“The stateroom flooded,” Mom said.
You could see that punch line coming from a mile away. Dad is a lovely man, but with a wrench in his hand he is an actual menace to society as we know it. “Why didn’t you just ask the ship people?” I asked him.
“They’re busy. They don’t need to be bothered. It was a simple repair.” Dad wasn’t making eye contact with Mom. That wasn’t good. This wasn’t a raconteur story being told to an appreciative audience, like usual. This was the tip of the … well, you know.
“It wasn’t simple when I was up to my ankles,” Mom said.
Dad opened his mouth to answer, but I was saved by the buzz because a text message was coming in from Madolyn. Special crew meeting tomorrow, 10 a.m. Don’t bring Barney.
That meant there wouldn’t be any film shot the next day, which was not terribly surprising. The company was reeling, and decisions about how to replace Dray, if at all, were being made.
I texted back See you then and started to think about how to get Barney back to Patty’s place. I could drive there before the company meeting and drop him off, then head to the studio if Patty wasn’t up to the meeting. I was just the agent, after all, and not the parrot’s handler.
I’d be out of this whole mess by this time tomorrow. I just had to keep reminding myself of that.
I was about to turn back to the soap opera unfolding at my kitchen table when my phone rang and Sam’s number showed up in the ID. He rarely calls, so I was concerned and answered immediately.
“Is something wrong?” I asked. Hello just seemed so mundane.
“Not with me,” Sam said. “But you might want to look out your front window. Don’t open the door.”
Okay, so suddenly I’m in a monster movie and being told the call is coming from inside the house. “Why?” I asked, but I was already heading to the front window, which has adjustable blinds on it. At the moment they were adjusted down, but that was clearly about to change.
Before Sam could answer, and as my parents looked on doing what they do best—looking concerned—I pried a couple of the slats apart and looked out. There were four news vans outside my house. One was actually parked on my lawn.
“Oh,” I said. “That’s why.”
CHAPTER FIVE
I would like it pointed out that I do not know anyone on the Scarborough, New Jersey, Police Department. I have dealt with some NYPD officers in the past, but this was actually my first time calling the local cops with a complaint.
The results were mixed. “The vans have every right to park wherever they want on a public street,” the dispatcher told me.
“One of them is parked on my lawn,” I said.
“Now that we can do something about. I’ll get a cruiser out there right away and we’ll see if maybe we can get them to move back or something, but there’s no law against parking a news van in front of your house.” My tax dollars at work.
Against my better instincts I thanked the dispatcher and disconnected the call. But before I could make it back to the kitchen, the doorbell rang.
“Don’t answer it,” Mom suggested. “Maybe they’ll go away.”
That seemed unlikely. “You want me to answer?” my father said. “I could say I’m a family spokesperson.” Never get between my father and a spotlight; it’s dangerous.
“I’ll do it,” I said. “If we let you out there, you’ll do three encores.”
Dad looked slightly wounded, but Mom grinned. It was one of the rare times I’ve seen them do anything but put up a united front. Now I was getting worried. “Let’s move Barney out of the way,” I said, and Mom took his cage into their bedroom, which was closest. It was showtime.
I walked to the door, took a breath, and opened it. That was a mistake.
At least five microphones and three digital voice recorders (those were the radio and print reporters) were within an inch of my mouth before I had stepped all the way out onto my front step. Lights flashed on. Questions were being shouted from people I couldn’t see because of the klieg lights they were shining in my face. And all the time I was wishing I’d touched up my makeup before going outside. This was going live on CNN.
“What were Dray’s last words?”
“Were you and he having an affair?”
“Did the parrot see anything?”
“Can you stand up taller?” That was one of the microphone holders who had been pushed to the back of the scrum.
Years of stage experience were not going wasted this time. “I have a brief statement,” I said. “Is this going live to any of your affiliates?”
“Yes!” a couple of the reporters yelled out.
It was a pity. Because I didn’t want to get into trouble with the FCC, my planned two-word statement was not going to be usable. They still get cranky about certain types of language, four decades after George Carlin. This is what we call progress.
“All right, here it is: We believe my client was present at the time that Dray Mattone was tragically shot, but we don’t know that for certain. The bird is incapable of conversation; he can just repeat phrases he has been painstakingly taught over a period of days or weeks. So he has no useful information to give to the police and I have no information to give to you. That’s all I’m going to say, aside from please get your van off my lawn. Thank you.” I stepped backward through my front door as more questions were shouted at me and closed it in their faces, which wasn’t nearly as satisfying as you’d think it would be.
“Nice,” Mom said.
Dad, walking over to give me a hug, said, “You couldn’t mention the act?” I raised my hand, but he caught it and kissed it. “I’m kidding, sweetie.”
“So was I.” Mostly.
But the doorbell kept ringing and the phone started to buzz with numbers I’d never seen before. The dogs barked each time the doorbell rang; they don’t care about my phone but invasion of their personal space is definitely not cool with them. I wondered how I’d take them out for a walk after dinner.
Luckily that was the moment the Scarborough police decided to show up and get the van off the front lawn. The other reporters and broadcasters seemed to take that as a hint, but they didn’t drive away. They just stopped ringing my doorbell, mostly because they’d probably figured out I wasn’t going to open the door anymore tonight.
“What are you going to do now?” Mom asked.
“I’m going to have a normal evening and take Barney back to his real home early tomorrow.”
I turned my cell phone to vibrate because I couldn’t actually be unavailable if Consuelo had to get in touch or one of my clients’ owners was frantic to find me (okay, so I’m afraid to be unconnected; you got me), so instead of hearing it ring off its virtual hook every few seconds I heard a buzz and glanced down at it. This in the modern world is what we call managing.
“I’m going to let Barney out of the cage for a few minutes,” I told Mom and Dad. “He needs the change of scenery and the exercise. I’d appreciate it if you’d help me keep him from being eaten by dogs, because that would be a fairly serious breach of my contract with Patty.”
Mom, who loves dogs and cats but has never warmed to any other animals, blanched a little, clenched her jaw, and nodded. My father, who never met an experience he’d prefer not to have, lit up. He rubbed his hands together. “Let’s do this thing,” he said.
With more than a little of my mother in me, I felt more than a flicker of trepidation but went into Mom and Dad’s room to get Barney’s cage, which did not have its cover on it. I decided his point of release should be the living room, so I returned Barney and his immediate environs to the coffee table and took a deep breath.
“Okay,” I said, watching the dogs, who found this all incredibly fascinating. Eydie especially was showing more interest than I was used to seeing from her, which did not make me any more relaxed. “Here we go.”
Barney barely reacted when I opened the cage door. That kind of thing happened dozens of times a day in his line of
work, so he saw nothing unusual in the act. When I reached in to help him out, he seemed a little startled but not upset. He didn’t try to peck at my hand or anything, which was a good sign, I thought. I didn’t have the gloves that falconers use, but at the moment they seemed like a fine idea.
“Come on, Barney,” I said. It was the tone that mattered, not the words. I could have said, “E equals MC squared,” but that would have just confused my parents and possibly Steve.
Barney hopped onto my index finger, as he does with Patty when she’s training him, and I eased him out of the cage, being careful to hold him up higher than even Bruno could jump if he felt like it. Bruno, big hairy floor mop that he is, was watching from his dog bed and seemed thrilled but not terribly threatening. He was about ten feet away.
I realized once Barney was out and sitting on my finger that I had no idea how to get him to fly. Then I wondered if I wanted him to fly, considering the rather extensive cleanup that could entail if he decided to make mischief or anything else.
But I knew it was better for the parrot if he had a chance to spread his wings a bit, and since going outside (for me and the dogs, not Barney) was off the table for the moment, this was the best moment for him to do so. I reached over with my free hand and tried to gently nudge him off my index finger. He wasn’t exactly resistant so much as he didn’t seem to understand what I was suggesting. I thought of calling Patty for instructions but thought of the rattle in her cough the last time we spoke and decided she could use the sleep.
I was a professional. I could get a parrot off my finger.
“Why don’t you try tossing him?” Dad said, gesturing with his hand. Eydie thought that was a great idea and watched Dad’s hand move back and forth with utter and profound interest.
“He’s not a salad,” I answered. “Besides, I don’t want him to get hurt.”
“I don’t think your father means to throw the bird hard,” Mom said. She could be annoyed with Dad and defend him at the same time. It’s an art.
I got what he meant, but it’s easier said than done. I gave Barney another nudge with my free hand, but he just looked at it as he would at an invading Hun and ruffled his feathers, squawking a little.
“Easy there, big guy,” I said. Bruno, who is used to hearing that nickname from me, stood up and walked over, expecting someone to pet him. Mom obliged; that was her contribution.
Finally I decided this couldn’t be handled gently, at least not this gently, and did as Dad had suggested, just in a directional manner. I was guiding Barney into the air rather than trying to propel him, since that seemed the best way to keep my index finger unscratched.
And it was just when Barney got the idea and took off that I noticed something hanging off his left foot. Before I could get a close look at what that object or substance might be, he had taken wing and was circling my living room.
That caused a decent amount of hysteria among the dogs. Eydie barked, stood up on her hind legs, and shook her head in either wonderment or utter disgust. It’s hard to tell with Eydie; she could also have been expressing some desire to make an appetizer of Barney.
Steve jumped up so his front paws rested on the edge of the coffee table. He wasn’t going to be able to do much, but he could see better from there.
Bruno, though, was terrified. Something was flying in our house! He didn’t know whether to attack this bizarre creature or go hide in his bed and wait for it all to be over, so he stood absolutely still in the middle of the room, head tilted up to watch, and howled.
“What’s that on his claw?” Dad yelled over the barking.
Barney did another couple of laps around the living room before exploring the kitchen, which really freaked the dogs out. Now this flying object was invading the space where the food was! It was barely imaginable.
“I don’t know,” I answered Dad as Barney flew from spot to spot in my kitchen, wisely never coming down to a level Bruno, the tallest dog, could reach. He was not, however, gauging Eydie’s ability to jump, but I was, so I held her collar and let her watch but not move. “I saw it just as I let him go.”
Barney flew back into the living room—we had made sure bedroom doors were closed before I set him loose—and took up a position on the crown molding in the far corner of the room. He looked down and considered all he could survey, no doubt wondering who all those odd creatures below him might be.
“Dinnertime for Barney!” he shouted. It was a comfort phrase.
“I think it’s hair,” Mom said, pointing at Barney. Clearly she meant the material stuck to his talon.
There was no provision for bringing Barney down right now, and that would have defeated the purpose of letting him out of the cage to begin with. So I let him sit on the molding above us all but made sure there was newspaper laid out on the floor beneath where he sat, at least for the time being.
“He’s taking up residence,” I told my parents. “Do you think it makes sense to let the dogs out in the back for a while?”
“Do you think there are any reporters back there?” Mom asked. “It could be dangerous.”
“For the dogs or the reporters?” I asked.
“I’m not sure you could convince them to leave right now,” Dad said, looking at the dogs. “They’re so excited I don’t think they’ll be open to leaving.”
He was right about that, but I was insistent. I wanted the dogs to get out, and with the platoon of paparazzi on the front lawn, it was at best a dubious proposition that we’d get out for a normal walk. They needed to do what they needed to do and it wasn’t like we’d never used the backyard for that before. But Barney’s escapades in the living room were just so incredible that getting the three dogs out of the area was a challenge.
Eventually it was achieved, with Eydie predictably being the most difficult to nudge. Luckily I’d already been holding on to her collar, so the addition of a leash was not difficult. The two boys were less obstinate, even if Steve did keep looking over his left shoulder at the bird and Bruno, still doing his tough-guy bark, seemed incredulous that we were not calling upon him to defend the house. Against a parrot.
Once they were outside, they naturally wanted to come back in and started to bark and cry. This was simple human manipulation, but it achieved two results: It made me feel bad and it attracted the attention of the hovering reporters, who ran around to the back of the house, no doubt assuming Dray Mattone’s killer was revealing himself in my backyard, causing the dogs to bark.
I couldn’t leave them (the dogs) outside alone with that group, so Dad and I stayed out for a while until it was clear all three had taken care of what was necessary and the reporters, shouting questions through the stockade fence, had exhausted what little there was of humanity within them. They started asking me if I’d shot Dray before or after we’d consummated our deeply felt lust, and I brought the dogs back inside.
The five of us found Mom in the living room, standing on tiptoe on one of the kitchen chairs, holding out a finger and trying to entice Barney to hop onto it. The finger in question was smeared with peanut butter and Barney looked like he was considering it.
“Mom,” I said urgently, “get down off the chair.”
“But it’s working,” she protested.
“I know; that’s the problem. If he starts to peck the peanut butter off your finger, we’re going to end up in the emergency room and the vultures outside will have a whole new story to tell.”
Mom looked down sharply. “He has teeth?”
“No, he has a beak and it’s strong enough to break branches,” I answered.
Mom came down off the chair.
“Did you see what’s on his foot?” I asked Mom.
“I still think it’s hair. Dark brown and curly.”
Luckily Patty had given me some instruction on the best way to get Barney back into his cage when he’s been out because she knew I’d have to exercise him a little even while we were working at the sound stage. I reached into the cage and pulled
out his favorite toy, a very sturdy strip of wood that already had a good number of beak imprints on it. This time I stood on the chair but did not offer any part of my own anatomy as an enticement. I extended the stick and cooed at Barney over the occasional bark from Eydie, the only dog left who found this the least bit peculiar.
“Come on, Barney,” I crooned. “See the nice stick.”
Barney saw the nice stick. Whether or not he was going to relinquish his position overseeing the rest of us was still a question.
“Wanna play with the stick?” I asked the parrot. Because in my business you have conversations with animals. There’s a good deal of comfort in that because you never get an answer, so there’s really no pressure to be witty or charming.
Barney flapped his wings a little and said, “Can’t kill a zombie!”
Okay, so with Barney you did get an answer, but it wasn’t actually relevant to the conversation, so the whole witty or charming thing still applied. “Come on, Barney,” I repeated. “Get the stick!”
“Dinnertime for Barney!” Parrots never say anything that sounds subdued. They always seem to be shouting. They’re not, but we’re just stupid humans and react as if they were.
“Okay. Okay, Barney.” I extended the stick a little bit farther, aware of the fact that I was standing on a chair and reaching for a bird who was sitting on my crown molding. I’d never noticed just how high the ceilings were in this house. This was not the way I’d wanted to find out.
He responded to my soothing tone the way I had hoped: He reached out for the stick with his beak and I let him have it while extending my right index finger.
Barney hopped on.
Breathing the inevitable sigh of relief, I made sure he was secure on my finger, didn’t make any sudden movements with my hands, and accepted Dad’s offer of help to get down off the chair. Eydie sauntered over to take a look, but I turned my back on her; I trusted Steve a lot more with a tasty-looking parrot on my finger.
I love my dogs, but I’ve become really attached to my right hand.
“Is the hair still on his foot?” Mom asked.
Bird, Bath, and Beyond Page 5
