Endangered

by Ann Littlewood

  “You have a date? Is his head shaved? Is he tattooed?”

  It was almost a relief to have my real mother back. “Mom…”

  “I’m only asking.”

  A few dubious choices in high school stick like gum to my shoe. “He’s got hair and a job. I’ll let you know about the tattoos if it goes well.”

  She blushed. “Robby will be fine with us. Have fun.”

  “I’ll be home to change before I go out.” I’m not a big hugger, but gratitude and affection got the best of me.

  ***

  Sky was really, really pissed off. We keepers had conspired to play a cruel trick on him, humiliated him in front of his wives, and, far worse, deprived him of his rightful food. The big monkey stared a mean stare toward where I observed from the visitor viewpoint. He followed up with a head bob and slapped the ground with a palm to show he meant it.

  How did he know this was my fault?

  The mandrill stormed back and forth at the keeper door to his exhibit, which had grown a contraption overnight. A box made of close-spaced metal bars, about a foot square and two inches deep, was welded flat to the metal door. It was full of monkey chow, and he couldn’t get at it. He stopped now and then to poke his fingers into the box. He could touch the hard little biscuits as well as see and smell them, but he couldn’t get them out. This was his monkey chow, in the wrong place. Violet and Carmine wouldn’t dream of claiming it. They stayed as far away as they could get.

  It had taken all my will power to wait until break to leave Birds and check out the mandrills. This wasn’t what I’d hoped for.

  Sky emitted frustration like a fumarole. He applied his teeth to the steel bars and got one of the uppers stuck, his head at a weird angle. My heart stopped. If he broke a canine…or his neck…He yanked it out intact and went back to pacing.

  “Figure it out, dummy,” I muttered. “Calm down and think.”

  “He’s really got his macho on.”

  Craig again. He raised a hand. “Neal says it’s okay for you to talk to me. True story.”

  He looked good in that black jacket. Pale brown dress shirt, dark pants. “Sorry, but I have to confirm that.” Why was I apologizing?

  “Of course. Tell me what’s going on here.”

  I explained we were trying to keep Sky busy so that Violet could relax and focus on her new baby. He stood beside me, a little closer than strangers stand. I was a little more aware of him than I should have been. But then Sky vented his feelings by charging Carmine, who fled shrieking. Violet screamed also and the three of them, four counting the baby clinging for his life, tore around for what seemed like a very long time, but was probably only seconds. Sky broke off and went back to cursing at the puzzle feeder.

  “Good grief,” Craig said. “I would not want to be trapped in there with him.”

  “He doesn’t actually hurt them.” So far.

  “What’s supposed to be happening? With that gismo.”

  I put aside the thought that this might be one of my worst ideas ever. “See that hole near the top of the box? The idea is that he uses his fingers to walk a piece of chow up the side and out the hole.” Sky obliged by sticking two fingers down the hole, which accomplished nothing. “It’s tricky, and he’s never seen anything like it.”

  “A guy with big teeth doesn’t usually need brains.”

  “Not until this.”

  “And his color scheme?”

  Visitors were always riveted by Sky’s vivid pink-and-blue muzzle and rump. “Indicates he’s a mature male, a major stud. The bright colors might help mandrills find each other in thick jungle, but no one really knows.” I’d spent all the time watching mandrills that I could afford. “I have to get to work. As long as you’re at the zoo, have a look around.”

  “I’ll be at the front entrance at noon with lunch.”

  “Um, 11:30 is better. And I only get thirty minutes.”

  “That will work.” He gave me a little tap on the shoulder and ambled toward the gibbons. I stared after him, bemused that my blood was racing just a trifle.

  He was so different from Ken. Denny could probably explain that I had a dual personality and that it was perfectly logical to be attracted to both, but I didn’t plan to consult him.

  I concentrated on feeding birds and cleaning the Penguinarium and fixing a weak spot in the aviary fencing, lugging tools and food pans from one side of the zoo to the other in fitful rain. Both Bali mynahs looked fine today. At 11:15, I called Neal.

  Who said, “Yeah, he came in and talked to me. He’s a free-lancer, used to work for some Florida newspaper. Talk to him if you want. He’ll just bug Crandall if you don’t, and Crandall always says yes to anyone from the press.”

  So Neal had folded.

  Fine with me. Craig was persistent. He might find Jeff and Tom before the police did. That was a good reason to establish contact. Reason? Excuse, maybe.

  He was waiting at the visitor entrance, toting a white paper bag with “Rosemary Café & Espresso Bar” written on it. “Hey,” he said, hazel eyes alight, “He got one! I only saw one, but I had to leave to get the food. He’s figuring it out!” He had a fine grin.

  We celebrated Sky’s victory with a high five.

  “I think one of those other monkeys, a female, I guess, has a problem with her teeth. Not the one with the baby, the other one. She shoves at her lower jaw with her hand and grinds her teeth. I saw her do it twice.”

  He’d actually watched the mandrills. Most visitors take a quick look and move on as if they’ll get a prize for checking off every animal at the zoo. “Cheek pouches. She stuffed her breakfast down alongside her jaw. She shoves a chunk of monkey chow up with her fist and chews on it when she’s hungry. It’s normal.”

  Craig raised his eyebrows and nodded, apparently impressed by my expertise and reassured about mandrill tooth decay.

  We settled at a table in the café, Craig sticking his bad leg out carefully. I received a frown from the manager, who would probably complain to Neal, who wouldn’t care. We weren’t displacing paying customers since there weren’t any. It was raining and cold and only 11:30.

  Craig pulled out containers of soups and salads, paper-wrapped sandwiches, and two big cookies. My good will is so easily won...

  We tucked in to the chow, which was excellent. Instead of asking questions, he told me about reporting from the civil war in Liberia where he ended up under a jeep with a broken leg. “Wrong place, wrong time, and by the time I got hauled out of there, the leg was really screwed up.” If he ever got a job with health insurance, surgery might help. “We might as well get that out of the way. People always want to know, and you’re probably too polite to ask.”

  I nodded and chewed and thought that I couldn’t find Liberia on a map. The more my blood sugar rose, the more interesting Craig became.

  He summarized his reporter job in Florida, massive layoffs throughout the news industry, and moving to Vancouver for a job that vanished when he arrived. “Now I’m working on a feature-length article about the Tiptons and their family businesses.” He was sure he could sell to any number of publications. “Winter’s Bone set in the Northwest.”

  He had a touch of “not from around here” accent, but I couldn’t pin it down further than “East Coast.” He was a riveting story teller, but I began to wonder whether he wanted an interview or just an audience.

  We were down to the cookies—oatmeal/raisin and chocolate chip, which we divided and shared—before he asked me about the Tiptons. He took notes while I gave him a brief account of why the zoo was involved and the current status of the parrots and tortoises.

  He looked up when I stopped. “You really don’t like talking to reporters.”

  True fact. “I’ve got nothing to gain, aside from a nice lunch, and this one’s a first. Usually
reporters misquote me, and the other keepers make jokes about it. Or I say things carelessly, and they make jokes about it. Or I say something really stupid, and my boss doesn’t make a joke about it at all. So it’s downside all the way. We try to make the zoo look good and not put our foot in it.”

  “Most people like to see their name in the papers, as long as it’s not for an arrest.”

  I shook my head.

  He put his palms flat on the table and looked me in the eye. “My recorder broke or I would have brought it, but I take good notes. I will do my best not to embarrass you in any way.”

  I appreciated that. He wanted to know about old man Tipton dying, and I gave the short version, wishing he hadn’t asked. I changed the subject. “Have you learned anything about Liana? The girl who died.”

  He nodded. “A year ago, she was picked up on a prostitution charge in Los Angeles and released. Somehow she made it to Vancouver and ended up on the farm. I think she was there for several months, but no one seems to know for sure. Apparently she was plying her trade in the towns around the farm. Getting information about the Tiptons has been really tough. The mother won’t talk to me, and I can’t find the sons any better than the police can.”

  “Plying her trade. How do you know? Is that from the police?”

  “No, they aren’t interested in talking to me, but I’ve got a scanner. Plus a few tricks up my sleeve.”

  Oh, Liana, perhaps I misjudged you. “Do you think one of the sons shot her?”

  He wadded up our trash, thinking. “Could be. But Jerome was funding some home-grown terrorist groups. They can get pretty violent. We really don’t have enough information to make an educated guess.”

  Craig asked about the parrots and, once I got started, I fulminated more than I should have about the illegal pet trade and how it can eliminate a species from most of its range, just so the animals can sit in someone’s house until they die. “Parrots are smart, social birds—they’re meant to bond with each other and be together every minute of every day. We want them to bond with us, then we go off and leave them alone all day. Some European countries require that they be kept in pairs, not singly. They have laws about it.”

  “And the tortoises?”

  “Same conservation issues, different problems as pets. They’re being wiped out globally, partly for eating, partly for pets. Collectors pay a fortune for anything rare. Denny says they’re tricky to keep alive. He goes on about humidity and how each kind has these picky requirements or the shells get deformed.”

  “Iris, I can use this. The animal angle will add a fresh dimension and amp up the emotion. This is great stuff.”

  Go, Craig! “Tell people how hard smuggling is on the animals, the humane side and the conservation side both.”

  “You really light up when you talk about this. I want to capture that passion.” He smiled at me, then went thoughtful. “I never got any shots of the tortoises. Do you think you could set that up? It wouldn’t take long.”

  “You should have started with Denny.”

  “Yes, but you’re a lot better looking.” His grin was unrepentant. “Seriously, can you help me here?”

  “They’re in quarantine. Off limits.”

  “You could ask, right?”

  “I could ask. The vet might surprise me.”

  “You’ve still got my card? My cell phone’s on it.”

  I did.

  “Call me. Anytime.” His voice had dropped.

  We weren’t talking about tortoises anymore.

  I started to get up and sat back. “Look, if you find the Tiptons, please, please tell me right away. They broke into my house, and now I have to hide out. I want them in jail.”

  Craig sat bolt upright. “You saw them? That was the Portland sighting?” He looked at me with reproach. “You didn’t mention that.”

  My lunch hour was over and then some. “Yeah, they busted in two nights ago and asked a bunch of bullshit questions. They wanted to know their father’s last words. He said to take care of his parrots. That hurt their feelings. I tried to talk them into turning themselves in, but Old Man Tipton filled them full of paranoia and they won’t.”

  He asked for more details, and I gave them.

  He leaned toward me with a frown. “Are you safe in your house?”

  “I’ve moved out for now.”

  He nodded, but didn’t seem all that reassured. “I’ll let you and the police know if I track them down. I can interview them from jail just as well. Can I contact you to confirm details of what we talked about today?”

  “Sure. Bring food like this and I’m available any time.”

  “I’ll remember that. Good luck with the baby monkey.”

  I felt his eyes on me as I walked away.

  Cranes dance together. Ducks bob their heads in a certain pattern. Bali mynahs preen each other’s faces. Humans share food. A pleasant fizz in my blood sent worries off-stage for a little while.

  By the end of the day, I’d come back to earth. Food and flirting were part of Craig’s reporter toolkit, useful for relaxing the subject. Fun, but not to be taken seriously.

  Looking for good news, I checked up on Sky. The puzzle feeder was empty and the troop was dozing, the monkeys scattered in different corners of the exhibit. I wondered if he’d gotten all the monkey chow on his own or if Kip had helped. I’d ask her tomorrow.

  The baby was wadded up on Violet’s belly with his eyes closed. She had an arm around him. Picture perfect.

  Chapter Sixteen

  On the way home, I clicked on the local news, hoping to hear that the Tiptons’ house call had led to their capture. After several minutes of national and international disasters, malfeasance, and trivia, a local talk show came on. The Tiptons were in the news all right, but not what I expected. The host was delighted to report a much more sensational development in the Tipton saga than housebreaking—lost treasure.

  “We’ve learned that drug king-pin Jerome Tipton, now deceased, made bail with—wait for it, folks—gold coins! Canadian Maple Leafs, for you gold bugs. And, folks, unconfirmed rumors say that Tipton kept his drug money in more gold coins. Here’s the best part—he buried them. Or so the rumor goes. Nobody knows where—nobody who’s telling, anyway. Those of you hit by this tough economy can sympathize, right? Gold’s what you want when the economy is in shambles. Let’s talk with long-time treasure hunter Ted McDermott. Ted, you’ve been out to the Tipton place, right? With a metal detector. Did you find anything?”

  After an awkward pause, a slow, reluctant voice said, “Well, I can’t say as I did. There’s people looking around the area. Most of them are sweeping, but some are just poking the mud with a metal rod. I figure they hope to hit something that way.”

  “Tell us what ‘sweeping’ means, Ted.”

  “Using your metal detector.” The tone implied, “you idiot.”

  “You let us know, Ted, if you find something good. We all want to hear that you struck it rich.”

  “Sure thing.” That verged on sarcasm.

  Of course. Anyone who found something valuable wasn’t going to let out a peep, unless they were brain-dead or a rank amateur.

  After a spell of dead air, the host realized Ted had said all he was going to say. “Thanks, and good luck out there in this cold, wet weather. Nothing like buried treasure to get folks out of their warm houses. Next up: those two skiers lost on Mount Hood. Did the search parties find them? After this word…”

  I clicked it off. That’s what had been happening in the Tipton driveway on our last visit. Not a search for evidence. Denny and I had seen the beginning of the gold stampede, the two men with metal detectors. Now it was in full gallop. Did Craig know about this? He would soon enough, assuming he tracked the local news. He would love it. I turned into my parents’ street wondering who sta
rted the gold rumor. The bail bondsman seemed the best candidate.

  The brothers had searched the barns looking for shelter, looking for the gold, either or both. I could see the old autocrat keeping his stash secret. That was why Jeff and Tom wanted to hear about his last words. That conversation made a lot more sense now. They were in a race to find the gold. Maybe someone already had and was quietly figuring out how to convert it to cash. A lot of people might be cold and wet and risking a trespassing charge for nothing.

  Where was a good place to hide gold coins? I set that aside. I had bigger problems. Also a date.

  ***

  Podners was new and pretty, red walls except for a window wall that provided a fine view of the weather, floors of wide planks. Ken sat in a boxy wood chair at a little table made from trendy old-growth fir, salvaged of course. With a Hawaiian shirt and tan cotton pants, he looked unfamiliar. In a uniform, around dogs, I felt a common bond. Here, he was a stranger, one who pretended it wasn’t January in Portland. The short sleeves showed muscular arms. He’d not had any difficulty with the heavy macaw cage. He gave me a cautious smile showing that eye-catching front tooth.

  I wasn’t late—he’d arrived early. Freshly shaved, a whiff of aftershave. A first date for him, too. I apologized again for standing him up, which he brushed off. I ordered a glass of wine. Ken tossed off the last of the beer he had in front of him and accepted another from a waitress who reserved her smile for him and not me. “Back again,” she purred.

  He looked unfamiliar, yes, but aside from that dumb shirt, he looked good. My body alerted to his. Primed by lunch with Craig? I imagined subtle signals and messages sent and received, a whole conversation without words, our brains not even listening in. I smiled, then succumbed without warning to a shy-attack.

  He ordered the pulled pork. I asked for the smoked chicken.

  I was out of practice and couldn’t remember the script. “Um, have you checked in on the Tipton dogs?”

  He seemed perfectly relaxed. “No, they’re the Humane Society’s problem now. They’ll try to work with the mother. If they can’t pull a plan together, they’ll release the dogs for adoption.” He studied his beer bottle. “If people paid their dog and cat license fees, we wouldn’t be short-staffed and I could follow up.” A little smile at me. “Anyway, we’re tied up with horses now. The economy’s bad. Hay’s expensive. Lots of bony horses to check out.”