The admiral led the way up onto a screened-in porch, where we sat in the shade. He was right; it felt a good five degrees cooler here. The frenzied hooting which greeted my arrival had finally died down, replaced by the occasional chirp of a bird and the soft, muted cry of a gibbon.
I was about to ask the admiral about his collection of critters when a screen door emitted a high-pitched screech. A fanny, flat as the Texas panhandle, gave the door a hard push and a woman scooted out of the house.
She sauntered toward us, swinging a pair of bony hips. Her halter top held a pair of sixty-year-old breasts which seemed grateful for a place to rest, while her short shorts displayed the bottom halves of two saggy cheeks. A network of varicose veins ran through her legs. But it was the tinfoil dunce cap perched on her head that begged for my attention.
The woman approached with a cigarette holder clenched in her teeth, and carrying a tray bearing three glasses. She picked up one of the tumblers and held it toward me.
“Here you go, darlin’. A few telltale drips won’t kill you.”
The lemonade formed a random pattern of droplets on my pants, feeling cool against my skin. Then she removed the cigarette holder from her mouth, and blew a puff of smoke in the admiral’s direction. He lifted his chin and sniffed the air in pure, exuberant bliss.
“I’m the admiral’s wife, but you can just call me Loxie, sweetheart.” She let out a deep groan as she sat down and kicked off her sandals. “I’ve been on my feet all morning, what with this menagerie we’ve got to take care of. My tootsies could use a good rest.”
“Nice to meet you,” I replied. “I’m Rachel Porter, the new Fish and Wildlife agent.”
“Of course you are, dear,” Loxie responded. “We just expected to see you around here sooner than this.” Loxie clamped the cigarette holder back in her mouth in such a way that she resembled a mutant version of FDR.
“Why, is there some sort of problem?” I took a sip of the lemonade and nearly choked as a mouthful of syrupy liquid went down my throat.
“Nope. So far, so good on this end. Which is how we’re hoping to keep it.” Loxie smiled and blew another cloud of smoke towards the admiral.
He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. “Now, Mother, there’s plenty of time for that. Why don’t you have Mr. Max bring out some cookies and introduce himself?” he suggested.
“Show time, Max! Come on out with the treats!” Loxie called with a tilt of her head.
The screen door burst open, and out flew a young chimp precariously balanced on a pair of roller skates. He was dressed pretty much the same as the admiral, and carried a tray holding cookies and a can of soda. Loxie casually snagged the tray from his grasp as the chimp continued to roll past, screeching at the top of his lungs. The admiral reached out and locked onto the chimp’s waist right before Mr. Max went crashing through the screened-in porch.
“It’s a new trick we’re teaching him,” the admiral explained. “He hasn’t learned how to stop on these things yet. But we figure as soon as he does, he’ll be a big hit at parties. You know, like at kids’ birthdays and stuff. He’ll come skating out carrying a cake with candles, and the little bastards will go crazy. What do you think?” the admiral asked, obviously waiting for approval.
Mr. Max gave his own opinion on the matter by reaching over and attempting to rip the patch off the admiral’s throat. A wrestling match ensued between Maynard and the chimp, who could easily have passed as a hairy, out-of-control kid.
“Here you go, Father. Let Mr. Max have his soda. That’ll help calm him down,” Loxie suggested, and held out a can of Dr. Pepper.
Mr. Max instantly lunged for the soda, grabbing the can from her grip. Then he turned back around and gave the admiral a juicy Bronx cheer.
“Soda for a chimp?” I questioned. “Do you think that’s really a good idea?”
“Sure. Why not?” Loxie replied, crossing her legs. The skin around her ankles sagged like a pair of loose sweat socks. “Chimps love sweet stuff, just like kids. In fact, you’d better nurse that lemonade as long as you can. I’d offer you more, but Mr. Max here already polished off what was left in the pitcher.”
I was about to respond, when Mr. Max skated over and unexpectedly scrambled into my lap. A hairy arm curled around my neck as he squirmed to find a comfortable position. Then he wrapped a lanky finger under the pull tab, popped open the soda can, and extended his long, leathery lips to take small, delicate sips. I gently put my arms around him and sat there for a moment, amazed and delighted.
“Just push him off if he’s bothering you,” Loxie advised.
That was the last thing I wanted to do. I was feeling as protective as a new, doting mother. Without asking permission I reached down and untied Mr. Max’s boots, pulling them off to free his feet from the oppressive skates. Mr. Max responded by looking at me with a pair of soft brown eyes which floated into my heart. I stared back at him, overcome by the strangest emotion. I could have sworn it wasn’t a chimp’s eyes gazing at me, but those of another person. More than anything, I wondered what he was thinking about. He answered my question by offering me a drink of his soda.
“No, that’s okay. You finish it,” I responded, never doubting that he understood.
Though I barely knew Mr. Max, I was already sick at the thought of his fate. He’d most likely end up the same as many other chimps who start out as pets or work in the entertainment trade.
Primates don’t stay cute and cuddly forever, but inevitably grow large as they mature, acting like children who don’t know their own strength. By the age of six, Mr. Max would weigh one hundred fifty pounds, prove hard to control, and easily be able to tear a man apart. Once that happens, these former “pets” are either quietly killed or furtively sold off to labs, where they spend the remainder of their days as subjects for painful experimental research.
Max pulled my head down and, puckering his lips, gave me a kiss on the cheek.
“That’s just how he started with me,” Loxie nodded knowingly.
“How’s that?” I asked, having no idea what she was talking about.
“He began by offering his soda. Then he tried to bribe me with Happy Meals. Finally, he was even willing to give me some of his booze. The problem came when I took him up on the offer and drank a shot of his scotch. The next thing I knew, I’d been knocked face down on the floor and he was climbing on top of me. That’s when I told Father only one of us was going to continue living in the house, and he’d better make up his mind which one of us it was going to be,” Loxie said smartly.
“Who did he choose?” I asked, noticing Mr. Max was looking a little googly-eyed in my direction.
“That’s a good one, Mother. You hear that?” the admiral asked, with a slap of his knee. “I picked Mother, of course. But sometimes I still wonder if I made the right decision.” Maynard broke into a laugh which sounded like a gag machine from a novelty store.
Enough chit chat; it was time to get moving. “I’d like to have a look around your facility, if you don’t mind,” I said, planning to do that whether they liked it or not.
“Of course,” the admiral’s mechanical voice squawked in agreement. “I was going to suggest it myself.” He gave me a wink.
“I’m staying here. I already see more of the damned place than I need to.” Loxie placed her bunioned feet on a chair.
As I followed the admiral, Mr. Max ran alongside me, broadly swinging his hips in a comic blend of Marilyn Monroe and Popeye. The chimp slipped his hand into mine, and a lump rose in my throat as I glanced down to where our palms pressed together. I was startled at how very similar our fingers, flesh, and nails looked.
Maynard led me to an area filled with cages containing South American spider monkeys, ring-tailed lemurs, African greens, and Rhesus macaques. There were even a couple of baboons the size of large dogs. One bent to moon me, exposing a bright hairless rump. Mr. Max grimaced and let loose a wheezing laugh.
“Do you sell all the monkeys as pe
ts?” I asked, knowing nobody would buy a baboon to keep around the house.
“Most of them. But not all, of course. Some I rent when they’re making a movie in town. Others I keep just ’cause they’re kind of nice to have around,” the admiral cordially explained.
“I take it that your facility is regularly inspected?” I questioned. Captive bred animals aren’t under Fish and Wildlife’s domain, but rather that of the U.S. Department of Agriculture.
“Of course! Matter of fact, the USDA has given me their full blessing,” the admiral beamed. “Anything else I can show you before we head back?”
I looked at him in surprise. “Yes. I’d like to see where you keep the chimps.” What did the guy think, that I hadn’t heard their racket upon my entrance?
“Chimps? What do you mean?” Admiral Maynard asked. Then he broke into a round of canned laughter. “I gotcha good on that one, didn’t I? I bet you figured I was gonna try to get away without showing them to you. Of course we’re gonna see the chimps! Those are my babies you’re talking about!”
Maynard took one of my arms while Mr. Max held onto the other, as if I were Dorothy about to enter the land of Oz.
The chimps caught our scent, and the hooting began to build before they even saw us. They rattled the steel fencing of their pen as if planning a massive break-out. I walked into a clearing to find a chain link enclosure containing at least a dozen chimps, whose pandemonium erupted into a full blown frenzy.
One of the primates picked up a handful of feces and threw it in my direction. I ducked just in the nick of time, while Mr. Max shrieked in delight—until another chimp nailed him head-on with a mouthful of water. Then Max hooted in rage, first rushing at the fence, then running back to hide behind my legs. Still another adolescent leaped off his perch and charged, while pounding on the floor of the cage.
“They’re just showing off,” the admiral chuckled. “Displaying to let you know you’re on their territory. Don’t worry, they’ll quiet down.”
Soon, all we heard was the slap, slap, slap of their limbs on concrete. I couldn’t help but wonder how many of these chimps had ever climbed a tree, or felt the cool, silky texture of grass beneath their feet. My reverie was interrupted as a stream of water shot out of nowhere, hitting me smack in the face. I jumped backwards to a barrage of side-splitting hoots, howls, and shrieks. I wiped my face and joined the chimps in their laughter.
Then, I walked over to where a baby with sparkling eyes and oversized milk chocolate ears poked a hand out through the fencing toward me. I gently touched each tiny finger, while looking around for his mother.
“Do you rent the chimps out, as well?” I asked the admiral, who was casually scratching his belly.
“Sure. ’Course, they’re also in big demand for shows in Vegas. Why, a circus even comes by and picks up a couple every now and then. They’re popular animals—did you know some TV station’s got itself a show called the Chimp Channel?”
“How about as pets?” I inquired. “You ever sell them for that market?”
The admiral shook his head and wrinkled his nose. “Nah. They’re too expensive for most people.”
“Hey, this is Texas,” I parried. “You mean nobody around here has the money to buy one?”
The admiral’s cheerful mask remained in place. “Tell you what: you find me a buyer, and I’ll be glad to cut you in on a percentage of the sale price. How’s that for an offer?”
I began to count the number of females. There were only three, not one of which was breeding age. Yet I’d spotted a half dozen babies.
“I see plenty of adolescents and baby chimps in here. Where are your adults?” I questioned.
The admiral pulled on his suspenders before answering. “Well, it’s like I was telling you. I recently rented a bunch of ’em to a production company in Hollywood for a film they’re doing. Something with Clint Eastwood.” Maynard leaned in toward me. “You know, he’s got a thing for apes in his films. And a few of the others are taking it easy in the Caribbean shooting a commercial. That’s the life. Now, don’t you wish you were one of my chimps?” he teased.
“You mean you send the mothers away from their babies?” I was appalled.
“It’s no problem as long as they’ve finished nursing,” the admiral answered defensively.
Nursing or not, most of these babies should still have been with their mothers. One of the adolescents pressed his back against the cage, and I reached in and absentmindedly scratched it.
“Why don’t you hold on there, and I’ll get some bananas you can feed them,” the admiral offered in a show of goodwill.
I waited until he’d disappeared, then walked over to a shed which stood at the far end of the clearing. Color me curious and call me nosy, but I’ve never been able to stop myself from snooping. I opened the shed door and peered inside, where a jumble of tools were piled high next to a wheelbarrow. Other than that, there wasn’t anything of much interest. Closing the door, I was about to return to the chimps when I spied some plywood crates peeking around the rear corner. I took a quick look to make sure the admiral hadn’t reappeared, then headed to investigate.
Lying on the ground were four crates of half inch plywood, each the size of a small cage. Three of the boxes were pockmarked with irregular holes. I ran my fingers over the rough edges, and discovered no tool had created the punctures. Teethmarks confirmed that the wood had been chewed clear through.
“You get tired of playing with the chimps already?”
The admiral’s metallic voice cut through the air, as steely cold as a knife. I turned to find him standing behind me with a bunch of bananas in his hand.
“No, I just decided to take a walk around the area when I came upon these boxes.” How long had he been there? “I could use something like these for transporting injured critters that I sometimes find. Any idea where I might be able to get hold of a couple of them?”
The admiral slowly shook his head. “Can’t say that I do. I get chickens delivered in those every once in a while.”
Chickens, huh? They must have had beaks as strong as pick axes to have broken through the wooden crates.
“I guess you’ve got yourself a farm as well as a zoo, then. So why don’t I see any chickens running around?” I guilelessly questioned.
The admiral smiled ominously at me. “That’s because Mother has killed them already. We buy them for eating. But Mother gets a real kick out of wringing their necks—she says that’s the way to be sure they’re fresh.”
Goosebumps broke out on my flesh.
Maynard threw the bananas to the caged chimps as we walked back to the house, prompting Mr. Max to fly into a rage. Loxie was still seated in her chair, trying her darndest to manipulate a cigarette into the end of the holder clamped in her mouth. Her eyes squinted as it kept missing its mark, as if she were trying to thread a needle.
“God dawgy, Mother! How many times do I have to tell you to take that damn thing out of your mouth and just stick the cigarette in it!” the admiral instructed peevishly.
I figured he was probably overdue for his nicotine hit.
“I know what I’m doing. Just leave me be,” Loxie stubbornly retorted.
The screen door slammed open and a pregnant teenaged girl appeared. She sullenly waddled past without uttering a word.
“Helen May! Where are your manners? You just stop where you are and say hello,” Loxie demanded.
Helen May kept right on walking.
Loxie frustratedly drew in on her cigarette, then blew the smoke at the admiral. Maynard took a series of quick gasps as he struggled to inhale all the vapors.
“That’s our daughter. She’s not usually impolite; it’s just that she’s in a bad way these days,” Loxie informed me with a note of resignation. “She hasn’t been able to contact the child’s father to let him know she’s pregnant.”
“Is he out of town?” I asked sympathetically. The admiral shook his head in disdain and disappeared inside the house.
“Yeah. Way out of town,” Loxie remarked sarcastically.
I looked at her questioningly.
“Like on another planet. He’s an alien,” Loxie replied.
I cracked a smile. “That’s a joke. Right?”
She shook her head indignantly, and the foil cap began to teeter. She reached up and braced it. “I’d never pull your leg about something like that. It’s the reason I’m wearing this thing.”
“To not get pregnant?” I skeptically asked.
“Of course not!” Loxie tartly retorted. “That was the reason twenty years ago. Now my eggs are too old, so the bastards are trying to suck out my brains!”
I remained silent as Mr. Max climbed once again into my lap. He started to pull at the neck of my tee-shirt, forcing me to take hold of his hands and stop him.
“It’s a curse the women in our family have had to bear. I was just lucky that it skipped my generation,” Loxie remarked.
I remembered the paintings at F.U., Jr’s. place that were done by his girlfriend. Maybe this helped explain them.
“What about your other daughter, Cassandra? Does she have the same problem?” I asked, deciding to play along. Mr. Max pulled his hands out of my grip and headed for the button on my pants.
“Max! Stop that! Just control yourself!” Loxie barked and handed him a cookie. “Cassandra? Who the hell’s that?” Then she nodded, having suddenly remembered. “Oh, you mean Virginia May. I keep forgetting that she uses a different name these days. Where did you meet her?”
“We haven’t actually met. I heard that she’s F.U., Jr.’s girlfriend,” I replied.
Loxie scrunched up her face. “Virginia May would be better off if she were involved with an alien. Have you seen all those flypaper strips that boy keeps inside his place?” Loxie shuddered with disgust. “I can’t tell you how much he’s hurt his poor father. It’s something awful, what with F.U., Jr. being his only son and all.”
Border Prey Page 15
