Bird Brained

by Jessica Speart

  “I’ve heard all about your connections in the porn world, Willy. They’re very impressive,” I said sarcastically. “But all I really want is to have your rear end keeping a jail cell warm.”

  He limped forward, aware that there wasn’t much more space into which I could retreat.

  “You must have done some miraculous healing for the hospital to have removed your cast so quickly,” I observed, trying to divert the conversation. The way his foot looked, it was probably infected, and well on its way to a whopping case of gangrene.

  He gave a broad leer, taking the comment as flattery. “The Swamp Cowboy has lotsa magic powers you’re just beginning to learn about. Besides, it wasn’t the hospital that done it. The damn thing got to be too hot and itchy, so I decided to hell with it and cut it off myself. When you’re a real man, you can do that kinda thing,” he said with a wink.

  I wondered if Willy also knew that real men didn’t need to hurt eleven-year-old girls, or look at bloated, dead bodies to get aroused. I wisely kept those questions to myself.

  His hand began to climb up my leg like a large, crafty spider. I locked onto his eyes and swatted his fingers away with all the concern I’d have for a bug, damned if I’d give him the upper hand by showing any fear.

  “I came by to tell you to stay away from Bambi. She’s called the police, and the court is in the process of issuing a restraining order against you. So unless you’re looking for a few hot meals courtesy of the county, I suggest that you cool it with the threats and behave.”

  Willy came closer, forcing me to step into the pile of laundry.

  “Ouch!” Willy giggled. “You got me there, Porter. Why, I’m just gonna have to put my big old tail between my legs and scamper away lickety-split, like a good little boy. Is that what you wanna hear me say?” he asked, his voice turning deep and raspy.

  His breath covered me like a layer of grime. “I swear to God, Willy—you come any closer, and a jail cell will be the least of your concerns.” If nothing else, I could smother him to death with his own clothes.

  “That’s what I like about you, Porter—you’re feisty.” Willy began to pick at his chest, as if he were removing scabs. “As for Bambi? I got my plans for her; don’t you worry. But right now, it’s you that I’m thinking about. And that’s beginning to make me feel prickly all over.”

  Weed’s hand slunk down to his jeans. His fingers loosened the button on his pants, then moved for the zipper.

  “I do believe you’re just gonna have to do the right thing and scratch this big ol’ itch for me,” he smirked. “Besides, I did promise to show you my cockatoo.”

  Willy’s free hand slithered up along the inside of my thigh. I quickly raised my knee, aiming for his groin, but Weed was prepared for the move. Apparently he’d had plenty of practice. He caught my leg in both his hands and laughed harder.

  “Come on, Porter, I got your tune. You’re the kind who finds dancing on the edge fun. Well, I’m about to take you right over. I like women who try and fight. It just makes it all that much better. Besides, I’ve been hankering to find out if you’re really a redhead.”

  I grabbed hold of the cougar’s tooth that hung from his ear and gave it a sharp jerk, while my other palm shoved his jaw upward. Weed’s mouth snapped shut, and he bit down hard on his tongue.

  He screamed in pain, dropping my leg. “Goddamn you, bitch! Now you’ve gone and done it!” Weed spat out a thin stream of blood. “You just sealed your fate, Porter. I was gonna do you nice—now I’ll do you any way I want.”

  “Gee, Willy, and all this time I thought you were a gentleman.” I feinted to the left, then veered right, hoping to get around him.

  But Weed was surprisingly quick. He blocked my exit and roughly shoved me out of the laundry, backing me up until I was pinned in Big Mama’s corner. I was caught off-balance as one of his hands grasped me firmly between the legs, while the other wrapped tightly around my throat.

  Willy brought his mouth close to my ear. “I think what you need is a lesson. You gotta learn who’s the boss around here, just like those boat-lovin’ Cubans.”

  I tried to move, but that only caused Weed to tighten his grip on my body.

  Willy’s voice attacked me, his tone low and surly. “You gotta remember that, badge or no badge, you’re still nothing but a woman, and that means you should know your place. And you know what that place is, Porter?” Willy’s fingers crab-walked up my crotch and began to undo my zipper.

  “Yeah, Willy. I’ve got a pretty good idea,” I told him, my eyes narrowing.

  I waited until his fingers were lodged tight in my pants. Then I raised my leg and rammed my shoe down as hard as I could on top of his bare, broken foot. I dug my heel in, grinding it back and forth.

  Willy’s hand flew out of the top of my pants as an unearthly cry ripped from his throat. I slammed my elbow hard into his solar plexus, then pushed past him and tore out of the trailer. A dozen vultures blocked the path to my car, looking like a gang of schoolyard bullies. But they must have seen who’d be the victor in this showdown, because they lowered their bald heads and quickly split up, parting like the Red Sea.

  I got into the Tempo and retrieved my gun, then revved the engine and turned the car around. I took off, my eyes glued to the rearview mirror, where I saw Willy standing outside screeching at the top of his lungs.

  “You’re a dead woman, Porter!”

  Thirteen

  What I needed more than anything was a shower. My skin felt as if thousands of lice had set up camp on every part of my body. I scratched my arms, my legs, my torso, even behind my ears, intent on finding mites, bedbugs, fleas, or ticks. Finally satisfied that nothing had claimed squatter’s rights, I pulled out my cell phone and placed a call to Metro Dade.

  “Reardon here,” Vern drawled in a bored-out-of-his-gourd, can’t-wait-to-retire monotone.

  Going from Willy to Vern was almost surreal. “Officer Reardon, please hurry! Skunk Ape’s just hit your concession stand and taken off with all your official I SAW THE SKUNK APE T-shirts!”

  “What?!” Vern’s voice rose a couple octaves, kick-starting to life.

  “It’s okay, Vern. Rachel Porter here. I just wanted to wake you up,” I chuckled.

  Vern’s chair creaked as he collapsed back into it. “Goddamn you, Porter,” he panted, sounding short of breath. “Anybody ever tell you that your sense of humor stinks?” He gave a little grunt, followed by silence.

  I waited for a moment, beginning to wonder if maybe he was right. Oh, my God, I worried, as the silence continued, thinking of Carrera. What if I’d given the man a heart attack?

  “Vern, are you okay?” I asked, trying my best to remain calm.

  But there was no snappy retort to my question.

  “Reardon?” I couldn’t stop the note of panic from creeping into my voice. “Speak to me, Vern! Please, answer me!”

  The morning’s cinnamon bun churned in my stomach like heavy, wet cement.

  “Hold on, Vern!” I urged, my heart beating like a hummingbird’s wings. “I’m going to call and alert your desk sergeant, and have him ring an ambulance.” I was about to hang up when Vern’s snigger stopped me.

  “Thanks, Porter. But I’m suddenly feeling a whole lot better.”

  My temper went into countdown and was about to blast off, when I reminded myself just who had started the sneak attack.

  “Next time you try and pull off a joke, Porter, remember to carry it all the way through. That’s what separates the girls from us men. So, are you calling about anything in particular? Or just looking to learn some pointers from a pro?” he smugly questioned.

  I allowed Vern to savor his moment of victory, fully aware of how fragile the male ego could be. Besides, I was hoping I could turn it to my advantage.

  “Weed’s at it again,” I reported. “This time he’s threatening Bambi with torture and murder. Can we get some kind of injunction against him?”

  Vern sighed. “Is Madam Strippe
r coming in to press charges?”

  I’d encountered the same attitude before. It was the us-versus-them mentality, in the never-ending war between the sexes.

  “No,” I conceded. “But Weed’s serious this time, Vern. I was just there to see him and the guy is out of control. This is going to have a bad ending unless you do something about it.”

  “Come on, Porter. You know that we can’t do a thing unless Bambi asks us to arrest him.” Vern let loose a loud yawn. “And I haven’t heard shit from that dainty damsel. In fact, the last time we were out there, I believe it was Madam herself who was poised to slice off Weed’s willy.” Vern chuckled at his play on words.

  “Why do I get the feeling you’re not taking this seriously? Can’t you at least haul him in and scare him a bit?” I suggested.

  “You wanna convince the broad to come in and file a complaint? Great.” Vern’s voice held all the concern of a snail on Prozac. “Otherwise, have her give me a call the next time he’s around and physically threatening her. Then we’ll have something to go on.”

  “Right. A dead body,” I responded brusquely. “Which reminds me, what’s happening with the Dominguez case? Have there been any further developments?”

  “Yeah. A little birdie keeps calling in and leaving messages. We’re working day and night trying to break the code. As soon as we do, I’ll let you know what he’s been telling us. Anything else I can help you with today, Porter?”

  “No. As usual, you’ve met all my expectations.” I hung up.

  Then I dialed again, this time calling the state Game and Fresh Water Fish Commission.

  “Officer Stevens,” answered the wildlife agent on desk duty.

  “I’ve got a violation to report over at Willy Weed’s residence. A bunch of his cats are malnourished and neglected,” I said, not bothering to identify myself.

  There was a pause while I sat and contemplated what I could eat next without gaining another five pounds.

  “Is this you again, Porter?” Stevens responded. “I already told you last week, there isn’t enough evidence against him to warrant removing those cats.”

  “You mean the fact that they’re kept in minuscule cages and fed rotten food doesn’t hold any weight?” I was beginning to reach my limit with bureaucracy.

  Stevens sighed impatiently. “If it’s filth you’re complaining about this time, we’ll send someone out there again the next chance we get. After that we’ll file our decision,” he informed me in a get-at-the-end-of-the-line-and-don’t-hold-your-breath tone.

  “Just so you know, I plan on calling tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that until something is done. Those cats are pathetic, Stevens. How about just contacting some decent sanctuaries and offering the animals to them?”

  “For chrissakes, Porter. Don’t you have better things to do with your time?” Stevens snapped. “Like maybe focusing on your own work, for starters? You don’t see us jumping all over you feds. How about getting off the rag and giving us a break?”

  I hung up without responding. At this point, I was ready to scan the Yellow Pages and see if there might be a group more willing to take the necessary action. Something like Dial-A-Vigilante.

  I stopped at a local health food store and, after careful consideration, picked up a pack of whole-wheat, organic fig newton bars. It took only one tasteless bite to understand why they’d never made it to the shelves of my local grocery store. Faced with the dilemma of chucking them or chewing ’em, I polished off the fruit bars and made one last call.

  “Get the hell off my leg, dammit!” yelled the voice in my ear.

  Bambi could have been dealing with the dog, her kids, or any other bizarre entity in her life.

  “Bambi? It’s Rachel. The police want you to come in and file a formal complaint against Willy,” I lied.

  “Bullshit, they do,” Bambi responded without hesitation. “Don’t screw with me, Porter. They care about what happens to me about as much as they care whether you ever nab your parrot burglar.”

  “Then how about at least hightailing it out of town for a week or two? Go visit a friend or some relatives. Think of it as a vacation,” I suggested.

  “Vacation, my ass,” Bambi spat back. “A vacation is planting my behind in a lounge chair on some tropical isle with a drink in my hand, and a rich old man dying at my feet with a pen and a will in his paw. Otherwise, I’m not dragging my sorry butt around with two screaming kids, one horny dog, and a deranged bird. You wanna do something worthwhile? Tell Willy it’s time he starts watching his own ass.”

  The phone clicked dead in my ear. I figured at this point, I might as well top off my day by going into the office and facing Carlos’s wrath.

  I found my boss sitting back in his chair with his legs stretched out and a gun in his lap, watching the hallway as if he somehow knew I was about to show. He picked up the gun and took a deep whiff, sniffing along the end of its barrel as he caught sight of my head poking through the door.

  “Agent Porter. So nice to know you still work here. I wasn’t sure you planned on coming back,” Carlos purred. “By the way, let me express my deepest sympathy.”

  “For what?” I cautiously asked, aware I was stepping into a trap.

  “For the fact that someone in your family must have unexpectedly died. Otherwise, I can’t think of any possible reason why you haven’t been working at your desk since I last saw you,” he snarled.

  I knew there were only two choices. Come clean with Carlos and fill him in on what I’d discovered, or spend the rest of my career chained in paperwork purgatory.

  “There’s a good reason why I haven’t been here,” I began.

  “There always is,” Carlos answered, his accent heavily saturated with irony.

  I pulled Willy’s three passports out of my back pocket, dug the hyacinth feather out of my purse, and placed the evidence on his desktop.

  “Willy has been muling both hyacinths and Cuban Amazons for years. He was working for Dominguez.”

  “You already filled me in on something like that a few days ago,” Carlos reminded me. “Remember? Right before you took it all back and told me you weren’t really sure exactly what you’d seen in that sack?”

  He held my gaze, reducing me to a pupil caught in a lie by her teacher. Then he picked up the passports and examined them.

  “I’ve got another flash for you, Porter. Dominguez is dead—which makes all this old news. You’ve been running around wasting your time and mine, along with the government’s, for nothing,” he informed me.

  An internal bonfire made my cheeks burn bright red. “But the fake passports!”

  Carlos cut me off, adding fuel to the fire. “Those illegal passports fall under Customs’ jurisdiction. Or do you want to do their job for them, too?”

  He picked up the feather and thrust its shaft into the barrel of his gun, creating an in-your-face vase. I was going to have to give up all the information I’d been holding, and hope I could convince Carlos to let me handle the case.

  “I’m certain the smuggling’s still going on,” I reluctantly revealed.

  Carlos sat up straight in his chair and placed his palms on the desk, all business now. “Why is that?”

  “One of my informants was hauling cigars in for Dominguez. He’s led me to believe that Alberto had other Cuban partners involved in the bird trafficking. They’re being brought in by boat, as well as by plane.”

  Carlos remained silent, contemplating the handle of his gun. When he finally spoke, his tone was subdued resignation. “Did he say if these Cuban partners were also involved in Dominguez’s cigar dealings?”

  “I was told absolutely not. Evidently, if anyone in the Cuban community had known about it, Alberto would have been ostracized.”

  “Your informant is correct,” Carlos conceded. “All right. I’ll believe you on this one, Porter.”

  “There’s something else that’s been bothering me,” I admitted.

  Carlos cocked an eye
brow and stopped playing with his gun.

  “There was a tattoo on Alberto’s left bicep.” I paused, wondering if I was beginning to get conspiracy crazy.

  Carlos impatiently interrupted my thoughts. “Well, was there something about this particular tattoo? Or do you just have a distaste for body decorations?”

  His abruptness made me wonder what Carlos had hidden beneath his own shirt. “The tattoo was of a parrot with a rifle clutched in its talons. I didn’t think much about it, until I saw someone else with the same tattoo on his arm the other day.”

  “Do you know who the man was?” Carlos casually asked.

  I hesitated, still not ready to give everything away. “Just someone I saw working in the back room of a cigar store in Little Havana.”

  Carlos got up, pointed for me to sit down, and closed the door. Then he walked back to his desk and pulled out a cigar.

  Being that he was such a stickler on rules, I filled him in on one. “You do know it’s illegal to smoke in this building, don’t you?”

  Carlos propped his feet up on his desk and blew a smoke ring my way. “That’s what closed doors are for,” he responded.

  I waited for about thirty seconds, which is generally the amount of time it takes before my patience meter runs out. “Okay, you didn’t have me sit down just to watch you smoke a cigar. What’s up?”

  Carlos squinted at me through his man-made cloud of smoke. “That tattoo you saw? It’s the emblem of Omega-12,” he announced.

  My pulse picked up speed. Maybe it’s the hidden gossip columnist lurking within me, but give me a secret and I go to town. As a child, I sniffed out my Christmas presents way before the holidays, no matter where my mother hid them. It had escalated from there into full-blown, collar-grabbing, “if you don’t tell me I’ll find out anyway” proportions. Okay—so it wasn’t my most attractive quality.