On the drive back to our rental house at Loreto Bay, I called my dockmate once again. Karen, much to my relief, reported Trouble slept most of the day, and was now eating everything she gave him.
She also said Po Thang was being a very good boy.
I actually believed the part about Trouble.
Mom and Pop Doc, enthralled with not only the rental house, but the upscale, mostly Gringo neighborhood of Loreto Shores, and the nearby charming town of Loreto, decided to stay another day or two.
There was no way I could wait any longer to get back home, unless we were going to actually do something about the birds. My own critters in La Paz needed my attention and lollygagging around a resort was not in the cards.
Roger, probably relishing time alone with Craig without his parents, quickly arranged a car and driver to return the seniors Washington to la Paz in a few days, just in case they changed their minds about staying before we got out of town. He even paid for the house.
It took two Extra Strength Advil PM’s to finally put me to sleep, despite being dog tired. I simply couldn’t wipe the vision of those unfortunate birds, and those pendejos with guns, from my already overtaxed brain.
I ran into Jan in the kitchen around midnight. She, too, was downing a sleeping aid.
“Can’t sleep either, huh?” she asked as she finished off a bottle of water. She’d been watching a movie downstairs when I went to bed.
“I want to kill someone.”
“Oh, you’ll get your chance. I was just thinking it’s kinda nice to have an enemy no one will miss if we drop them in a well.”
“Ooooh, now I think I can sleep. Thanks, Miss Jan, for something lovely to dream about.”
I returned to my bed and went comatose, like Po Thang after a day at the beach.
Ah, the sweet dreams of mayhem.
We left Loreto very early the next morning. Roger was eager to get gone before Mom and Pop even got their coffee. Our first stop in La Paz was at the marina so I could check on Trouble, while Jan collected Po Thang for a walk before dropping him off at the condo with Craig and Roger.
I managed, with a great deal of pain, to exit the van, then executed an awkward cowboy swagger/hustle down the dock, anxious to see my parrot, stretch out on a soft couch, and pop a beer cap, not necessarily in that order.
Trouble broke into a rendition of “The Yellow Rose of Texas” when he saw me, but not in his normal robust manner; the one that fries ear hair.
Letting him out of his cage, I grabbed an ice cold Tecate, sank onto my oh-so-cushy settee, and took a swig. The phone barked, Trouble squawked—probably thinking that evil varmint, Po Thang, had returned—and flew back into his jail for protection. I had to change that ring tone.
I checked caller ID and smiled. “Hi there, sailor boy. New in town? Wanna buy me a drink?”
“I sure would like to, sea wench, but I have to work.”
“Well, hell, Jenks, guess I’ll have to drink alone. How’s Dubai?”
“Sizzling outside. Freezing in the house. My host keeps the thermostat at fifty-five.”
“Why?”
“Because he can?”
I chuckled. “Saudi princes can pretty much do what they want. He still mad at me?”
“Naw, he never really was. Gave him a chance to redecorate, but you have to admit, you were a little rough on his yacht.”
I huffed indignantly. “Well then, I certainly hope he redecorates his arsenal, as well. If I’d had a couple surface to air missiles on board when I was trying to outrun the bad guys in the Med, his boat would have fared much better. Let that be a lesson for him.”
Jenks couldn’t stifle a chuckle. “Hetta, you crack me up. I am constantly amazed how you manage to justify the damage you leave behind when called to action. I’ll relate that bit of convoluted reasoning to him. It will make his day.”
I realized how ridiculous my retort might sound to most sane people, and we laughed together, then talked a bit about my little adventure in the south of France: the one that left me with a new friend here in Baja, Chef Roberto.
Finally he asked, “Where were you yesterday? I tried to call a couple of times.”
“Damned Telcel. Probably out of range. Did you leave a message?”
“No. They said you were not in servicio.”
“Roger and Craig and Hetta and Jan went on a mission.”
“Dare I ask where, and why?”
I told him about the trip to Loreto, complained about the quads, mule ride, and my resulting pain. Then I reported what we saw at Rancho Los Pajaros, my fears for Humberto and Anna, and what had probably happened to poor Trouble. At the mention of his name, he flew back to land on my shoulder.
“¡Pendejos!” Jenks said, loud enough for Trouble to hear and repeat.
“Put a lid on it, bird. You’re busting my ear drums. And Jenks, that’s exactly what Roger called these lowlifes.”
“Great minds, and all. But I have a question. Trouble is hardly what you’d call an exotic bird, so why would they risk smuggling him into the US? There are those in the States who would pay someone to round them up and take them to Mexico.”
It was an excellent question, one Jan and I had mulled over. Leave it to Jenks to go right for the obvious. He came to the same conclusion we had: some A-hole without much knowledge of birds grabbed Trouble, drugged him, stuffed him in a bottle, was informed he wasn’t worth squat, and tossed the bottle away. Somehow, Trouble had escaped. The whole thing made me sick and mad.
Just as I was saying goodbye to Jenks, Jan showed up and yelled, “Howdy, Jenks,” loud enough so he could hear her.
Ending my call, I told her what Jenks said about Trouble maybe being treated like trash because he was of no value. “¡Pendejos!”
“Yep, that pretty much makes it unanimous.”
“And we gotta get ‘em.”
“Yes. We. Do.”
I was hot to trot to return to the scene of the bird crimes, but Roger assured me he had Drew the muleteer on top of the situation, and he was going to get daily reports on the happenings up there. Besides, we were facing a few more days with the senior doctors Washington when they returned from Loreto.
Roger played golf with Doctor Dad, Craig went off to a meeting with local veterinarians concerning Trouble’s health, and to learn more about the bird trafficking, while Jan and I were stuck with Madam Doc. I worried we got the hardest job of the day; that woman ain’t easy to entertain.
“Whaddya think about taking her on a tour of Todos Santos, and maybe Costco in Cabo?” Jan suggested.
“I can’t quite picture her at Costco, but Todos Santos? Great idea. We can do the loop of the east cape. What with lunch, it’ll take all day. Only leaves two more. Not that I’m counting, of course.”
Belgian weavers must have gone into overtime when Mother Washington ordered her vacation wardrobe. I was building up to a bad case of linen envy.
“Dang, she looks good for someone her age,” Jan whispered under her breath as we walked toward her table where she waited for us at Hotel La Perla. “Hey, if you married Craig like his mom wants, lost fifty pounds, and then she kicked the bucket, would you get her clothes?”
“That’s…ridiculous, but funny. But come on, fifty?—Good morning, Doctor Washington.”
“Hetta, dear, perhaps you should call me Martha. And you, as well, Jan, since we’re all practically family now.”
Jan bit her lip at that now implication. “I’ll go get our ride.” When she turned her back to the doc, she mouthed at me, “Martha Washington? Are you freaking kidding me?”
Martha chatted non-stop, practically planning her son’s—in her mind—dream wedding to me! “You must allow plenty of time, when you two pick a date, to get up to the city so we can choose your gown. I think perhaps off-white? Oh, and new wardrobe. Those shorts and tee shirts simply must go. And then, of course, Doctor Washington and I will accompany you on a ‘round the world cruise. Don’t you think that’s grand?”
I was contemplating, however, informing the delusional woman that not only would it not be so grand, since I wouldn’t be marrying her son anytime soon, and even if I did, horning in on his honeymoon was a terrible idea. I was saved that task by Jan rounding the corner in her Jeep and screeching to a halt in front of the hotel. Po Thang was sitting in the passenger seat.
My future mother-in-law’s jaw dropped. “There’s no top on that…whatever it is.”
“We removed the canvas so you can enjoy the view. You’ll be needing this.” Jan handed her a baseball cap with I HEART BAJA embroidered on it.
“Po Thang,” I said, “get your furry ass into the back seat with me.”
Mom Doc tsked. “Language, dear.”
I climbed in with Po Thang while Craig’s mother pulled a hankie—linen, of course—from her Coach bag and draped it over her seat. I’d already brushed off dawg debris, but she was taking no chances.
“Hoookay, welcome to Hetta and Jan’s tour service. We have a great day planned for you, Martha, but I think we need a jumpstart.” Leaving the Jeep idling, Jan headed for the hotel and soon returned with a waiter in tow. On a silver platter sat three gigantic Bloody Marys to go. By the time we got to Todos Santos, Mom was happy as a clamato and vodka. Jan later told me she ordered a Virgin Mary for herself but made Mom’s a double.
After a Mexican breakfast for four in Todos Santos, more Bloody Marys, and a walking tour of the artsy town, we turned south for Cabo San Lucas. Wandering through shops and accepting free Margaritas from timeshare salesmen, we left Cabo and drove to the east cape of the Baja peninsula, passing gorgeous beaches, the Tropic of Cancer, and vistas fit for travel brochures.
In Los Barriles we enjoyed a latish lunch of fresh lobster, and more Margaritas. We had some difficulty steering Mom away from a real estate office where she was prepared to whip out her checkbook and buy a beach home for Craig and me as a wedding present.
By the time we reached La Perla in La Paz, it was happy hour. Roger, Craig, and Dad Doc were waiting for us at the hotel’s patio restaurant.
I steadied Mother Washington as she toddled out of the Jeep and weaved toward the men. Her café au lait complexion was a shade rosy, her designer sunglasses were askew, and she had hat hair on one side of her head. “Oh, my, we had such a wonderful day! Hetta is a delightful hostess! She’ll be a grand addition to the family.”
The men’s heads tipped in confusion like a litter of quizzical puppies.
Jan, trying to make light of Mom’s statement, jested, “Hey, I did all the driving. Does that get me in the will?”
Po Thang, eager to get to Craig—and the plate of tapas in front of him—accidentally (I think) bumped into Craig’s mom, and she almost took a header. I dove in for the save.
“Damned cobblestones,” she said with a giggle when I righted her.
“Martha!” I admonished. “Language!”
She giggled, and Craig rushed forward to help his mother and steered her to a chair. Once she was safely seated, he turned to me and whispered, “What have you done to my mother? I love it. But what’s this thing about you being an addition to the family?”
I jerked my head toward the jeep and said, “Give me a hand with your mother’s packages, okay?”
When we were out of hearing range of the group around the table, I shook my head in mock sadness and sighed. “The groom is always the last to know. We’re getting married, and your parents are gonna take us on a world cruise for the honeymoon.”
“What? How much have you women had to drink today?”
“Not enough. I’ll fill you in later.”
While we ordered drinks—Jan and I had cleverly switched to virgin everything earlier in the day—Roger and Craig’s dad recounted, ad nauseum, their day on the golf course hole by hole. It made me miss Jenks, who didn’t remember squat most of the time, but could recount a game from a year ago in great detail.
We listened politely until the golfers finally reached the eighteenth hole. Dad won, and Roger gracefully acknowledged the senior man’s golf prowess before changing the subject to Trouble by asking Craig for an update of his day.
“One of the local vets I met with today followed me to the boat, took a look at Trouble, and pretty much confirmed what we suspected. Our little bird was most likely drugged, slathered in veggie oil, and stuffed into a container for shipment.
“Wait! Trouble let the veterinarian examine him?”
“Not hardly. I liked the man too much to let Trouble loose on him. The vet just wanted a good look at our little survivor. After he received the blood-and-feather-goo test results confirming traces of Tequila and lard, he was amazed Trouble was able to fly to safety. He says the little guy looks good to him and once he regrows a few feathers and completely recovers from his hangover, he should be back to normal.”
Po Thang growled.
Jan huffed. “Lawdy Maudy, help us.”
I added, “Not sure that’s such good news, but thank goodness for it, anyhow.”
“So now,” Doc Mom said, loud enough to be heard throughout the restaurant, “we can turn our attention to offing off those pendejos who hurt him!”
A nearby waiter almost dropped his tray of dishes.
Chapter Ten
WITH THE HUNKY mule wrangler, Drew, on Roger’s payroll, I was able to relax some about the situation at Rancho Los Pajaros. He made the trek to our lookout each day, texted in a report with copies to me, Jan, and Roger, and sometimes sent photos. He didn’t have the sophisticated equipment we’d used when we were up there, but at least the bird’s-eye pics let us know nothing major had changed.
The “taco” truck we’d seen on our trip arrived on occasion, but Drew told us only fruit and supplies were offloaded. He tried taking a video for us with his phone, but it was grainy and almost useless. The one thing that had me stewing was that he still hadn’t caught sight of Humberto and Anna, so I called each day to check their phone, but it remained out of service.
Drew also reported that, as far as he could tell, the birds were being well fed and seemed on the mend, judging by the cacophony of normal parrot noises blowing in on the morning breezes. And I was relieved to read that a tarp had been stretched over one end of the enclosure’s roof, and what looked like solar heaters were installed. At least the pendejos appreciated the worth of their captives enough to protect them from a January cold snap.
Jan and I scoured the web, searching for clues from exotic bird-smuggling busts as to when and how the pendejos, as they were now permanently dubbed, might attempt to move the birds to another location in Mexico, or directly smuggle them across the border into the US. Historically, the record showed the birds are captured in southern Mexico, and even South American countries, and then first shipped somewhere in northern Mexico before making the final journey into the States.
Roger relayed all the information we garnered from Drew directly to the US Customs and Border Patrol via an old pal who still worked with homeland security, but we were still trying to decide our next move. Raid Rancho Los Pajaros? Jan and I were for storming in with guns blazing, but Roger cautioned against such a rash move without extensive backup. Oh, and guns. He didn’t know I had my .380 on the boat, and anyhow, up against the pendejos’ automatic weapons it was well-nigh useless.
While waiting to take action, I was in the throes of making peace reign on my boat. Po Thang was now allowed to visit for a couple of hours each morning, but I still caged Trouble while he was on board. They squawked, barked and generally grumbled their distaste for each other, letting me know they were in no way interested in détente. I had to do something fast, as all my compadres were making plans to leave me alone with the battling duo.
Mom and Pop Washington departed with no further mention of the upcoming nuptials. I had the impression Pop had put a lid on Mom, much to Craig and Roger’s relief. However, I told them they needed to get that mess straightened out with the par
ents for everyone’s sake.
But then again…all that linen!
Craig declared Trouble had recovered enough to defend himself, and I missed having Po Thang on board, so the day before Craig and Roger left for Arizona to tend to much-needed home chores, I decided to let the best pet win.
Collecting Po Thang from the condo, I took him for a long walk and when we returned to the boat, I opened Trouble’s cage door. He slowly exited in his pigeon-toed way, all the while keeping a wary eye on the devil dog. He climbed to the top of his enclosure, out of dog’s reach. He fluffed his now oil-free feathers to make himself look larger, hissed a couple of times in Po Thang’s direction, then mumbled a string of expletives in both Spanish and English.
Holding tight onto Po Thang’s collar, I gave Trouble a large piece of Oh, Boy! Oberto teriyaki turkey jerky, and Po Thang a Beggin’ Strip. Trouble took the jerky in his beak, flew to the top of the steering station—still just out of Po Thang’s reach—and nibbled, never once taking one eye off his foe.
Po Thang, torn for a moment between trying to eat the bird or settling for his bacon-flavored goody, swallowed the treat whole and then made an ineffective lunge toward Trouble.
Although perched much too high for Po Thang to grab, Trouble was so startled by the snarling beast from hell trying to attack him, he dropped his jerky.
Po Thang went in for the steal, gobbled it down and then sat quietly, looking to Trouble for seconds. I gave the parrot another piece, he broke it in half, and dropped the other piece to the waiting Po Thang.
An entire bag of jerky later, I was slouched on my settee. Trouble slept on my shoulder, and Po Thang was cuddled up against my leg, sound asleep himself.
Voilà! The Jerky Accords!
Exhausted by all the bird and dog drama, I also drifted off and awoke to Jan taking a photo of the three of us. She checked her phone screen and held it up for me to see. I made a grab for it, dislodging both animals in my determination to delete what was surely an unflattering shot of me snoring, mouth wide open.
Just for the Birds Page 6
