Bird Brained Page 16

  “So tell me, Willy. Just where is it that you’re disappearing to every week?”

  “Not that it’s any of your business, Porter, but I got a sick mama that I go visit in Macon, Georgia.”

  “Yeah. And then he comes and sees me,” Buzz genially added.

  I suddenly clicked in to Tregler’s identity, certain he must be the old air force buddy that Bambi had mentioned. Turning on my best one-hundred-fifty-watt smile, I aimed it at Tregler. “You said you work for the government? Why, you must be a military man.”

  Buzz broke into a surprised grin. “Wow! That’s pretty good! How’d you figure that out?”

  “You’ve just got that air of authority about you. So, you’re stationed somewhere in Georgia?”

  “Sure am. Robins Air Force Base, right outside of Macon. I’m in charge of the surplus division,” Tregler bragged.

  “Like hell you are,” Willy sniped, jealous at Buzz receiving so much attention.

  “Well, I’m second in command!” Buzz responded defensively. “That’s close enough. Shit, I’ve even got a desk right next to a window. It’s considered to be status of sorts, when you get a window. That way you get extra light.” Tregler sniffed, his pride having been hurt.

  “A window with extra light!” Willie snorted contemptuously. “That’s a good one. Maybe you just finally got around to popping your head out of your ass.”

  With friends like Willy, who needed enemies? “What kind of surplus do you deal in?” I asked.

  Buzz brightened back up. “Lots of stuff. If you like, I can get you a Swatch watch, or even a strand of pearls. They’d look real pretty on you.”

  Willy dug the heel of his cast into the ground. “For chrissakes! The man deals in surplus Spam! Is there anything else that you’re itching to know, Porter?”

  I nailed Willy with a shot between the eyes. “How about filling me in on that Cuban Amazon you gave Bambi?”

  Willy snickered, more than happy to share the joke. “That bird is one mean sonofabitch, ain’t it? There was no way in hell I was ever going to be able to sell the damn thing, so I pawned it off on her.”

  “And where did you get the bird from?”

  Willy smirked, enjoying the game. “Somebody gave it to me as payment.”

  “Payment for what?” I pressed.

  “For services rendered,” Willy sneered.

  “There’s no band on that bird’s leg, which means it wasn’t captive bred. That leads me to believe it must have been smuggled into Miami.”

  Buzz looked at me with a blank stare.

  “It’s a hot bird,” I interpreted for him.

  Willy slapped his palm to his forehead. “Hot damn! You mean I was suckered? Well, don’t that just beat all!” He grinned. “Course ya gotta prove it, first. But be my guest!” he graciously offered. “Confiscate the damn thing, why doncha? You can send it to that Fish and Wildlife animal lab you got out West, for all I care.”

  Carlos would wring my neck before he’d allow me to do any such thing. The time and money it would cost to prove one measly parrot had been caught in the wild wasn’t high on Fish and Wildlife’s agenda.

  “From what I hear, Elena Vallardes gave it to you,” I told him.

  Willy hocked a lugie, spitting the wad of phlegm on the ground. “That bitch don’t give away nothing. Hell, that’s the problem with those damn Cubans.”

  “And you do?” I asked. “In that case, how about giving me some information I want.”

  “You know damn well what I’m talking about. It’s the way they come salsa-ing their asses over here, acting like this is Havana and we’re their goddamn slaves,” Willy answered peevishly.

  “Oh, I get it. Instead of realizing they’re our slaves, you mean,” I responded.

  “Fuck you, Porter!” he glowered. “Those people need to be taught a lesson. Well, just you wait—before too long, there’s gonna be a reckoning.”

  I wondered if Elena had any idea of how unpopular she was with both Willy and the former Mrs. Weed. “I hope you don’t plan on being the one to carry it out,” I warned him.

  Willy blew me a kiss. “Why, mama! I didn’t know you cared.”

  “I just don’t want any innocent Cubans having to get rabies shots because Willy the Weed is on a rampage,” I shot back.

  Weed punched Buzz in the arm. “Hear that, dickbrain? That’s why I tell you never to get married. You meet a babe who promises to cook and screw you forever. Then you get hitched and the next thing you know, they wind up talking to you like this bitch.”

  Buzz smiled, not paying Willy any mind. “Uh huh. But this one’s lookin’ real gooood!”

  “Yeah. That’s generally how they work it,” Willy muttered. “That’s all the fun and games I got time for today, Porter. Buzz and me’ve got an appointment we gotta get to.”

  Buzz climbed behind the wheel of Willy’s Dodge, and Weed crawled in the passenger seat beside him. I noticed that a tarp covered the cargo bed of the pickup. It hadn’t been there when I arrived.

  “That means you gotta go, too, Porter,” Willy called out, interrupting my train of thought. He waited until I started my Ford. “Ladies first,” he said with a smirk.

  I drove out, curious as to what lay beneath the tarp, since Buzz and Weed had clearly been on the grounds at the time of my arrival. My mind also drifted back to the trailer with the locked door, my gut instinct whispering that there could be a connection.

  Ten

  I pointed my Tempo for Tommy’s.

  Since it was early in the day, the fishermen hadn’t gathered yet. I saw Tommy perched on a stool, dressed in his usual Gilligan’s Island garb, gutting a pile of red snapper between extra-long sips of beer. By the time I sat down next to him, a beer was ready and waiting for me.

  Tommy grunted his hello and reached behind the bar’s makeshift counter to produce a bowl of seviche, which we picked at in silence. Tommy’s homemade brew slid easily down my throat, cooling the spicy marinated fish.

  I leaned back and let the place work its magic. Biscayne Bay lay blue and smooth, daring any clouds to cast a blemish on its surface. An egret lazily drifted by, its wings slowly beating the heavy air like two giant white feathery fans. The remnants of Willy that had clung to me began to let go, melting beneath the sun.

  It wasn’t until I was working on my second beer and feasting on grilled red snapper that I broached what was bothering me. “You told me that Cuban Amazons are usually smuggled by cigar boat into the Keys.”

  Tommy removed a small cigar from his pocket, bit off the end and lit up. “That’s right.”

  “There’s someone that I’m certain is smuggling in Amazons. But there’s no way this guy is a sailor.” I grinned as I visualized Willy tossing around on the high seas.

  “Then he’s probably flying the birds in by plane straight from Cuba,” Tommy said.

  “Exactly,” I agreed. “The only thing is, I took a look at his passport this morning. There were no Cuban entry or exit stamps there.”

  Tommy picked up a well-worn toothpick and dug at his gums, producing a fibrous string of snapper.

  “Cuba doesn’t stamp American passports. Neither does Mexico, for that matter,” Tommy informed me.

  A gull flew past, passing judgment with a raucous snicker. Willy must be having a good laugh over my stupidity, too.

  “What does Mexico have to do with anything?” I asked, my mind feeling dense from the heat.

  “Well, you certainly don’t think your friend is flying in and out of Cuba from Miami, do you?” Tommy’s question slapped me awake. “There’s still a boycott going on, remember? If I were going to fly, I’d hop a plane to Mexico and from there connect to Cuba—leaving plenty of time for a few margaritas and señoritas, of course. No muss, no fuss—but best of all, no paper trail.”

  Tommy slid off the stool and disappeared. When he returned he had a bottle of scotch in his hand, formally announcing that morning was over and his afternoon had begun.

  “T
ell me something, Tommy. How is it that you seem to know so much about Cuba?” .

  Tommy poured himself a shot. “Can you guarantee that whatever I tell you will go no farther than here?” he asked.

  “As long as it has nothing to do with illegal wildlife, your activities don’t concern me,” I answered honestly.

  “This is a great life. I make the rules. People don’t like ’em, they go somewhere else. It’s that simple.” Tommy turned his head and stared out at the water, his gaze so intent that my eyes were drawn to follow. But whatever he saw remained hidden from my view.

  “It doesn’t take much to see that I can’t make a living just running this dive.” He waved to a couple of fishermen who lurched in, done with their day’s work before noon.

  “What do you do to keep going?” I gently prodded.

  Tommy’s blue eyes carried me along on their own inner wave. “When I need to, I hire myself out and make hauls running merchandise back and forth between here and Cuba.”

  My heart beat the slightest bit faster, secretly wishing that I could go along. “What kind of merchandise are we talking about?”

  Tommy shrugged. “Almost anything you can think of. Computers, TVs, radios, any kind of electronic equipment. Those people have next to nothing.”

  “And what do you bring back in return?” I asked.

  Tommy blew a series of carefully constructed smoke rings and then smiled. “Mostly, I bring back Cuban cigars.”

  “Where do they go?” I asked, genuinely curious.

  Tommy took another sip of his scotch. “I was only in charge of hauling the stuff. The guy I delivered them to did the actual selling. In fact, it was someone you knew.”

  I barely dared ask, fearing my suspicions would fall into the realm of conspiracy theory. “Alberto Dominguez?”

  Tommy gave a slight nod.

  My stomach tightened at the next logical question which sprang to mind. “Did you haul Cuban Amazons for him, as well?”

  “Now you’re getting into one of those gray areas that I can’t talk about,” Tommy replied noncommittally.

  I gave myself a mental slap. No wonder he knew so much about the ways in which Cuban Amazons were smuggled!

  Tommy must have noticed the invisible foot that kicked me in the rear end. “For chrissakes, Porter, stop beating yourself up,” he groused. “There was no way for you to know. Besides, with Alberto knocked off, I won’t be doing those hauls anymore.” Tommy peeled off his flip-flops and buried his toes in the sand. “It got to the point where it was turning my stomach, anyway,” he grudgingly admitted. “I saw too many of the damn things die. I’d already made up my mind not to haul any more birds.”

  “Do you know if Alberto had any business partners?” I was hoping a few more familiar names would pop up.

  Tommy shook his head. “I was an employee; I wasn’t his goddamn confidant.”

  “You must have been privy to some information,” I pressed.

  Tommy got up and served a round of beer and snapper to the fishermen who had begun to appear and sat swapping tales at the bar. But if he thought that was my cue to leave, he was in for a surprise. I liked it here well enough. I didn’t care if it took all night for me to get the information I wanted. I stretched back and created flying angels in the sand.

  When Tommy returned, he had a couple of rolls that he tore into chunks and threw in the air. A swarm of hungry gulls appeared from out of nowhere, swooping down to catch the pieces.

  “Alberto was tight with the Cuban community,” he continued as though having never left off. “If he had a partner, it was probably one of his own kind.”

  “So, it was a Cuban cigar ring all round,” I replied, smiling at my cleverness.

  “Wrong,” Tommy countered. “I’m talking about the birds. No other Cuban would’ve touched those cigars with a ten-foot pole. In fact, if the Cuban community had gotten wind of what Alberto was doing, the guy would have found himself totally ostracized.”

  There was something I wasn’t quite getting here. “You want to explain this to me a little better? I thought it was only our government that had a problem with bringing in Cuban cigars.”

  “What the hell were they teaching when you went to school, Porter?” Tommy asked. “How to set a dinner table and catch a wealthy man?”

  “Yeah. That’s why I’m sitting here next to you,” I shot back. “Don’t get sand on my debutante gown.”

  “All right,” Tommy said gruffly. “Ninety-nine percent of Cubans don’t approve of smuggling in Cuban cigars, because they feel it helps to financially support the Castro regime. The Cuban community here in the States has one focus and one focus only: to get the hell rid of Fidel Castro. Which is why no Cuban with a conscience is going to deal in cigars made in Havana.”

  “Does that mean Alberto was a secret supporter of Castro?” I asked.

  “Nah.” Tommy brushed off the thought. “It just means he was a greedy bastard. I figure he shipped ’em all up to cigar stores in New York.”

  “Okay. Then let me ask you something about his illegal bird dealings.” I raised a finger, cutting off Tommy before he could protest. “I’m not asking about your role in it. What I want to know is, who else was involved?”

  Tommy picked up a fistful of sand. “You really think Alberto would have told me something like that?”

  “You’re a smart guy. I’m sure you picked things up along the way,” I countered.

  Tommy released the sand. “I don’t know who they were, other than Cubans. What I will tell you is that I wasn’t the only one making trips. Dominguez liked to cover his bases. He had one pigeon that always flew. From Miami, to Mexico, to Cuba, and back.”

  “Does the name Willy Weed sound familiar?” I asked.

  “Like I said, names were never mentioned,” Tommy answered.

  I popped one last question to confirm something that had made little sense until now. “What are green coins?”

  Tommy’s head jerked up. “Where did you pick up that phrase?”

  “It was in a letter I found at Alberto’s from a woman in Cuba. She promised to have ten green coins ready for him,” I replied. “What are coins, Tommy?”

  He stared at me, as if questioning just how dumb I really was, and how much I already knew. “It was Alberto’s code word for parrots. Green stands for Cuban Amazons.”

  “So blue coins would be hyacinth macaws.”

  A sudden whoosh of wings caught me by surprise as a flock of snowy-white egrets lifted off from their roosts in nearby trees, their long, slender bodies silhouetted like ribbons against the sky.

  Tommy nodded and followed the birds with his eyes as they winged out to sea. “I bet you didn’t know that there are more escaped parrots flying around here in south Florida, than there are flying free in the entire Amazon rain forest.” He stared again at me. “Did you know that, Porter?”

  I didn’t answer, intrigued by the feverish look which had sneaked into his eyes.

  Tommy cocked an ear. “You wanna know why I really stopped bringing in birds? I began to hear their calls in the wind. When I listened closer, I realized I was hearing their cries for help.” His eyes held me captive. “You know what they call the few that are left in the wild? They’re known as the living dead, because odds are that they’ll never survive.”

  A shiver passed through me. Tommy reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a business card.

  “This is a place for you to check out. The guy’s no longer involved in smuggling, but he knows the trade here in Florida better than anyone else.”

  All I knew about Hialeah was that the racetrack was there. Also, that the track’s resident flock of pink flamingos had starred in the opening montage of Miami Vice, without ever earning a dime in royalties. It appeared I was about to learn more. Hialeah was where Wickee Wackee Bird World and its owner, Saul Greenberg, were located.

  Wickie Wackee Bird World stood on a strip filled with rundown stores that had seen better days. The place wa
s just as charming inside. Grimy windows kept out most of the sun, while ancient fluorescent lights provided a sick, yellowish glow. The man behind the counter fit in perfectly with the general motif. His pasty white complexion made Bonkers look tan, and the large glasses that covered his eyes gave him the visage of an owl. You’d have been hard pressed to guess this was a man who lived in the sun capital of the world.

  What the store did have was plenty of birds, screeching louder than a roomful of senior citizens playing a high-stakes game of canasta. One bird barked like a dog, another was a dead ringer for a fire alarm, while a third scatted to jazz.

  A quick look around revealed some yellow-crowned Amazons. Natives of Mexico, the birds are closed to the trade. But Saul’s collection got even better. Perched in a corner were rare black palm cockatoos, with a going price of $50,000 a pair. After seeing that, it came as no surprise to spot two hyacinths, along with a Cuban Amazon. The only strange thing was that Saul kept one hell of an inventory in such a crummy little store.

  I walked over to the cage containing the hyacinths, their violet-blue plumage iridescent even in the dim light. The yellow feathers that circled their eyes looked like circus clown makeup, and a golden racing stripe ran along either side of their tongues. I brought a finger up toward the cage, tempted to pet them.

  “You really don’t want to do that.”

  I turned around, where Saul held up his hand for me to view. It was missing the tips of two fingers. “If you’re not careful, those huge hooked beaks of theirs will chop your finger right off.” He produced two Brazil nuts, and fed one to each of the birds. “I’ve learned to be careful.” He smiled.

  One of the hyacinths flipped the Brazil nut in the air and caught it, smashing the hard shell as easily as a grape.

  “They can crush two thousand pounds per square inch in those beaks,” Greenberg revealed with pride.

  I gazed at the pair, remembering the tranquilized hyacinths I’d glimpsed at Alberto’s.

  “How long have you had these birds?” I asked.

  Greenberg blinked at me from behind his oversized lenses. “You’re a fed, aren’t you?”