswoman who swooped down upon me, making sure I bought a book on caring for cockatoos, as well as Krazy Krunch sticks in four exciting flavors: Real Fruit, Real Nut, Real Veggi and Double Cookie. I also bought a bag of bird seed and a swing so that Bonkers could “experience a natural swinging sensation just as if he were perched on a swaying bough.” I didn’t know if Bonkers would be happy, but I certainly felt fulfilled.
I left and swung onto the Rickenbacker Causeway, heading for Key Biscayne to hang out at my favorite hideaway. Ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump. The cadence of the Tempo’s wheels cruising across the causeway was as mesmerizing as a hypnotist swinging his watch, each revolution of my tires helping to soothe my soul.
I turned onto an unmarked dirt road where lanky Australian pines majestically cooled the air, slowly thinning out until they disappeared altogether. After that the road quickly deteriorated into an obstacle course of potholes and ruts. Along with no sign, no telephone, and no directions to the place, it was a surefire way to keep tourists, as well as most locals, from venturing any farther.
I drove slowly, easing the Tempo in and out of one hole after another as I passed a down-and-dirty group of shacks, their once-electric Caribbean colors now as faded as my grandmother’s housecoat. Rumor had it that the TV show Flipper had been filmed here in the sixties. If so, the road’s brush with fame was long gone; what was left of the set forgotten and neglected.
The dirt path curved and a cove came into view, surrounded by a thicket of mangroves whose spreading branches intricately interlaced to form an aerial canopy. In the middle of a clearing at the water’s edge was an open-air chickee stand. Its thatched roof covered a ramshackle bar where a few drunken fishermen sat listing on stools. Off to the side stood a wooden shack that housed what was loosely referred to as the kitchen.
I spotted Tommy in his uniform of ragged shorts and faded luau shirt, with flip-flops protecting his feet, and a sailor’s cap slapped on his head. His skin was as brown as the bark of the mangrove trees and nearly as rough, having become perma-tanned over the years. Tommy was owner and proprietor of the establishment, but there were never any guests on the premises. Only those he considered to be part of his drifting family. Come once and if you didn’t pass muster, you never came back again.
I parked the Tempo next to a few broken-down pickups and took a seat on an empty stool. There was no need to request a drink. All that was served was beer—a homemade white lightning out of a cooler that Tommy kept behind the bar. I picked up the tin cup that was set before me and took a sip, the liquid working its magic.
I also didn’t need to place an order for the soft shell blue crab sandwich that appeared, accompanied by a small bag of chips. There was never any menu at Tommy’s. There was also no choice as to what was served. The catch of the day was prepared in whatever manner Tommy wanted to make it. A former military man, turned fisherman, transformed into restaurateur, Tommy figured the place was his and it was run his way. If you didn’t like it, he’d point you toward the Rusty Pelican, a tourist trap back on the strip.
I bit into the sautéed crab, so tender and sweet it nearly brought tears to my eyes. Off in the distance the skyscrapers of downtown Miami glimmered, silver monoliths set ablaze by the waning sun, their reflection caught in Biscayne Bay. Coming to Tommy’s was the most relaxing thing I could do. Especially at this time of day. A muted palette of colors painted each ripple that lapped at the cove. Its message: There was nothing that couldn’t wait till tomorrow.
A steaming cup of coffee was placed in my hands, shaking the somnole
nce that threatened to overtake me. I looked up to see Tommy’s sea-blue eyes twinkling. One evening after several beers, Tommy had revealed that he’d lost a daughter to leukemia years ago. Oddly enough, my father had died of the same disease on the day I’d turned eleven. Ever since then a silent bond had formed between us, as if we somehow helped to fill each other’s void.
“Hey, Tommy. What do you know about the illicit exchange of goods back and forth between Cuba and here?” I asked.
“That it goes on,” he replied. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
“Is there much activity in the way of Cuban cigars?” I queried.
His laughter embraced me in its warmth. “Shit, yes. That’s big business around here.”
I followed Tommy as he left the bar and walked over to a rusty old oil drum. He lit a fire inside its belly and then fed the flames with the leftover garbage of the day. I took a seat on the ground, where I watched the dark body of a little blue heron skim the surface of the water, and a white ibis delicately tiptoe between the gnarled roots of a nearby mangrove. Miami was just a shell toss away, yet from Tommy’s, it seemed like a billion miles. I hugged my knees to my chest and closed my eyes, all the better to hear the fire crackle. When I opened them again I found Tommy sitting next to me, his eyes glued to the horizon, studying something only he could see.
“What about Cuban Amazons?” I watched the shiny black body of a cormorant make its last dive of the dying day. A moment later the bird broke the stillness of the water’s surface, his orange throat pouch bulging with a meal.
“What about ’em?”
I looked down at the man’s hands, as knotted and hard as the mangrove roots.
“How are they brought over?” I asked quietly, not wanting to disturb the sounds of twilight.
“That’s easy,” Tommy answered. “There are any number of ways. Usually they come by cigar boat from Cuba into the Keys, maybe unloading around Matecumbe. Or a crew will sail into the Bahamas with a stash, and from there, someone will mule them by plane into Miami International. Sometimes they’ll skip using a boat altogether, and just fly the birds straight out of Cuba.”
“I had no idea.” My words drifted out over the bay, carried on invisible wings.
“There’s a lot you have no idea of, little girl.” Tommy grinned, his eyes now indigo as they sparkled with merriment. “I bet you also don’t know about the anti-Castro paramilitary groups that still practice their maneuvers out in the Glades.”
“You’re right; I don’t,” I admitted. “Who are they? A bunch of old men playing at being soldiers?”
“That’s what most people think, and some of them are. But the original Cuban exiles don’t make up the bulk of the volunteers anymore. Now it’s their sons and grandsons. The dream of invading and taking over the homeland has been passed on to the next generation.”
“What do they do out in the Everglades?”
“They do their share of blowing up silhouettes of old Fidel.” Tommy pulled a small cigar out of his pocket, bit off the end and struck a match against the side of the drum. He waved the flame along the tip of the cigar like a magic wand, taking deep, steady puffs. A smell like sweet cedar, with a hint of nutmeg, wafted toward me. “But they have other artillery, too.”
“What kind are you talking about? Automatic weapons?” I probed.
Tommy blew a smoke ring that slowly merged with the still evening air. “The sky’s the limit. Anything and everything that you could ever imagine.”
I’d seen enough action films to imagine plenty. “You’re kidding. Where are they getting all this stuff?”
Tommy was caught up in a silent communion with the roll of tobacco stuck in his mouth. The ritual of cigar smoking continued to mystify me. I had yet to figure out what was so damned enjoyable about puffing on a wad of burning leaves.
Tommy grunted and stood up. “Hang on a minute. If I’m gonna walk you through history, I’m gonna need a little help.” He disappeared briefly, to return with a bottle of cognac and two snifters in hand. Tommy poured us each a generous dollop and then raised his glass high in a toast against a background of orange flames. The flames crackled and hissed as they licked the night air like an angry nest of vipers. I watched, entranced, as their reflection became ensnared within the snifter, appearing to set his cognac on fire.
“To the land of Ponce de León. May we all find our fountains of youth.”
I was with him on that one. I took a sip and savored the liqueur as it rushed like liquid sun through my veins. If only staying young could be this easy. I took another taste, silently clicked my heels three times, and made a wish.
Tommy settled himself back down on the ground. “Once upon a time, in 1961, Cuban exiles in Florida, who had been trained and armed by the CIA, attempted to overthrow Castro with our government’s help and blessing. They landed at Playa Girón or, as we gringos know it, the Bay of Pigs. But when it came down to the nitty-gritty, our government reneged on its promise to supply air and naval support, so that most of those poor bastards ended up either getting shot or thrown in prison. JFK slapped an embargo on Cuba in retaliation and since then, no trade has been allowed with the island.”
Between books and Oliver Stone, this was history I already knew.
Tommy paused for a moment. “Of course, that didn’t stop the hanky-panky. The CIA quietly continued their secret war with Cuba throughout the sixties. The big boys amused themselves with cloak-and-dagger antics, hatching harebrained schemes to try to knock off Fidel using exploding cigars and poisoned scuba suits. They also kept the exiles armed. By the seventies, all that had pretty much petered out. Except for the Cuban footsoldiers, that is—some of whom happened to be former CIA agents themselves.”
Tommy swished his cognac, exhaled a cloud of smoke, and took a deep drink. “During that time, over a million and a half Cubans sought asylum in this country—most of them right here in southern Florida. What that means is they’re an economic and political power to be reckoned with. When they speak, believe me, Washington listens. There are also still those in our government who remain loyal to the exiles and their cause. So our friends in the Glades continue to sneak in and out of Cuba, where they quietly carry out their attacks and raids. As to where they get their backing and armament from?” Tommy shrugged. “Who knows? But I can tell you that our government never talks openly about their existence.”
“And the embargo still goes on, no matter how much American business kicks and screams,” I added.
“That’s right.” Tommy smiled. “Which makes it good pickings for entrepreneurs who have the cojones to risk smuggling Cuban cigars into this country. They’re making a frigging fortune doing it. More than they’d ever make if the damn things were legal.”
“Just how much money are these guys raking in?”
Tommy rolled his cigar back and forth between his fingers. “Well, last I heard, illegal imports were running about five to ten million cigars a year. In terms of revenue, that would mean they’re producing anywhere from seventy-five to one hundred million dollars in cold cash. Which, pound for pound, makes Cuban cigars as lucrative as dealing in marijuana. A hell of a lot safer, too, I might add.”
Tommy lay back and stared up at the sky, having said his say on the topic.
“I notice that your cigar doesn’t have any band to identify what kind it is,” I remarked.
“That’s right. But I don’t wear some designer’s name slapped on my ass, either,” he replied, leaving me no wiser.
Any further questions I had were put on hold as Tommy pointed to a flock of brightly colored Quaker parrots performing an avian ballet. Descended from escaped pets, a feral population of the birds now called southern Florida home. We watched until they were no longer in sight, only the echo of their raucous cries serving as a ghostly reminder of their performance.
“Now that’s what I call beautiful. A group of parrots spreading their wings as they fly across the sky.” Tommy raised his glass in homage.
“They’re no different from the rest of us. Birds were meant to be free.”
I raised my glass and silently agreed.
By the time I arrived home it was dark, but Sophie had turned on the lights in my cottage, along with the TV, so that Bonkers would have company.
“Hi ya, sweetie!” he screeched.
I approved of the greeting. The remains of sunflower seeds, mango, and banana littered his dish. I counted my blessings that Sophie was both a friend and a landlady.
“Boy, are you one lucky bird,” I told Bonkers, letting him out of his cage. He crawled onto my shoulder and rode into the kitchen, hopping onto the counter where he helped me unpack groceries. Out came cabbage, watercress, carrots, green pepper and peas, corncobs, papayas, and grapes, filling up my normally empty refrigerator, all for one wisecracking bird. Then I poured myself a glass of red wine and handed Bonkers a carrot as we headed into the garden to watch the stars.
The tangy smell of the sea entwined with the sweet fragrance of frangipani to wrap around me in a savory bouquet. I felt something scamper over my bare feet, as light as a whisper, and knew it was the green lizard that had been sunning himself earlier in the day.
As Bonkers chewed on the carrot, crunching close to my ear, my mind drifted to Bambi. It was obvious that life hadn’t turned out the way she had planned when she’d first gotten married. I was caught off-guard as thoughts of Santou swept over me, as powerful as salt in a still-open wound.
Bonkers brought me back to the present as he gently pulled on my ear, testing how far he could go. I brushed him down onto my arm, where he amused himself by chewing on my watch before climbing back up to nuzzle his head under my chin. That’s what I was afraid of: being like Bonkers, my wings clipped just enough to make me dependent.
Then Sophie and Lucinda’s laughter trickled from their bungalow, tantalizing me with what life with someone else could offer. Bonkers nestled close, his beak nudging my hand until I finally got the message and began to pet him. The bird squawked in protest each time I stopped, as if cursing his luck for being saddled with such a dense human.
Bird Brained (Rachel Porter Mysteries) Page 9
