Bird Brained Page 23

  I was about to light up when Lucinda caught my eye, and mimed biting down. Now I remembered! I first had to clip it. I shot her a grateful glance and performed the circumcision. Then I lit it, making sure to hold the match against the foot at a perfect forty-five-degree angle. Next came the part I’d been dreading the most. I pulled in, swirled, and blew out. The cigar stayed lit, the ash nicely firm. Ramon beamed proudly, while my mouth felt as if it had been out picnicking all night in a garbage dump. It amazed me that people actually paid to smoke this stuff.

  I leaned in close to Ramon and leisurely held the cigar near my mouth, aware his eyes were glued to my lips. “So Elena, I hear you know Willy Weed.” My fingers lightly rested on Ramon’s shoulder as I caught Catwoman’s eye.

  Elena sucked her cigar to a slow burn. “Sorry, I’ve never heard of the man.” She blew a puff of smoke in my direction.

  “That’s funny. He claims you gave him a Cuban Amazon.” My foot teasingly brushed up against Ramon’s pant leg as I drew a breath and took the plunge again, pulling, swirling, then puffing.

  Elena’s heavily mascaraed lashes resembled two battling tarantulas. “I’ve never heard of anything so ridiculous. You know those birds are expensive. If I had one, I doubt I would easily give it away.”

  Ramon’s hand fluttered over to Elena and languidly caressed her cheek as his other hand stroked my arm.

  “You must have had contact with Weed at one time,” I persisted. “It was his wife who gave me your address.”

  Elena’s free hand stroked Ramon’s chest, working inside his shirt. “I’m well known around Miami for my photography. There are even those who consider me to be a minor celebrity.”

  “Never minor.” Ramon removed her hand from his chest and kissed it. “Elena is a major talent. That makes people jealous.”

  “It makes no difference,” Elena continued. “Either way, you become a target. Who knows? Maybe this Weed and his wife planned to blackmail me.”

  Ramon’s fingers began to play along my back. I shamelessly sighed and stretched. “That feels absolutely wonderful,” I purred. “By the way, you never told me if you and Alberto were in business together, Ramon.”

  His lips zeroed in on my neck. “Of course not, Raquel. We were like brothers, nothing more.”

  “Still, you both dealt in cigars,” I said softly, turning so that my lips were only inches away from his. “You did know that Alberto smuggled Cuban cigars into Miami, didn’t you?” Ramon licked his lips and hesitated. I moved a millimeter closer.

  “Yes. I was one of the few who knew about it. Alberto approached me at one point, and asked if I’d be willing to sell them through my store. Of course, I refused.”

  He moved in for the kiss, but I quickly placed a finger against his lips. “Your neighbor, Phil Langer, believes that those who smuggle cigars, including Cubans like Alberto, should be sentenced to death as their punishment. How do you feel about that?”

  Ramon lightly nipped my fingertip. “We appreciate Mr. Langer’s support. But he is not judge and jury over our fellow Cubans. We take care of our own problems in our own way.”

  Elena rose swiftly from her chair. “People like Langer would do best to learn that lesson. I’m going to lambada.”

  Between the mojitos and the cigar, all I wanted to do now was go home and crawl into bed. I leaned back and looked around for Terri, but he was nowhere in sight.

  “Sophie, Lucinda, Ramon, it’s been a lovely evening, but I’m exhausted and it’s way past my bedtime,” I said, standing up to take my leave. “Please say goodnight to Terri for me.”

  Ramon rose up next to me. “Raquel! You must stay. The night is only beginning,” he implored. “Besides, I cannot go with you just yet. It would not do to leave my sister unchaperoned.”

  The guy had to be joking. Elena needed about as much protection as a vampire on a moonless night. As for going home with me, Ramon was taking a hell of a lot for granted.

  “That’s all right. I planned on going home by myself anyway,” I gently informed him.

  “Then perhaps I’ll see you again soon,” he sadly murmured. “You never know when you might want a brush-up lesson.”

  “You’ll be all right getting home by yourself?” Sophie used the tip of her cigar to swat a fly off the table.

  “I’ll be fine,” I assured her.

  “If you have any problem, just use that killer karate move I showed you,” Lucinda suggested.

  “I’ll do that,” I promised.

  I skirted the edge of the dance floor, passing through the ebb and flow of bodies where Elena still managed to stand out from the crowd. It was partially her electric-gold hair and her leopard-print outfit. But it was also because she danced with a sense of abandon I wouldn’t have dreamed of. Elena raised her arms above her head, her napkin-sized skirt lifting up to reveal a thong—and even that was faux leopard! For a split second, I caught sight of a tattoo on one of her rear cheeks. Ha!—she and Bambi were apparently soul sisters, after all.

  I stepped out of the club and into a rainstorm that blurred South Beach’s hot pink, blue, and green neon lights into a colorful swirl. Heavy drops hit the hot asphalt, where they sizzled back up in long, ghostly fingers of steam, creating a diaphanous mist. In an effort to save what little was left of my feet, I took off my stilettos.

  The crowd and the music faded as fallen dates from overhead palms squished beneath my bare heels, their densely rich aroma intoxicating the night air. I walked onto the beach and wriggled my toes down deep into the sand, the grains massaging my grateful feet.

  By the time I stepped back onto the street, the rain had stopped, taking with it all remnants of clouds, revealing a full moon. I continued home, my clothes dripping a trail of water.

  I unlocked the door, dropped my keys in my purse and walked inside the darkened house.

  The only noise was the soft pat, pat, pat of my bare feet on the floor. In the bedroom, the full moon provided all the illumination that was needed. I hung my purse on the chair by the door, and discovered where Terri had disappeared to: he was passed out cold on my bed. I was even more surprised to see Bonkers sitting motionless on his perch in the corner, his eyes open wide, not making a peep.

  Any further thoughts were put on hold when I caught sight of a movement in the moonlight. I stared in disbelief, not quite certain what it was that I saw, until my stomach clenched, the muscles twisting tight as a rubber band, my blood turning deathly cold.

  Slowly slithering between Terri’s legs was a deadly black mamba, its skin gleaming luminescent in the lunar light. Now I understood why Bonkers was quietly cowering on his perch.

  When a mamba bites, all you have left is the choice between having your last drink or your last cigarette.

  I took a deep breath, trying to get my nerves back under control, as a wave of sheer terror gripped me. As long as Terri didn’t wake, I knew he’d be safe. The problem was that sooner or later, he was bound to move.

  The snake stopped, sensing another presence had entered the room. It twisted its javelin-shaped head to the side, regarding me with eyes like two flecks of steel, its upcurved smile growing ever more grim. Then it flicked out its tongue in warning. I stood perfectly still. The snake leisurely turned back to face Terri, convinced that I posed no threat.

  I kept my eyes riveted on the reptile, my hand drifting toward my purse hanging off the chair. The snake immediately stopped again, instinctively suspicious. I paused, motionless as a mannequin. Reassured, the serpent turned its attention back to the body at hand, winding farther up along the bed. I reached toward my bag once more, working to keep my movement a slow, steady flow instead of a frantic jerk.

  My hand touched the leather purse and I slowly bent my knees, squatting down until my fingers could nearly reach inside—only to be brought to a halt by the closed zipper.

  Drops of perspiration trickled in my eyes, stinging as sharp as a scorpion’s kiss. I blinked them back away, wanting to scream in frustration. Placi
ng my index finger against the zipper’s foot, I gently began to push. Then, stealthy as a spider, my fingers crawled down inside to wrap around the butt of my gun. I quickly reeled my hand back up—only to have the barrel catch on my keys with a heart-wrenching jangle.

  The snake’s upper body immediately rose to sway high in the air and it turned toward me, its nape flared wide in cobralike fashion. It was about to strike, the only question was who would be its victim. Tales of its legendary speed replayed in my mind as I gripped the gun in my hands, the key ring merrily jingling from the end of the barrel, when Terri opened his eyes and began to stir.

  I didn’t have time to think, only to follow the mesmerizing sway of the serpent’s head as I pulled the trigger.

  “No!!” came the shout, though I couldn’t be certain which of us had shrieked it.

  The scream vibrated off the walls of the room with the roar of the bullet as Terri bolted upright in bed, wide-eyed.

  “Jesus, Rach! If you’ve got some kind of problem with me crashing in your bed, just say so!”

  I dropped the gun and picked up the inert form of the mamba from between Terri’s legs, careful not to scratch my fingers on its fangs in a last fatal nick.

  “I’m pretty sure this doesn’t belong to you,” I said.

  Terri took a deep breath and slowly exhaled, the sound as jagged as a ripsaw. “Holy shit,” he whispered. “A simple thank-you doesn’t seem quite enough. Give me a minute and I’ll try to come up with something more appropriate.”

  I nodded, unable to speak. My body began to tremble in relief, and I collapsed onto the bed beside Terri. He wrapped an arm around my shoulders and continued to stare at the snake. Finally, he stretched a tentative finger toward it.

  “I hear snakeskin is going to be very big in the fashion industry this year—and this thing would make some fabulous yarmulkes!” He glanced over at me. “I do get to keep it, don’t I?”

  Fifteen

  The next morning, the phone rang while Terri and I were eating breakfast, with the mamba wrapped in plastic at his feet.

  “Hey, Porter. I’ve got the damnedest news for you,” Dr. Bob’s voice greeted me. “By any chance, did your corpse have some kind of pet?”

  It was way too early to play Twenty Questions, after last night’s episode. “Yeah, about two hundred and fifty parrots. Does that count?” I asked tiredly.

  “Not unless one of them was big, had lots of hair, and purred,” Dr. Bob retorted.

  My interest was immediately pricked. Maybe Vern was right after all—maybe there really was a Skunk Ape.

  “I just got the DNA test results back. That piece of cloth you gave me was drenched with saliva from a cougar,” Dr. Bob revealed.

  “But Dominguez didn’t have the wounds of a cougar attack,” I responded, repeating what Hal Cooper had told me. “There were no claw marks, and the body didn’t show the distinctive gashes there would have been from a cat’s upper and lower canines ripping into flesh.”

  “It’s not as if the police let me waltz in and examine the body,” Dr. Bob retorted. “The conclusion is based on DNA analysis, which in my book is even better. Who knows? Maybe some big pussycat found its way inside this guy’s house and drooled on him after he was already dead.”

  I snorted. “Yeah. I can just see an endangered Florida panther wandering around the Redlands, killing someone in their bedroom, and then making a quick getaway.”

  Terri rolled his eyes in agreement.

  “Whatever—I still expect you to set me up on that date,” Dr. Bob reminded me.

  I’d forgotten all about the kool-pop waitress at the QT. “I’ll get you her phone number,” I assured him.

  “Hey! You promised to do more than that. You said you’d absolutely be able to get me a date, no problemo. If you can’t produce, you’re subbing in her place.” He chuckled. “And I’m not sure how you’ll look in combat boots, a shirtwaist dress, and a lacy black bra.”

  “Actually, I’d look terrific,” I informed him. There was just no way in hell I’d ever show my face in such a getup. “Plan on picking her up at the QT at eight-thirty on Saturday night.”

  Now all I had to do was convince the waitress.

  Terri took Bonkers and his fruit bowl over to Sophie’s for the day, and I set off to check out a growing hunch. I was determined to even the score for the unexpected visit by that snake—and I badly needed an outlet for my anger.

  I knew of only one herp freak who dealt in black mambas, and that was Willy Weed. Throw in his menagerie of mangy cougars, along with Dr. Bob’s information, and the plot grew thicker by the moment. There was still the hitch about the gashes on Alberto’s body, but I’d deal with that later. Willy had said that Dominguez owed him money; maybe he’d decided he wanted to be paid sooner rather than later. Or felt he deserved an extra-large bonus. Weed had plenty of contacts who could have helped him dispose of Alberto’s parrots. And if that wasn’t enough, Willy’s words from my last visit still rang in my ears. “You’re a dead woman, Porter!”

  I knew it was crazy to go back out to his place alone, but today I just didn’t care. I pressed the pedal to the metal on my clunker and broke every speed limit, kissing the taillights of vehicles as I wove in and out of traffic. When I reached the edge of Willy’s driveway I sped past the row of palm trees and pines, their canopy hovering above me like the lid of a coffin waiting to be closed.

  Weed’s Dodge Ram wasn’t the only vehicle in residence today. Parked next to it was a dark blue utility van, conveniently missing its license plates—probably Buzz Tregler’s mode of transportation. With Willy, two was a crowd; three was a swarm. I popped open the trunk and pulled out my pump shotgun. I might have been crazy, but I was damned if I’d be stupid.

  A tarp once again covered the cargo bed of Weed’s pickup and I walked over to see what goodies Willy had lying inside. I lifted one corner and nearly fell flat on my butt, barely able to believe what I saw. Quickly wrenching the rest of the tarp off, I grabbed a better look. Now I knew Willy had totally lost his marbles.

  Lying on top of a packing blanket was everything from M-15 and M-16 rifles to M-79 grenade launchers, .50 caliber machine guns, 9mm Glock semiautomatic pistols, and night-vision scopes and gear. There was even a flamethrower, along with an assortment of .38 and .45 revolvers. Willy was ready to take out half of Dade County. Apparently, I could add gun running to his list of activities.

  “Willy! I know you’re here!” I shouted. “We need to talk.”

  There was no reply.

  I pushed the safety off my shotgun and pumped a round into the chamber.

  Cha-chiiiing!

  The sound reverberated with a bone-chilling clarity that boldly stated its purpose. I placed my finger lightly against the trigger and headed for Weed’s trailer. Raising the shotgun, I kicked in the door.

  Nothing had changed. The stench and the garbage were the same as ever; so was the platoon of road-warrior roaches that scattered as I made my way in, avoiding the unidentifiable food items that littered the floor.

  “I advise you to come out, Willy!” I warned.

  The trailer mocked me with its silence. Even Big Mama still wasn’t around. I headed toward Weed’s bedroom, stepping over his putrid laundry. The mound was nearly generating toxic fumes by now.

  The sweet smell of a recently lit joint filled the air. Lying near the stained mattress was a partially packed suitcase. I placed my gun down and began to rifle through its contents, gingerly picking up soiled T-shirts and underwear emanating a distinct odor that even the smell of pot couldn’t disguise. I dumped the articles one by one on the floor.

  Beneath the clothes was a pile of small muslin sacks that were neatly folded, waiting to be used. Nearly identical to the bag in Dominguez’s living room, except these sacks were smaller. I removed the miniature shrouds and dug a little deeper.

  I hit pay dirt in the form of an airline ticket. Whadda ya know—Willy had managed to cook up a new passport. Wally Wang was book
ed to migrate south, all the way to Brazil. Along with the ticket was a wad of crisp green bills, most of them bearing the likeness of Ulysses S. Grant and Benjamin Franklin. Willy had either won lotto, or was being paid extremely well for his illegal talents. It seemed entirely possible that Willy had knocked Alberto off to go into business for himself. Without Dominguez working as middleman, Willy could now deal directly with the next level up in the pipeline and make double the money he had before.

  The bottom of the suitcase was lined with choice reading material, including those all-time favorites, Shaved Orient Tails, Big Ones, and Black and Blue. It was nice to know that even when Willy traveled, he managed to stay current.

  A jarring creak outside abruptly split the air. I grabbed my shotgun and stood up, Willy’s underwear jumbled around my feet. The blood pounded in my head with the steady beat of a conductor’s baton as I tiptoed out of the bedroom, my ears trained to pick up the slightest sound.

  Craaaack!

  I jerked the shotgun up, ready to transform Willy’s home into an air-conditioned canister. Then I saw that my foot had landed squarely on one of the dozen empty Budweiser cans. So much for sneaking up on my quarry.

  I opened the door of the trailer and stepped outside. No one was there. Holding the shotgun in front of me like a high-powered shield, I headed for the remaining trailers.

  A gang of bad-boy vultures sat like leather-clad thugs, eyeing my shotgun with as little respect as if it were a toy. Even the lions lazily dismissed me, turning their backs and rolling onto their sides. I readjusted my grip on the stock and boosted my confidence by picturing myself as Sigourney Weaver. The image came in handy when I spotted one of the trailer doors standing ajar. It was the entrance to the “hot” room.

  A wave of queasiness broke over me. I nudged the pump’s barrel against the door, pushing it open a little further.