Bird Brained (10 page)

Some of the photos appeared to have been shot for modeling portfolios, while others were more casual. One finely sculpted blond had been captured in a slim sliver of a Speedo, strawberry daiquiri in hand, designer shades carefully veiling his thoughts. Not a speck of body hair interfered with his tan.

I wondered if Alberto might have been running some sort of escort ring: men posing as actors, models, and personal trainers, for hire—preferably long-term, salary to be paid on the first of the month, plus the usual perks and goodies. But I shelved that idea. I also doubted that he’d taken the photos, since no camera equipment was lying around. I received my answer as I reached the bottom of the pile. Scribbled on a piece of paper was the word,
ENJOY
. It was signed,
ELENA
.

I placed the photos back inside the envelope, and carefully tucked Alberto’s secret back into its hiding place. I didn’t need Vern coming to the conclusion that Dominguez had met his demise at the hands of a gay Santeria killer.

There was nowhere else I could think of for something to have been hidden. Still, feeling unsatisfied, I couldn’t bring myself to leave. Alberto restlessly hovered beside me as I thoroughly rechecked the kitchen cabinets, the drawers, and the freezer. By the time I got back to the living room I was ready to give up, whether Alberto’s ghost was happy or not. Then my eyes came to rest on a large, ornate birdcage.

This was the only cage in Alberto’s area of the house, which led me to believe it had been Bonkers’s quarters. I eyed the contraption. Either I’d gone round the bend or Alberto had been pretty clever, after all. There was only one way to find out. I walked over to the stainless-steel cage and popped the latch on the door. Empty shells of sunflower seeds lay scattered in one food dish, while a shallow pool of water stagnated in another. Dried bird droppings littered the sheets of newspaper that lined its removable tray. I grabbed hold of the knob and tried to slide it out, but the layers of paper were built up too high, jamming it in place. I reached inside and started removing one layer of paper after another.

Out came sections of the
Miami Herald
from Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. I was beginning to feel like the bag lady I’d always feared I’d become, when I finally hit pay dirt. Lying on the very bottom of the cage were two thin sheets of stationery. I quickly scanned their contents.

The letter was from one Maria Santiago in Cuba, who asked that Alberto make sure his friend bring along a girdle—“size medium, please”—on his next trip.

“I need one if I’m ever to catch a man,” she confided.

My hand reflexively crept over my stomach and down my hips, to feel if my own body had expanded since I’d checked early this morning. It was consoling to know that the problem was universal.

Maria had other requests. “A few Victoria’s Secret bras would also be nice. Something shiny that pushes up to make good cleavage. Please be sure to get size 34 B.”

Now I knew what Alberto was doing with receipts for lingerie in his desk drawer.

“And don’t forget to have him bring some makeup, as well. I would like Max Factor since it is what the movie stars wear,” she continued. “Also, Consuela asks that you be kind enough to include some vitamins. She still isn’t feeling well. And please, please send any videocassettes that you can of Tom Cruise movies. In return, I will have ten green coins ready.”

Apparently Alberto had been running some sort of courier service. While it was common for exiles to send money to relatives who lived there, an illegal messenger service supplying the island with American goods was brand new to me. I also wasn’t familiar with the term “green coins,” unless it was Maria’s slang for currency.

I honored my promise not to remove anything from the house by slipping the correspondence back where I’d found it. I took one final look around, then headed out. I’d learned only of Alberto’s apparent weakness for handsome young men, and that he’d had good taste in picking lingerie. All in all, not anything that was especially helpful for tracking down endangered birds.

I was heading back to the Tempo when a flash of color caught my eye. There on the ground lay a deep cobalt-blue feather. I picked it up and twirled the first piece of hard evidence I’d found. The luminous violet-blue feather could only belong to one species of bird.

I carefully wiped off bits of dirt and tucked the feather in my bag without the least bit of compunction. After all, I had made no promises about what I found outside.

My stomach decided it was time for lunch. Since I’d promised Sophie to broaden my culinary horizons beyond McDonald’s, I stopped at a local barbecue dive appropriately called Porky’s Last Stand, though I suspected it wasn’t quite what she had in mind. Red-and-white checkerboard oilcloths were flung across the flimsy metal tables, and wagon-wheel chandeliers completed the slapdash Wild West mood.

I walked past a group of local yokels hefting long-neck Dixies and gnawing on ribs, the twangy strains of “Dueling Banjos” running through my brain. Their eyes followed me as if I were on a list of critters to be nailed, until a twenty-two-year-old waitress pranced by. Then the eyes swiveled like magnets irresistibly drawn to a much stronger force field: a midriff top and tight short-shorts that rode halfway up our server’s buns.

I sat down nearby, fully convinced that I possessed all the allure of road kill. I proceeded to drown my sorrow in a Mason jar of iced tea. What the heck—I even threw in an extra packet of Equal. My waitress smiled sweetly, blissfully unaware that in ten years time, her outfit would be a plaything for her kids as she struggled to do just one more sit-up.

A sign on a nearby wall declared
OUR BAR-B-Q IS MADE FROM PIGS THAT MADE PERFECT HOGS OF THEMSELVES
. It was enough to make me order the catfish sandwich, though I couldn’t turn down a side of fries. I ate lunch serenaded by the strains of Aerosmith, as my beer-drinking buddies discussed the merits of silicone implants and when Skunk Ape had last been seen. A glance at an even younger and more shapely waitress persuaded me to forego any thought of ordering a slice of Key lime pie. Instead, I headed back toward Homestead. It was time to check in with Willy’s ex, Bambi Weed.

I flew by the rich red soil of the Redlands with its groves of mango, avocado, and orange trees, and the landscape reverted once again to boarded-up buildings and amputated coconut palms, announcing I had arrived in Homestead. Along with blowing houses and landscape away, Hurricane Andrew had ripped cages containing wildlife off their very foundations. The result was one enormous jailbreak. More than 3,000 monkeys and baboons escaped from primate breeding facilities to form marauding bands that still roam the area today. Fugitive African lions lumbered through the Everglades, while construction workers chased three-foot-long green iguanas off the Rickenbacker Causeway in downtown Miami. In Homestead, nine-foot-long monitor lizards attacked people’s dogs, then wrapped themselves around the engines of Grand Ams for an afternoon nap. It was Noah’s Ark run amok.

Eighty percent of the wildlife running loose in Dade County are exotics gone native in their new subtropical home. Some of the blame could be pinned on Andrew, and some on critters escaping from cargo shipments at the airport. The rest is due to people’s realizing that thirty-foot snakes make lousy pets, and kicking them out the door.

Now overgrown cobras and pythons have taken up lodging in choice neighborhoods, while capybaras—giant South American rodents—doggy paddle in local canals, and Jesus Christ lizards slap their tootsies across the water’s surface at Everglade National Park. “Watch your dogs, your cats, and all small children,” has become South Florida’s clarion call.

I pulled up to Bambi Weed’s abode. A run-down shack that had barely survived Hurricane Andrew, its shingles hung off the roof in slapdash fashion, the tar paper undercoat ragged and torn. Blown-out windows were still boarded up, and large patches of paint peeled off its plywood walls.

I got out of the Tempo to be greeted by a dog so tattered and bone thin that even a ravaging boa would have passed him by. The mutt backed away from me, its snarl little more than a whimper as I walked toward the door. Before I could make it up the steps, two young boys came bounding around from the back of the house. Both looked as if they’d been rolling around in a pig sty, covered with more dirt than clothes. I guessed them to be around seven and eight from their size. There was little doubt that the two belonged to Willy: Each sported a cougar’s tooth dangling from an ear, and had a Super Soaker water gun clutched in his hands. The boys eyeballed me nearly as closely as the gang back at Porky’s, sizing me up for a wet T-shirt showdown. I convinced them otherwise with my own warning growl, backed up by two Hershey bars as a last-ditch bribe. The kids ripped the chocolate from my hands in record time.

I moved toward the door to find that the dog had also changed its mind. The critter was latched onto me, its paws wrapped around my leg. I dug through my purse in a desperate effort to find something to give him and found a health bran muffin that Sophie had foisted on me a few days ago. I offered it to the mutt and gave a loud knock on the door, hoping it would open before the muffin was devoured. My prayers were answered as Bambi appeared.

Ever the modern-day mom, Bambi’s version of a housedress consisted of a red bustier and a black plastic miniskirt, dark blue eyeliner and white lipstick, giving her just the right touch of heroin chic. Her short platinum tresses had been carefully gelled into a helmet of spikes. Except for being barefoot, she could have been headed straight for a guest appearance on
Jerry Springer
.

“Get outta here, you mangy mutt!” she screamed at the dog.

The critter fell to the ground and onto its back in a show of subservience, as Bambi quickly pulled me inside.

“God, I hate that thing.” She gave the door a swift kick as the dog clawed at the other side, attempting to break in. “It’s always trying to hump my leg, ya know? You oughta see him when I’m nude. I mean, that dog stares at me like he’s gonna rape me or something.” She gave a little shiver that ended in a shimmy, a habit from having been a dancer in a topless joint a few years ago.

“I used to have a life, ya know what I mean?” Bambi had once confided. “I gave up my career to have Willy’s two kids. Now what am I supposed to do with these?” she’d asked, holding up a pair of 38 Ds. “You know what kinda damage breast feeding does to them? You bet your sweet ass that snake owes me alimony.”

The raucous screech of a parrot filled the air, informing me that something new had been added to Bambi’s menagerie.

“When did you get a bird, Bambi?” I asked. There was no way the woman would ever have paid a red cent for any kind of pet.

“That’s another thing Willy unloaded on me,” she snorted. Bambi pointed in to the kitchen with midnight-blue nails that had been manicured into sharply honed rapiers.

A parrot paced methodically back and forth on the perch in its cage. The bird was predominantly green, with rose-red feathers covering its cheeks and throat. I heard a sharp intake of breath and realized it was my own. Sitting in Bambi’s kitchen was a highly prized Cuban Amazon.

“Willy tried to convince me this thing is worth a coupla months’ alimony. Can you believe it?” She shook her head in disgust as she pulled two mugs out of a dented metal cabinet, and filled them from a coffeemaker that looked as if its contents had been sitting around for days. I found a spot on the rim of my cup that wasn’t yet chipped and took a sip, the cold, bitter brew launching my body into its own caffeinated shimmy. I walked over to the cage and gazed at the Amazon, which instantly screeched and lurched threateningly toward me. What do you know? It was a mini-Willy with wings.

“Oh, yeah. Don’t stick a finger or anything in there,” Bambi warned as she flipped the parrot the bird.

“I guess it’s not too social,” I said, wondering where Willy had gotten an Amazon from.

“Social? That’s a good one. The damn thing’s demented!” Bambi stuck a finger in her mouth, sucked on it, and then held it out in front of me. A red scar was deeply etched into the flesh. “You see what that no-good bag of feathers did to me? That miserable bird bites anything that moves. I gotta hold it off with a frying pan lid in one hand while I try to fill its damn food dish with the other. Is that crazy or what?”

“You’re a bitch! You’re a bitch!” the bird happily prattled.

“Cute, huh? Guess who taught it to say that?” Bambi stuck her tongue out at the bird. “I keep threatening to feed it to the lousy dog, but those kids of mine won’t let me.”

“You don’t want to do that, Bambi. This is a very valuable bird,” I informed her.

“Yeah? So what good does that do me? I’ll tell you what good it does: none. Nobody’s gonna buy the damn thing; it’s too frigging nasty. I ain’t taking no more animals from that creep. From now on, it’s cash only.” Bambi stomped a bare foot on the dingy linoleum floor to emphasize her point as she walked away.

“So, did you catch him last night with the goods?” She approached again with the coffeemaker in hand.

I motioned that I was still working on the first undrinkable cup. “I found him. But it was too late.”

Bambi raised a tweezed eyebrow.

“He was carrying parrot eggs. He managed to flush them down a toilet before I could get to him,” I explained.

“You see? The man’s a genius! That’s what I’m up against.” Bambi pulled at the spikes of her hair in frustration.

I chose not to comment on Willy’s intellectual prowess. “Do you know if he’s been dealing in birds lately?”

“Nah. It’s mostly the usual thing—you know, selling a few of his cougars and snakes to bikers, and maybe a coupla drug dealers who’re looking to guard their stash.”

What sounded like a burst of gunfire shook the one intact window in the kitchen. Bambi screamed and hit the ground. The coffee in my cup went flying in the air.

“Big Mama! Big Mama!” the bird screeched hysterically, adding to the chaos.