Southern Comfort

by Fern Michaels

  It was Sandy’s turn, and she stepped up to the plate. “Maybe someday I’ll be ready to teach, but this isn’t the time. I knew that one week into the job. It won’t bother me one little bit to hand in my resignation.”

  “Okay, ladies, then here’s the deal. Last August, Kate, when Tyler asked for you to come to Florida, he had a few clues as to what might be going down. He ran with the little he had and the two of you had your . . . altercation and his snitches dove for cover and nothing happened. But the same old crap that was simmering back then has now surfaced a year later. Tom Dolan, an old friend from Homeland Security, flew down here to talk to me yesterday. As much as it pains me to say this, I still have to say it. Tyler’s informants had it right. Something is going to go down in the Keys, Mango Key, to be precise. It’s not drugs either. Dolan thinks it’s human trafficking, bringing in illegals to work for next to nothing, maybe even some prostitution. There’s a huge amount of money involved. Is it dirty money? I have no clue. We all know informants give you just enough, and half of it is make-believe. You have to up the payout or wait till they’re ready to tell you more. And even then, you have to cut through the bullshit.

  “There’s a guy who lives right on the beach on Mango Key. He was a homicide detective in Atlanta, and he’s been there eight years. Lives in a house on stilts. We checked him out, tragic background, he lit out and ended up on Mango Key. He writes books and movie scripts. Keeps to himself. He’s the guy Tyler wanted you to babysit, Kate. He had himself convinced, without checking, of course, that Patrick Kelly was the guy his squeals were telling him about. If he had checked, he would have found out some punk kid high on crack shot and killed his wife and two kids. After the funeral, the guy got in his car and ended up here. He spent a couple of years with his snoot in a bottle, then he cleaned up his act. The worst thing you can say about the guy is he’s a recluse. Bought himself a cigarette boat and goes into Miami from time to time. That’s the guy’s life in a nutshell. There simply ain’t no more.

  “But down the beach from where he lives in what he calls Tick’s Tree House is another . . . for want of a better word, another house, only it’s not exactly a house. It’s a compound of sorts. Some drug lord from Miami had it built, then the Coast Guard nailed him and the drugs he was running. Broke up the whole gang. But it’s being watched. It’s right at the tip of the Key and makes for easy access and an even easier exit. We can’t find out who it belongs to. Seems like the private party who owned the land refused to sell it to the Indians when the rest of the Key was transferred from state control to them. And the records of its ownership over the years has proven impossible to follow. There is activity there but only in the middle of the night, and not every night.

  “Tomorrow, I am going to Mango Key to talk to the elders there. It’s a rather strange place, and how Mr. Kelly fits in with their rules and regulations is something I do not understand. We plan to ask the elders if they will lease a strip of the beach where we can put up a prefab building. We can have it up and operational in three days if they agree. I’m planning on asking Evan White from the Coast Guard to go with me to make my plea. We want you girls to move in and watch things. You’ll be provided a cover, but as of this minute I don’t know what it will be. You will be on the book, but it will be my book. I can pay for your living expenses, but you won’t be getting a salary. When you officially go on the book, your pay will be retroactive. If I can’t make it happen, you’re right back here. You need to understand that going in. Jacobson and Levinson will be around a lot as your best buds, brothers, cousins, whatever they need to be.” Both women nodded in agreement.

  “And the cop on the beach? What’s his role?” Kate asked.

  “Gut instinct tells me the guy is just what he appears to be. He withdrew from something too painful to deal with. Tyler’s spin on it is that he’s into something up to his ears in order to get back at law enforcement for letting it happen in the first place. You pay your money and you take your pick. Personally, I think the guy just likes being alone.”

  “And what happens if, when we move in, he moves out because his privacy was invaded?” Sandy asked.

  “This isn’t about him. He’s just there. This is about that compound and what the Coast Guard feeds you. I don’t have to tell any of you how the guys swim in underwater on dark nights. Hell, probably half of them are SEAL aficionados. What that means is you’re probably going to sleep during the day and stand guard all night. That’s as much as we know right now. If you want out, now is the time to say so.”

  “I’m in,” Kate said.

  “Me, too,” Sandy said.

  “Then we have a deal, ladies and gentlemen.”

  Chapter 5

  Tick Kelly walked down the steps from his house and looked around. The sun was just creeping over the horizon, the birds were chirping, the palm fronds dancing in the early-morning breeze. In another two hours it would be blazing hot, and the humidity would be creeping toward the hundred percent mark. In other words, a brand-new day. To do what, he didn’t know. He’d finished his latest novel ten days ago, spent a week revising as needed, then, yesterday, he’d fired up his cigarette boat and headed to Miami, where he sent it off by FedEx, with a disk copy enclosed.

  At the bottom of the steps, Tick looked around as he tried to decide which way he wanted to run, left or right. He opted for left before he did some limbering-up exercises. He’d been lax about his physical regimen the last two weeks, working around the clock to finish his book on time. If there was one thing he excelled at these days, it was tuning things out.

  He started out slow, then his bare feet picked up speed. He knew every stick of driftwood, every chunk of coral, every lone bush or weed on his run. He looked over his shoulder to see if Bird was following him. He was. Normally, to Tick’s amusement, he jabbered during the whole run. At times they actually carried on a conversation that made absolutely no sense at all. He’d tried these past years to ask the bird where it came from, who his/her owner had been, and other interesting questions. There was no response from the parrot. I’m a cop, for God’s sake. Ex-cop, he corrected the thought. He’d been a master at interrogation, but he hadn’t been able to break the bird; nor had he been able to clean up his “colorful” vocabulary. Bird was jabbering now about deep water, then he let loose with something Tick had never heard before, “Shit happens.” Tick slowed slightly so that the bird was just above his shoulder. “Yeah, Bird, pretty much all the time.”

  And then he saw it, a building on what he perceived as his goddamn beach. How’d that happen? It wasn’t there . . . When had he last run? Two weeks ago, he decided. In ten days, someone put up a building, and he was just now noticing it? What’s wrong with this picture?

  “Told you man, shit happens. Deep water. This sucks. Boy, does this suck!” Bird squawked. Then he let loose with another volley of words, “Bang! Bang! Bang! Get the girls! Get the girls!”

  His eyes bulging, Tick stopped and bent over, his hands on his knees as he stared at what looked to be something like a mini airport hangar. Caught off guard, Bird flew past, doubled back, and landed on his shoulder.

  “Oh, shit, now I have neighbors. How come you didn’t tell me this was going on, Bird? You’re supposed to be my lookout. I appointed you to guard the portals of my domain, and you damn well fell down on the job. Well?” Like the damn bird was really going to answer him.

  “You screwed up! You screwed up!”

  Tick tilted his head to look at the bright-eyed bird on his shoulder. “Was that an answer? Are you talking to me?”

  “Listen! Listen, shit happens.” Tick burst out laughing and couldn’t stop. He turned around and started to jog back to his stilt house. Maybe after his coffee, he’d shower and head into the village to see what if anything he could find out about his new neighbor. He didn’t want neighbors, didn’t want his space invaded. Because he still thought like a cop, he wanted to know the who, the what, the when, and the why of everything. Nothing else w
ould satisfy him. Cop school 101.

  Back in his house ten minutes later, Tick headed for the kitchen to put on his coffee and fix his cereal. “What’ll it be this morning, Bird? Cheerios or Fruit Loops?”

  Bird ruffled his feathers and let loose with an ear-piercing shriek. Then he made another sound that one, if desperate, could take for laughter. “Nada. Zip. Zero. Bacon, eggs, pancakes, more, more, more!”

  “In your dreams, my feathered friend. That crap will clog your arteries. Even birds must have arteries. The answer is no. Besides, you know we only eat bacon and eggs one day a week. The heart book says we can do that.” Tick looked over at the parrot, who was perched on his chair, waiting for the breakfast he didn’t want. His eyes were shiny bright as he watched his roommate get out two different boxes of cereal and a container of milk. He didn’t make his move until the bowls were placed on the table, at which point he reared up, spread his wings, and flew low over the table, knocking the cereal boxes on the floor. His return flight sent the milk carton skidding across the table and onto the floor. Then he was airborne, lighting on one of the paddles of the fan, which had yet to be turned on. “Shit happens, man,” Bird squawked.

  “Son of a bitch!” Tick swore as he looked at the mess he had to clean up. Not knowing what else to say other than, “Bad bird,” Tick started mopping up. And then he laughed. At least he couldn’t say his life wasn’t interesting from time to time.

  “C’mon, c’mon, time is money,” Bird said, ruffling his wings.

  “Listen, you . . . you . . . bird. We need to talk straight here. I want some answers. First off, are you male or female? Who taught you all this stuff? Where the hell did you come from?”

  “Cuba.”

  Tick froze and looked up at the bird. “Did you fly here? What a damn stupid question. Or did someone bring you?”

  “Boat. Deep water. Bang! Bang! Bang! Get the girls! Get the girls! Shit happens, man.”

  Tick digested this latest volley of words as he tried to decide if they meant anything. “You got a name, Bird?”

  “Tick.”

  “That’s my name. What is your name?” He’d asked this question a hundred times, and the bird would never respond.

  “Pete.”

  “Pete is my brother. C’mon, Bird, what’s your name?” Suddenly the question was the most important question in the world, and Tick didn’t know why. “Tell me, or I’m going to turn on that fan, and you’ll be nothing but feathers.”

  Bird sailed down gracefully and lighted on Tick’s arm. He stretched forward and pecked him on the cheek. He tilted his head to see how the peck was received. Tick stroked his colorful feathers and stood up. Bird settled himself on his chair by the table. “Bang! Bacon! Bacon! Bang!”

  “Okay, okay.”

  And it was a new day, Tick thought as he bustled about the tiny kitchen. In his wildest dreams he could never imagine that he would cater to a salty-mouthed parrot who was smarter than he was. As he watched the bacon sizzle in the fry pan, he remembered the day Bird had seen him clean and oil his gun. That was the first day he’d said the words, bang, bang, bang, over and over. How weird that he knew guns made a “bang” sound. It was also weird that he knew what a cell phone was. That first time he’d almost gone nuts flying like crazy all over the place. He’d been in such a frenzy squawking, “Call me, call me, Jesus Christ, call me! Get the girls! Get the girls!” Then, when Tick had closed the cell phone, the bird had calmed down, but he was still jabbering about shit happening, getting the girls, and deep water.

  In his gut, Tick knew the bird was trying to tell him something, but whatever it was, he wasn’t getting it. Maybe in time. He fixed the bird’s plate, not feeling foolish at all. He set the plate down on the table and stroked the bird’s head. He really was fond of his only friend.

  “You know what, Bird, I think it’s time you earned your keep,” Tick said, leaning back on the kitchen stool. “We have time on our hands now, my book is done, and I don’t have to start a new one for a few months. So, it’s easy-breezy time for us. I want you to fly down to that new place on the beach and check it out. Here’s where we’re going to see if you really are smart or if you’ve just been jerking my chain. Check it all out and report back in. You do a good job, you get ice cream for dessert tonight instead of mangoes. Comprende?”

  “Sí. Muchos gracias,” Bird said.

  Tick blinked, then swore. “WTF, you speak Spanish? Well, damn! Who knew? Okay, okay, I’m going to get a dictionary to brush up on my own Spanish, and maybe we’ll get to the bottom of who and what you are and where the hell you came from. That’s what we’ll do for the next few months. I’ll learn Spanish, and you, my friend, will learn some decent English.”

  Bird made the laughing sound again, then flew out of the kitchen to his favorite perch on top of Tick’s small television set. He tucked his neck down into his wing and went to sleep while Tick cleaned up the kitchen. At night, he slept on the shower rod in Tick’s bathroom.

  An hour later, dressed in new khaki cargo shorts and a new white T-shirt that said he was a member of the Sierra Club, Tick strolled into the village and went right to the house of the man who had sold him his parcel of land. He knocked on the door and waited for someone to open it. The elder was short on words and long on expression during the few times he’d had conversations with him. The door opened, and Tick stepped back. He was never invited in, but that was okay. He didn’t need any new friends.

  Tick got right to the point. “You told me no one would be living on that strip of beach where I live when you sold me the property. There’s a building there now. Why? Who is it?”

  “I had no choice, Mr. Kelly. One does not argue with the government. It is not a wise or judicious thing to do. It is temporary, I was told. I did not sell, I leased that little parcel. I will honor my contract with you. The building is what I believe they call prefabricated. It is written that it will be dismantled when their time has expired.”

  Tick clenched his teeth. “How much time did you give them, and who are they?”

  “One man was from the DEA and the other was from the Coast Guard. I only know that two women, who I believe are DEA special agents, will be living in the temporary quarters. They told me nothing else. They did, however, ask about you. And they wanted me to agree not to tell you anything about them. I refused. They didn’t like that one bit. I told them nothing other than that I sold you the land and that you repaired, at great expense to yourself, the existing building. They assured me the residents would not interfere or trespass on your privacy. I told them if that was to happen, they would have to dismantle the building and relocate immediately, government or not. That also is in the agreement all three of us signed. I am sorry that you are upset.”

  Tick shrugged. He was not about to pick a fight with this old man, who had gone out of his way for him and who had been nothing but kind. He would have extended his hand to shake the elder’s, but the man’s hands were clasped behind his back. Tick nodded and started to walk away, then turned around and came back. “Do you happen to know, sir, how I ended up with that parrot? Or where it came from?”

  “I have heard that it belonged to someone in that thing at the end of the Key. I am told parrots are very loving, loyal birds and extremely loyal to their owners. Supposedly their vocabularies are phenomenal. And that they bring good luck. I would assume when the people who lived there were arrested, the bird was left behind, but I do not know this for certain.” The elder allowed himself a small smile before he turned to enter the house.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Tick muttered to himself as he walked through the small village, nodding to the women who were bustling about. He stopped once, to buy a sack of mangoes and a bucket of oranges, before continuing on his way home. He knew how he was going to spend the rest of the day. On the Internet and making calls to some friends back in Atlanta. He wondered how many sites there were for parrots and what kind of information he could garner. Maybe he could find an onli
ne Spanish class while he was at it, brush up on his Spanish. Maybe he’d get that CD that he heard the CIA and FBI used to train with.

  Even though his sack and bucket were heavy, Tick’s steps were lighter and faster the closer he got to home. He had a purpose now, a goal.

  Back at the house on stilts, Tick poured himself a glass of orange juice, gulped it down, rinsed out his glass, then looked for his boat keys. He snatched them up, checked to make sure he had his wallet, and left. There was no sign of Bird when he walked down to his dock. He grinned to himself, hoping the parrot had paid attention, if that was possible, and was checking out his new neighbors. The computer and what he’d planned could be done when the sun went down. He told himself there was no hurry these days to do anything he didn’t want to do.

  Tick took a moment to admire his cigarette boat the way he always did when he set foot on the dock. The boat was his only real purchase since coming here to Mango Key. He always got a good belly laugh when he rolled into the marina in Miami. A cop with a cigarette boat! Everyone in the world knew cigarette boats were the drug runners’ boat of choice. The reason for the belly laugh was that no one knew he was a cop. While he wasn’t on the payroll of the Atlanta PD, he was still on the books. Next to his name and badge number it said he was on extended leave. And that was the way it was going to stay.

  Tick climbed into the Miss Sally, named after his wife, and fired up the boat with a big roar, wondering if his new neighbors were watching. Like he gave a good rat’s ass what they were doing. He recognized the lie he was trying to feed himself as he headed out to open water. Once a cop, always a cop. Didn’t matter if he wrote books, drank himself into a stupor, or packed a gun. The bottom line was he was a cop, and at one time he’d been a damn fine one. His instincts were kicking in now and telling him something was going to go down on his turf, and he didn’t like it one damn bit. He’d bought and paid for peace, quiet, and tranquillity. Anything interfering with those things would have to be dealt with.