Bird Brained (12 page)

“What about ’em?”

I looked down at the man’s hands, as knotted and hard as the mangrove roots.

“How are they brought over?” I asked quietly, not wanting to disturb the sounds of twilight.

“That’s easy,” Tommy answered. “There are any number of ways. Usually they come by cigar boat from Cuba into the Keys, maybe unloading around Matecumbe. Or a crew will sail into the Bahamas with a stash, and from there, someone will mule them by plane into Miami International. Sometimes they’ll skip using a boat altogether, and just fly the birds straight out of Cuba.”

“I had no idea.” My words drifted out over the bay, carried on invisible wings.

“There’s a lot you have no idea of, little girl.” Tommy grinned, his eyes now indigo as they sparkled with merriment. “I bet you also don’t know about the anti-Castro paramilitary groups that still practice their maneuvers out in the Glades.”

“You’re right; I don’t,” I admitted. “Who are they? A bunch of old men playing at being soldiers?”

“That’s what most people think, and some of them are. But the original Cuban exiles don’t make up the bulk of the volunteers anymore. Now it’s their sons and grandsons. The dream of invading and taking over the homeland has been passed on to the next generation.”

“What do they do out in the Everglades?”

“They do their share of blowing up silhouettes of old Fidel.” Tommy pulled a small cigar out of his pocket, bit off the end and struck a match against the side of the drum. He waved the flame along the tip of the cigar like a magic wand, taking deep, steady puffs. A smell like sweet cedar, with a hint of nutmeg, wafted toward me. “But they have other artillery, too.”

“What kind are you talking about? Automatic weapons?” I probed.

Tommy blew a smoke ring that slowly merged with the still evening air. “The sky’s the limit. Anything and everything that you could ever imagine.”

I’d seen enough action films to imagine plenty. “You’re kidding. Where are they getting all this stuff?”

Tommy was caught up in a silent communion with the roll of tobacco stuck in his mouth. The ritual of cigar smoking continued to mystify me. I had yet to figure out what was so damned enjoyable about puffing on a wad of burning leaves.

Tommy grunted and stood up. “Hang on a minute. If I’m gonna walk you through history, I’m gonna need a little help.” He disappeared briefly, to return with a bottle of cognac and two snifters in hand. Tommy poured us each a generous dollop and then raised his glass high in a toast against a background of orange flames. The flames crackled and hissed as they licked the night air like an angry nest of vipers. I watched, entranced, as their reflection became ensnared within the snifter, appearing to set his cognac on fire.

“To the land of Ponce de León. May we all find our fountains of youth.”

I was with him on that one. I took a sip and savored the liqueur as it rushed like liquid sun through my veins. If only staying young could be this easy. I took another taste, silently clicked my heels three times, and made a wish.

Tommy settled himself back down on the ground. “Once upon a time, in 1961, Cuban exiles in Florida, who had been trained and armed by the CIA, attempted to overthrow Castro with our government’s help and blessing. They landed at Playa Girón or, as we gringos know it, the Bay of Pigs. But when it came down to the nitty-gritty, our government reneged on its promise to supply air and naval support, so that most of those poor bastards ended up either getting shot or thrown in prison. JFK slapped an embargo on Cuba in retaliation and since then, no trade has been allowed with the island.”

Between books and Oliver Stone, this was history I already knew.

Tommy paused for a moment. “Of course, that didn’t stop the hanky-panky. The CIA quietly continued their secret war with Cuba throughout the sixties. The big boys amused themselves with cloak-and-dagger antics, hatching harebrained schemes to try to knock off Fidel using exploding cigars and poisoned scuba suits. They also kept the exiles armed. By the seventies, all that had pretty much petered out. Except for the Cuban footsoldiers, that is—some of whom happened to be former CIA agents themselves.”

Tommy swished his cognac, exhaled a cloud of smoke, and took a deep drink. “During that time, over a million and a half Cubans sought asylum in this country—most of them right here in southern Florida. What that means is they’re an economic and political power to be reckoned with. When they speak, believe me, Washington listens. There are also still those in our government who remain loyal to the exiles and their cause. So our friends in the Glades continue to sneak in and out of Cuba, where they quietly carry out their attacks and raids. As to where they get their backing and armament from?” Tommy shrugged. “Who knows? But I can tell you that our government never talks openly about their existence.”

“And the embargo still goes on, no matter how much American business kicks and screams,” I added.

“That’s right.” Tommy smiled. “Which makes it good pickings for entrepreneurs who have the
cojones
to risk smuggling Cuban cigars into this country. They’re making a frigging fortune doing it. More than they’d ever make if the damn things were legal.”

“Just how much money are these guys raking in?”

Tommy rolled his cigar back and forth between his fingers. “Well, last I heard, illegal imports were running about five to ten million cigars a year. In terms of revenue, that would mean they’re producing anywhere from seventy-five to one hundred million dollars in cold cash. Which, pound for pound, makes Cuban cigars as lucrative as dealing in marijuana. A hell of a lot safer, too, I might add.”

Tommy lay back and stared up at the sky, having said his say on the topic.

“I notice that your cigar doesn’t have any band to identify what kind it is,” I remarked.

“That’s right. But I don’t wear some designer’s name slapped on my ass, either,” he replied, leaving me no wiser.

Any further questions I had were put on hold as Tommy pointed to a flock of brightly colored Quaker parrots performing an avian ballet. Descended from escaped pets, a feral population of the birds now called southern Florida home. We watched until they were no longer in sight, only the echo of their raucous cries serving as a ghostly reminder of their performance.

“Now that’s what I call beautiful. A group of parrots spreading their wings as they fly across the sky.” Tommy raised his glass in homage. “They’re no different from the rest of us. Birds were meant to be free.”

I raised my glass and silently agreed.

By the time I arrived home it was dark, but Sophie had turned on the lights in my cottage, along with the TV, so that Bonkers would have company.

“Hi ya, sweetie!” he screeched.

I approved of the greeting. The remains of sunflower seeds, mango, and banana littered his dish. I counted my blessings that Sophie was both a friend and a landlady.

“Boy, are you one lucky bird,” I told Bonkers, letting him out of his cage. He crawled onto my shoulder and rode into the kitchen, hopping onto the counter where he helped me unpack groceries. Out came cabbage, watercress, carrots, green pepper and peas, corncobs, papayas, and grapes, filling up my normally empty refrigerator, all for one wisecracking bird. Then I poured myself a glass of red wine and handed Bonkers a carrot as we headed into the garden to watch the stars.

The tangy smell of the sea entwined with the sweet fragrance of frangipani to wrap around me in a savory bouquet. I felt something scamper over my bare feet, as light as a whisper, and knew it was the green lizard that had been sunning himself earlier in the day.

As Bonkers chewed on the carrot, crunching close to my ear, my mind drifted to Bambi. It was obvious that life hadn’t turned out the way she had planned when she’d first gotten married. I was caught off-guard as thoughts of Santou swept over me, as powerful as salt in a still-open wound.

Bonkers brought me back to the present as he gently pulled on my ear, testing how far he could go. I brushed him down onto my arm, where he amused himself by chewing on my watch before climbing back up to nuzzle his head under my chin. That’s what I was afraid of: being like Bonkers, my wings clipped just enough to make me dependent.

Then Sophie and Lucinda’s laughter trickled from their bungalow, tantalizing me with what life with someone else could offer. Bonkers nestled close, his beak nudging my hand until I finally got the message and began to pet him. The bird squawked in protest each time I stopped, as if cursing his luck for being saddled with such a dense human.

I went to sleep with Sophie’s laughter still ringing in my ears, only to dream of being locked out in the cold, all alone.

The next morning found me jamming with the rest of the traffic heading west on the Dolphin Expressway. It was time to show my face at work. The U.S. Fish and Wildlife office is tucked away in the duty-free zone just past the airport, an area rife with industry. Its charms include trucks belching exhaust and enough convenience stores to keep me from running low on caffeine.

I walked in to find my boss, Carlos Cardenas, in his usual pose: staring at a computer screen while sniffing the barrel of his unloaded gun. I had the feeling he wasn’t all that happy with his promotion. The title and pay were good, but now he was stuck behind a desk in charge of more paperwork than one man could handle, responsible for an office that battled an unusually high number of scandals.

I’d heard various rumors of what he’d done to cause the gods of Fish and Wildlife to strap him with Miami. They ranged from carrying on investigations without prior approval to telling the top brass just what he thought of them. He’d been branded a crazy man, making him sound like my kind of guy. I’d arrived in Miami hoping we’d hit it off. After all, neither of us was on the Service’s A-list, but were token minorities in a whitebread, old-boy world. Instead, Carlos had viewed me as his version of the Cuban man’s burden from the first morning I’d walked through the door.

“I want you to know that you’re here against my will,” he’d told me. “I’ve got enough to deal with. What I don’t need in Miami is having a white female who doesn’t speak a word of Spanish foisted upon me because of some affirmative-action hooey.”

“
Hola
to you, too,” I’d responded, making good use of my one Spanish word.

He hadn’t been amused. “They’re really out to shaft me this time, aren’t they?”

See, that was another thing we had in common. I felt exactly the same.

Maybe it was this sense of unwarranted bad luck that caused him to have such a foul temper. Or maybe it was just Carlos’s way. But his moods were a lot like the prize at the bottom of Cracker Jacks: I always pretty much knew what to expect, and it was never what I wanted.

I’d just settled down at what I presumed was my desk, disguised as a blizzard of paperwork, when Carlos beckoned me into his office in his own gentle way.

“Porter! Now!”

We’d quickly developed a shorthand that takes other couples years to perfect. I looked upon it as an updated Lucy-Desi routine. I walked in, prepared for my latest Cracker Jack prize.

“
Oy vay
. You’re one royal pain in the ass.” His head was resting heavily in his hands.

“Is that a gun over there, or are you just happy to see me?” I pointed to the unloaded pistol on his desk.

“Actually, I’m thinking of using it on you,” he glumly responded. The bags beneath his eyes would have made a bloodhound proud. “Chances are the brass in Washington would give me a medal, and I’d stand a better chance of getting out of this hole.”

“Rough weekend?” I inquired, mustering up as much sympathy as I could.

“Nice of you to ask, especially since it’s your actions that are screwing me over,” Carlos retorted.

I didn’t have to spend much time pondering exactly what that was; Cardenas quickly informed me.

“I got a call from Tony Carrera yesterday. He says he’s suing your ass for all it’s worth.”

Boy, was he in for a big disappointment. “Just what is he suing me for?” As far as I could tell, I’d saved Carrera’s life. Call me crazy, but I’d expected something more like a thank-you note. Maybe even a bottle of wine.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, Porter, but the paperwork on his shipment had already been cleared.” Carlos opened his desk drawer, pulled out a container of aspirin and popped the lid, upending the contents into his mouth.

More than 14,000 annual wildlife shipments flow into Miami, forcing our six inspectors to pick and choose what they look at—Fish and Wildlife triage. That meant rubber-stamping was the general modus operandi. Tony Carrera used that to maximum advantage.

“I thought a surprise inspection might help keep Tony on the straight and narrow,” I explained.

“That’s beside the point, Porter. The paperwork was cleared, yet you forced him to open the crates. As a result the man was bitten by a venomous snake, which means he could very well have died. Does that sum it up?” Carlos had begun to slowly twirl the gun round and round in a tight circle. “To say nothing of the fact that inspections aren’t even part of your damn job!”

“And what is? Sitting at a desk and shuffling a pile of papers?” Damn—yep, it was. Fastest mouth east of the Mississippi.

Carlos glared at me and pulled on his mustache, a sure sign that a black mood was kicking in. The bureaucratic demand for paperwork was a sore point with him, with good reason. Although smugglers focused on Miami, our territory also ran from Martin County, down through Broward, to Dade, to the tip of Key West, with manatee and sea-turtle problems topping the list. And that wasn’t even counting the other thirty-eight endangered species that call Florida home. The state was considered the Mission Impossible of the critter world. With all this going on, the thought of planting my fanny in front of a stack of paperwork was absurd.

“Can Carrera really sue me?” I was counting on some moral support.

Carlos was back to sniffing his gun. “Sure. Why not?”

It was nice to know the Service was solidly behind me, as usual. I filled Carlos in on the Dominguez case, hoping that 250 disappearing parrots would interest the man.