Bird Brained Read online

One old man folded three different types of long leaf tobacco together, placing the finished product inside a large wooden mold.

  We walked over to another elderly man, who gave me a wink.

  “This is Armando. He takes each cigar that has been pressed and nestles it inside still another leaf of tobacco, which is called a wrapper,” Ramon explained.

  Armando’s fingers were as brown and wrinkled as the tobacco. He sealed the final leaf closed with a touch of vegetable glue, laid the tight roll on a guillotine-like contraption, and released the blade, chopping off the cigar’s end.

  “Do you sell any cigars other than those that are made here on your premises?” I asked with wide-eyed innocence.

  Ramon smiled at the question. “Now, why would I do something like that when we make the best cigars in the world?”

  “Even better than Cubans?” I questioned, opening my eyes a little wider.

  “No. Cuba is the only place that can produce a cigar which is better,” Ramon solemnly admitted.

  I brought my voice down a notch lower. “You wouldn’t by any chance happen to have a small stash of Cuban cigars here, would you? Believe me, I have no official interest when I ask about this. I’m only inquiring for a friend who’s desperate to get hold of some. He would be willing to pay top dollar.”

  Ramon’s expression turned from seductive to horrified. “But that’s absolute treason! It’s against the law,” he sputtered.

  Gee, where had I heard those same words only a few minutes ago?

  “I’m sorry; I have no intention of getting you into any trouble. But if you don’t carry them, perhaps you might know of someone who does?” I urged.

  A fine layer of perspiration lightly moistened his brow. For a moment, I thought he might ask me to leave. Instead he pressed my hand to his heart.

  “Raquel, I can only imagine that you don’t truly understand the implications of what you are asking,” he said.

  He gently stroked my fingers. It was enough to make me almost feel guilty for trying to trap him.

  “No decent Cuban would ever allow himself to be involved in the sale of such cigars. It would be the same as taking blood money from our people,” he explained. “Cubans have died attempting to escape Castro. That’s what everyone in this country forgets. Cuban cigars that are sold in America only help support a ruthless and despicable dictator.”

  He and Langer were clearly reading from the same script.

  He kissed my hand, then placed his own squarely on my chest. I started to feel much less guilty.

  “Haven’t there been many attempts to overthrow Castro’s regime?” I firmly removed Ramon’s hand.

  “Yes, and, unfortunately, each one has failed.” A note of sorrow hung in his voice like a teardrop. “However, we continue to work toward trying to get rid of him.”

  “I’ve heard there are Cubans here in Miami training for an invasion,” I ventured.

  Armando now looked up at me with a pair of sad, rheumy eyes.

  Ramon gave an impassive shrug. “That sort of thing took place back when Kennedy was president, but the Bay of Pigs put an end to all that. Since then, we try to do what we can, which is really very little.”

  “But aren’t there groups of Cubans still hoping to mount an invasion?” I persisted. “There’s been a rash of recent bombings in Havana, all aimed at the island’s tourist industry. One took place just last night that’s being blamed on paramilitary groups based right here in Miami.”

  Ramon shook his head and smiled, conveying that I still had much to learn. “The CIA stopped helping those groups long ago. What you’re hearing about is nothing more than a bunch of old men holding on to their dreams.”

  The old men beside us never stopped rolling.

  “Those bombings are most likely the work of an anti-Castro faction within Cuba itself. I know little about them—only that they are brave men fighting to gain our country’s freedom.” Ramon broke into a smile, his ivories gleaming as bright as tiny suns in a tropical sky. “One day soon, the dream of a free Cuba will become a reality.” Ramon placed a hand on one of the old men’s backs. “Isn’t that so, Roberto?”

  Roberto gazed up at him with a near toothless grin. “Sí, señor Ramón.”

  “My master rollers did this very same work in Cuba for years. I’ve promised them that they’ll do it again back home before they die. Isn’t that true, my friends?” Ramon asked, with a magnanimous wave of his arm.

  The men continued to roll without saying a word.

  I moved back to the last row, where one of the workers was rummaging through a drawer. A flash of silver caught my eye, its shape resembling the small silver leg band breeders placed on hatchling parrots to mark their birds as captive bred. I walked over, but the drawer was quickly closed. As the man reached for a mold, his short sleeve rode up to reveal the tattoo of a parrot clutching an automatic rifle in its talons.

  The old man stared up at me with a deadly cold glare as he slowly pulled his sleeve back down.

  I finally headed for the office, where Carlos was nowhere to be found. Even the receptionist had turned on the answering machine and gone home.

  I sat at my desk and looked at the pile of papers that covered its surface. It had grown larger than it was two days ago. Either the paperwork was mutating on its own, or Carlos had had a hand in it.

  Just shuffling the papers around wore me out, the thought of actually slogging through them had me verging on the edge of a coma. I knew that fairly soon, Carlos would ask what I’d been up to. I scribbled a note, taped it to his computer, and took off for home.

  I pulled up to the cottage, parking close behind Sophie’s ancient Volvo. It was amazing that it still had any life left in it: it had 150,000 miles on its odometer, the vinyl seats were ripped apart, both taillights were out, and its pale turquoise exterior was rusted and badly peeling. I’d once asked her why she didn’t just buy a new one.

  “What the hell for?” she’d replied. “It’s still running. Besides, I’ve got a contest going to see which of us is going to outlast the other. Kinda like a couple of old Energizer batteries.”

  I walked into the garden, expecting to hear Sophie’s cottage brimming with chatter, but there was only silence. The quiet was oddly depressing. I’d become used to walking in to the hustle and bustle of Sophie and Lucinda. Even better, that now included Terri. The three comprised my nearest and dearest family, and I’d quickly grown spoiled, anticipating that they’d be there whenever I arrived home. I continued on and entered my bungalow, where the silence was shattered by the ring of the telephone, followed by an earpiercing shriek from Bonkers.

  “Hola! Hola!” the bird screeched.

  “Hello?” I yelled into the phone. There was no reply and I was about to hang up, figuring it was a wrong number, when Santou’s voice stopped me cold.

  “Hey, chère. Remember me?”

  My legs felt weak and I sat down on the bed. “How’s New Orleans these days?” I asked, really meaning, Are you sorry you left me? Do you regret your demands?

  “It could be better,” he answered tentatively. “You could be here.”

  I imagined Jake flashing one of his lopsided grins that always flip-flopped my heart and turned my brain to Silly Putty. For once, I was glad of the distance between us. “Yeah. Well, I have this little thing that keeps me busy. It’s known as a job.”

  “A job? I think what you’re talking about is your life’s obsession.” His laugh was short and strained.

  Bonkers filled the awkward silence with a perfect imitation of Sophie. “Oy vay!”

  “Listen, chère. I’ve been thinking things over and maybe I was wrong.” His voice smoothly wound around my heart. “It’s not Fish and Wildlife I object to so much.”

  My pulse fluttered, and I wondered if Jake had really begun to understand how important my job was to me.

  “I want to work this out, so maybe we can compromise. You could continue with the Service but just do something safer, like a pa
rt-time desk job.”

  Santou was lucky he was in New Orleans. Had he been any closer, I might have been tempted to get in my car, hunt him down and take a few well-aimed potshots. “Actually Jake, I was going to suggest the same thing to you,” I countered, working to keep my cool. “I’ve decided I’m not all that crazy about what you do, either. In fact, I’m in the market for a house husband these days. Sound appealing?”

  “If you’re not going to be reasonable about this, Rachel, we’re never going to get anywhere,” Jake answered shortly.

  I always hate when men throw a term like “reasonable” around, as if that’s supposed to make a woman sit up and behave. “That’s something we agree on, Jake. I’m waiting for you to come to your senses, as well.”

  Santou slowly exhaled, as if blowing out a candle. “I love you with all my heart, chère. But I can see we’re not going to make any progress on this,” he paused. The silence sat like a wall between us. “Goodbye, Rachel.”

  I quickly hung up, not wanting the phone to click dead in my ear, and jumped into the shower where the water disguised my tears. Then I started on a bag of Snickers bars, until I saw Sophie and Terri coming up the walk. I ran out, relieved that the troops had finally arrived home.

  Sophie was draped in one of her original caftans, its pattern of electric tangerine and green circles making her look like a walking orange grove. Terri’s well-toned physique was displayed in a tight fuschia Speedo, demurely covered by a transparent pink top that looked suspiciously like a baby-doll nightie. Both wore gold sandals, large floppy hats, and sunscreen on their nose. Terri’s skin had a golden glow, making me totally envious. Put me in the sun and I come out the shade of a well-boiled lobster.

  “You look terrific,” I said, taking another bite of the Snickers bar.

  “You’ll look great, too, once you go cold turkey off all that junk food.” Terri pulled the candy bar out of my hand. “That’s it, Rach. I didn’t put all that hard work into you in New Orleans just to watch it go down the drain. As of today, you’re eating healthy.” He lowered his sunglasses, the skin around his eye now psychedelic shades of yellow and purple. “Something else is going on with you. What is it?”

  “I just got off the phone with Santou,” I confessed.

  Terri shook his blonde curls and tapped his foot on the ground. “I love the man, but why do I get the feeling he’s being a stubborn ass?”

  I couldn’t help but smile. “Because he is.”

  Terri slipped his arm through mine and walked me to my door. “I’m taking you out for dinner tonight. You can use the diversion and I’ve got some special news. I’ll be ready in ten minutes.”

  “So, what’s this news that you have?” I asked curiously as we strolled down South Beach.

  “I think Sophie and I came up with something really big today,” Terri said, and then paused dramatically. “We’re launching a line of designer yarmulkes for pets of the Jewish persuasion!”

  If my teeth had been false, they’d have dropped right out. “You’re kidding.”

  “It’s a great idea, Rach. With my costume experience and Sophie’s contacts in the garment industry, it’s a natural,” Terri enthused. “We’re going to call it ‘Yarmulke Schlemmer.’”

  While it was true that Terri designed drop-dead costumes for his drag show, Sophie’s fashion taste ran to the left of eccentric, to put it mildly. Still, when it came to yarmulkes, I figured they’d all have to come out looking pretty much the same.

  “We’re planning to do a whole line in different fabrics and colors,” Terri explained. “Miami is loaded with old geezers who dote on their pets. And if we start now, we’ll be up and running in time for the Jewish holidays. We’re expecting a big rush for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, which means we have to get cracking. We’ve decided to make Lucinda our sales rep.”

  I wondered how Lucinda was going to take the news. But my musing was put on hold as Terri dragged me into a macrobiotic café, where we ate steamed veggies and brown rice that tasted healthy no matter how hard I tried to imagine otherwise.

  After dinner we walked along Lummus Park, to catch a volleyball game where hot boys with washboard abs showed off their prowess. While Terri took in the scene, I focused on the other end of the age spectrum.

  Twilight was when the Geritol generation turned out for their evening constitutional. The women were gussied up in their best dresses and jewelry. Let the temperature dip below seventy degrees, and the accessories included mink coats. The men took a more casual approach to their evening apparel, turning out in a uniform of Bermuda shorts and ankle socks up to their knees, the height presumably ordained by city regulation.

  “What’s this obsession that Sophie and Lucinda have with miniature flags?” Terri’s voice broke my focus.

  “What are you talking about?” I asked.

  “They have this strange little collection of flags in all different colors and shapes in their house.”

  “You mean like a mini-UN?”

  “No, they definitely aren’t flags of countries,” Terri informed me.

  I leaned back and stretched, working to make my stomach as taut as it would get. When you’re in a town of exhibitionists, you do what you can. “The flags are probably tied in with all the protest rallies they attend. You know, different colors for different causes,” I suggested.

  Terri wrinkled up his nose.

  “Okay, then. Maybe they’re hanging out at amusement parks. Or robbing concession stands,” I responded. “Better yet, they’re probably little drink accessories, like your paper umbrellas.”

  “You’re showing a lack of imagination, Rach. Personally, I think they’re into some form of corporate espionage,” Terri remarked. His attention had become focused on a guy in a thong and bandana who kickboxed nearby.

  Mr. Kung Fu continued to practice, unaware of the runaway laundry cart that jerked its way toward him, seemingly under its own power. A whiff of strong perfume and a mound of peroxided fluff revealed its driver to be a tiny elderly woman, who peered over the handle as she tottered in a pair of high heels. I called out and Mr. Kung Fu raised his leg, allowing her to pass underneath and proceed down the concrete walk.

  Terri and I headed home by way of the beach, where the only moving vehicles were sandpipers playing tag with the tide. Above us, lingering hues of deep purple and pink strafed the sky like renegade bullets.

  “You’re still thinking about Jake, aren’t you?” he asked, as we followed a trail of tiny bird tracks.

  I nodded and leaned my head against his shoulder, where I breathed in the lingering scent of sun, sand, and coconut oil. “I’m finding it hard to get him out of my mind.”

  Terri’s fingers braided themselves between mine. “Listen, Rach. Ultimately, the person you have to be true to is yourself. Otherwise you’ll never be happy.” Bending down, he picked up a conch shell and placed it against my ear. “If you don’t believe me, listen to the sea.”

  I held my breath, but all I heard was my name tossed about on the echo of waves.

  Bonkers greeted me with a loud tirade when I walked in, angry that I had left but happy that I was now home.

  The red message light on my answering machine blinked in eager anticipation, and I wondered if it was Santou calling back with an actual compromise.

  “Porter? Goddammit! Where the hell are you? I just had a gun barrel shoved in my mouth, thanks to you!” Bambi’s voice hurtled toward me with the force of an exploding grenade. “Willy was just here, and he didn’t appreciate all the blabbing I’ve been doing to you. He said he’s gonna whack me, and he told me just how he’s gonna do it! You better do something about this, Porter, before I decide to!”

  I played the message over to be sure I’d heard it correctly. There was no mistake. The call had come in at nine o’clock and it was midnight now, so I’d drive over to see her first thing in the morning. I wasn’t surprised that Willy was out of control; only that he hadn’t killed someone already.

 
; Twelve

  The smell of red clay and mangoes filled the air as I headed for Homestead to see Bambi early the next morning. I stopped at a local farmers’ market for a freshly baked cinnamon bun, washing it down with a Key lime shake, and arrived at Bambi’s shack fully armed and ready for combat.

  As Bambi’s emaciated dog approached, I opened the car door and dumped some kibble on the ground before it could ravage me, then dragged the bag of dog food with me to the front door.

  On the alert for two prepubescent maniacs, I was prepared for the ambush when it came. Bambi’s sons approached from two separate directions, decorated with angry stripes of war paint on their faces and bare chests, and thin strings of snot hanging from their noses. Both boys gripped hatchets in lieu of tomahawks, their Indian war cries straight out of a Hollywood production. I dropped the kibble and produced bags of licorice and candy to hold them off until the door was opened.

  Bambi met me in a dainty ensemble straight out of a Frederick’s of Hollywood catalogue. A sheer black nightie provided the overlay for a fluorescent red G-string and a bra three sizes too small. Sequined bull’s-eyes decorated the nipple of each cup, and a rhinestone X marked the spot on her thong.

  It was evident she wasn’t an early riser. Her makeup was still smudged from the night before. Two large black rings circled her eyes, giving her the countenance of a drowsy raccoon, and her platinum spikes stood straight up in a field of exclamation points.

  “I take it you got my message,” she barked. “Let me fill you in on the gory details. Then you can tell me just what the hell you plan to do about it.”

  I followed her into the kitchen, where a bottle of cheap tequila sat on the counter. She poured herself a shot, threw back her head, and downed the contents. Then she poured herself another.

  “That lunatic bastard ex-husband of mine came barging in here last night. He was drunk as a skunk, high on bad dope, and waving a goddamn M-16 in my face. Just what kind of an impression do you think that makes on my kids? Huh?”

  I glanced out the kitchen window, where her impressionable darlings were chasing after the dog with their hatchets.