Bird Brained Page 29

  Then, I darted out from behind the carriers and hightailed it past the eggs, the nestlings, and the rambunctious babies. I peeked around the cottage door to make sure the coast was clear, then slunk back into the cover of the palm trees’ shadows.

  I was surprised to find the world outside still going on as before. Grinning lanterns winked at me as though they were in on my secret. All I wanted to do was find Terri and leave; then I’d be able to figure out how to handle the situation. The trick was going to be convincing Carlos that the owner of his favorite cigar store was heading up an illegal bird operation.

  My search for Terri came to a halt when I spotted Phil Langer, still wearing those damn impenetrable glasses, and smoking a stogie the size of a Buick, among a mixture of hot gay boys, nearly nude women, and assorted pillars of the Cuban community. Well, wasn’t this neighborly?

  Ramon suddenly materialized by Langer’s side and I pulled back, planting myself behind a hefty Cuban mamacita who turned and looked at me curiously.

  “A jealous boyfriend,” I whispered.

  She nodded her head and smiled understandingly.

  I peered around her, furtively observing Ramon, who leaned in close to whisper something in Langer’s ear. This was getting curiouser and curiouser. Ramon stayed only a moment before slipping away. I followed his silky gray shirt as he weaved in and out of the crowd to disappear inside the house. My eyes flickered back to Langer in time to catch him give an imperceptible nod. It was almost as if a whistle had been blown that could only be heard by males of Cuban descent, as one after another broke away from the party to follow in Ramon’s trail.

  Finally, Langer glanced nonchalantly around. Satisfied with whatever he saw, he turned on his heel and also strode to the door. Yet another party to which I hadn’t been invited. I took my cue from Terri: Instead of allowing my feelings to be hurt, I’d simply go inside and join them.

  “Good luck with your boyfriend,” my mamacita offered as I left her side.

  I thanked her and moved on.

  Inside, couples kissed and groped on the faux-leopard chairs and couch. This was not the party I was looking for.

  I passed the kitchen, where a small army of caterers filled trays with scrumptious hors d’oeuvres. A large roast pig sat patiently on a butcher block waiting to be carved, and cooked lobsters were whisked out of a massive Sub-Zero. The ring of crystal glasses danced through the air as waiters scurried about filling drink requests.

  A man in a white jacket and tall chef’s hat noticed me and walked over with one of the trays to press a flute of champagne into my hand.

  “It’s Dom Perignon,” he urged.

  Of course—only the best. I left, unable to drink it, thinking of all the birds I’d just seen and how the party was being paid for.

  I took my search up to the second floor, where I poked my head into Elena’s photo studio. Though the room was empty, in my mind I heard the ghost-whirr of the camera and the popping of strobe lights. My imagination added the rat-tat-tat of Elena’s stilettos. The tapping grew louder and closer—and I realized that she was actually coming up the stairs.

  I ducked into the darkened studio as the rap, rap, rap of her stilettos raced closer. Elena flashed into my sight, then the sound of her heels receded down the hall. A door squeaked open. Then it slammed closed.

  So far, this party was turning out to be one big game of hide-and-seek. I pulled off my sandals and quietly headed down the hall. Elena’s bedroom door stood ajar, and I couldn’t help but peek in. There was Geraldo, regally stuffed for all time, his jeweled collar twinkling like a galaxy of stars around his neck. Next to him sat Rivera, looking equally aristocratic. I wondered how many parrots had gone into the purchase of their neckbands. The pair silently stood guard over Elena’s pink conch-shell bed, its contents tossed around like some disemboweled creature from the sea. Even the leopard-skin fur was thrown carelessly on the floor. I looked back at the taxidermied cats, who steadily stared at me. I hurried on.

  Figuring out which room Ramon’s private party was being held in was a no-brainer. I simply followed the smell of cigars. I tiptoed up to the door, wondering what excuse to use if it should suddenly be flung open. Wildlife agent in search of a lambada lesson sounded pretty far off the mark.

  I heard the distinct murmur of voices, but couldn’t make out any of the words. Damn! Then I looked at the champagne glass I held in my hand. I quickly dumped the pricey Dom Perignon inside a vase of flowers, crept back, and held the rim of the glass up against the door. Next time I’d plan ahead, and ask for my champagne to be poured into a tumbler. Working with what I had, I pressed my ear tightly against the flute’s crystal base. The jumble turned into words, though I could still only hear a few clearly. Nearly all the voices had Cuban accents, except for one heavy bass. There wasn’t much doubt as to whom that belonged.

  From what I picked up, the conversation focused mainly on coins and the weather. Remembering where I’d heard the term “coins” before, I pressed the flute harder against the door.

  The talk had turned to hotels in Havana, and Willy Weed’s name was mentioned. But my nerves didn’t stand up in salute until I heard Elena use the term “Commander.” Ramon responded instantly. My fingers began to shake uncontrollably, and the flute slipped from my hand.

  My heart contracted in horror as the glass somersaulted into a 360-degree spin, producing a flurry of rainbows that flew up into the air, splattered against the walls, and were locked forever in my eyes. I fell to my knees as I followed the descending glass and my left hand flew out, still tightly clutching my sandals.

  Plop!

  The champagne flute landed in the cushioned valley where the shoes met, delicately balancing for one crystal-clear second, before it slid off and headed again for the floor. This time, I neatly caught the stem in my right hand just before it hit the ground.

  I didn’t wait to see if anyone came to investigate the thump of my fall; I jumped up and ran down the hall, dodging into the first open space I found. Geraldo and Rivera gave me a ghostly growl.

  “Oh, shut up!” I hissed.

  I waited a few moments and then took a peek into the hall, but there wasn’t a sound. After a full minute passed, I quickly descended the stairs, past the scrutinizing eyes of Elena’s ceramic zoo, beyond the bustling kitchen, and out the back door into mambo land.

  A waiter stopped to offer a glass of champagne. I must have looked as if I needed it. I not only accepted; I drank it all down.

  Langer was clearly involved with whatever was going on—I just hadn’t figured out what that was, yet. Since smuggled parrots were being hidden here, though, I wondered if something else might be cached at Langer’s house. With Langer occupied upstairs, this was the best opportunity I’d ever have to scope it out.

  I quickly hunted down Terri, who was easy to find: all I had to do was look for the hottest male model.

  “Hey, I remember you. Aren’t you that model Elena fired?” Ricardo ran a hand lovingly over his washboard abs.

  “Yeah, that’s me,” I replied, and turned my attention to Terri. “I have to run next door. That’s where I’ll be, if you need me.”

  “A model, huh?” Terri grinned. “That’s what I love about this woman. She’s always doing something that surprises me.” He gave me a peck on the cheek. “I’ll be fine here. Just check back later, and don’t leave without me.”

  I promised not to.

  Eighteen

  I pulled up to find Carrera’s gate locked for the night. Since this was the man who’d said I shouldn’t let a secured entrance stop me, I took him up on his advice and played a rousing one-fingered rendition of the “Star Spangled Banner” on his intercom buzzer.

  Tony was right; persistence did pay off. I was only halfway through the anthem when he finally responded.

  “Who the hell is this? And what’s the matter with you, anyway? Stop that goddamn buzzing! Otherwise, I got a gun and I gotta tell ya I enjoy using it!”

  “R
ight now I’m feeling the same way. Open the gate, Tony. I need to come in.”

  “That you, Porter? It figures,” he grumbled.

  The gate swung open with a grouchy squeak and I pulled up to the front door. Tony had transformed into the human version of a cockatoo, wearing a ruffled hot-pink shirt, white pants and shoes that matched. His synthetic toupee even looked as if it had a slight pinkish tinge.

  “Planning a big night out on the town?” I asked, wondering what had prompted the sudden change.

  A blush crept up Tony’s face, turning his skin a shade darker than his shirt. “I thought I might stop by and pay my regards to the two Cuban plantains next door. You know. Since they’re having a party and all. Your friend’s still over there, isn’t he?”

  I’d never have taken Carrera for such an ardent suitor. “He’s still there. But I need you to help me before you go anywhere.” I popped open the trunk of my car, and pulled out my pump shotgun and flashlight.

  Tony’s eyes grew to the size of two Florida grapefruits. “What the hell’s going on here? I ain’t done nothing wrong, Porter.”

  I closed the trunk and walked toward him in silence.

  A drop of sweat rolled out from under Carrera’s toupee. “All right! You win! I swear to God, I never planned to file that lawsuit against you.”

  Tony was turning out to be a pretty okay guy, after all.

  “I’ve changed my mind. I want to go over your wall,” I explained.

  It could have been the moonlight, but Carrera’s eyes appeared to glisten with tears. “You’re really gonna do this for me, Porter? That’s terrific. As far as I’m concerned, this squares us on that snakebite business.”

  What a gem.

  I followed the reflection of Carrera’s white patent leather shoes as they beat a path to the far corner of the wall.

  “Good luck over there. If anything happens, just scream and I’ll call the police,” he offered cheerfully.

  Knowing Tony, he’d probably be partying at the Vallardes’s before I even hit the other side. I waited for some assistance, only to have Carrera stare blankly at me.

  “I’m not one of your flamingos, Tony. I can’t fly over this thing. You’re going to have to give me some help here.”

  “But I got white pants on!” Tony whined. “You know how hard it is to get grass stains out of these?”

  “If you want me to check on your bird, I need a boost over the wall,” I said impatiently. “Or maybe Lula Belle isn’t that important to you, after all?” If I didn’t move fast, Langer’s meeting would be over before I even got started.

  Carrera cursed under his breath, weighing the pros and cons of the situation.

  “Either we do it now, or you’re on your own with Langer,” I warned him.

  I drummed my fingers against the side of the concrete wall. Time was slipping by, as well as my patience. I decided to escalate the pace by picking up my shotgun. Tony immediately bent his knees and interlaced his fingers. I jacked the pump’s slide back, removed the round, and placed the slug in my pants’ pocket, before settling my heel in the center of Tony’s palms and reaching up along the wall. That’s where I remained, standing on one leg like Carrera’s birds, ready, waiting, and in position.

  “Come on! Let’s get going,” I urgently commanded.

  Carrera broke into a series of grunts and groans while he made a halfhearted attempt to hoist me. “Jesus, Porter. How the hell much do you weigh?”

  “Not that much,” I snarled. “Maybe it’s time you considered taking up weight lifting.”

  “What do you think I’m doing right now?” he retorted snidely.

  I ended up half-scrambling, half-climbing under my own head of steam, until I finally reached the top of the wall. Tony finished his part of the job by tossing me the flashlight, and then the gun. I turned around and shone the flashlight around Langer’s lawn.

  “Everything okay over there?” Tony asked, champing at the bit to be on his way.

  I checked out the pens of large cats below. All the cages were full. “It doesn’t look as if anything’s planning to eat me at the moment, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Great. In that case, I’ll catch ya later!” Carrera said, and scurried away.

  I double-checked to make sure the shotgun’s red safety button was secured, and then threw down the pump. The faint clunk sounded like the fall of the Berlin Wall to my ears, even with the strains of salsa quivering in the background. I waited to see if any attack cats would come running, but all remained silent. Besides the music, the only sound was the pounding of my pulse, which beat with the intensity of a ticking time bomb. I waited another moment, then drew a deep breath and took the plunge.

  I landed with a hard thud and rolled along the ground, and my shoulder smacked into the sharp corner of a cage. A jolt of pain raced down my arm, only to be replaced by the cold, clammy sweat of pure fear as a high-pitched, otherworldly screech erupted nearby. To make matters worse, a warm breath slithered along the side of my face, followed by a deep, guttural hiss in my ear.

  I rolled fast in the opposite direction. If Langer’s menagerie hadn’t known I was here before, they did now, thanks to my new perfume—eau de terror.

  I grabbed the 12-gauge cartridge in my pants’ pocket, my fingers rushing to catch up with my brain. I swiftly slid open the pump and jacked the round into the chamber.

  So far, so good. The bright side was that I hadn’t yet turned into cat food. The downside was that I had to keep doing my damnedest not to. I flicked on my flashlight and discovered that the cage I’d bumped into held Fidel, his eyes as hot and bright as twin bonfires as he watched my every move, silently sending the message that he’d been expecting me. His body glistened sleek and smooth, every muscle tautly poised beneath his skin, to pounce at the slightest provocation. I was glad to know Fidel spent his nights safely locked inside that enclosure.

  I surveyed his pen, surprised to see a bowl of untouched food on the floor. The clump of spoiled ground meat was as gray as a corpse.

  I glanced back at Fidel. He silently stared at me, the shock collar pulled tightly around his neck, the teardrop scar beneath his right eye hanging as daintily as an ornament. It seemed strange that he didn’t have a hunk of raw meat. Perhaps he was too old, and his teeth were giving him trouble. Or maybe he was on a food strike, rebelling against Langer and his collar.

  But time was running out, and I had yet to get started. I darted across the lawn and headed toward the house.

  An imposing structure, Langer’s home was more fortress than residence, which meant the place was probably wired with a state-of-the-art security system. When it comes to electronics, I’m one of those rank amateurs who can barely program a VCR. I peeked inside all the windows, trying to spot the components of an alarm system. I made a full sweep until I ended up exactly where I’d begun, facing the back door to the house. There were no miniature cameras, no electric eyes with invisible beams waiting to be broken by hit-and-run burglars. All I’d seen was one measly alarm-system touch pad.

  Its green light tempted me on with its promise that it was safe to enter. Well, there was only one way to find out.

  I walked over to a window and tried to pull it up, not surprised to find it was locked. Next, I went to the door and pulled out my all-purpose, start a fire—clip your nails—build a bomb—pick a safe—pocket-tool to jimmy the door. But I gave the knob an experimental twist first.

  My, my—wasn’t this quaint? A man with enough faith in humanity not to have locked his door. Was this guy nuts? Langer’s macho pride probably led him to believe no one would be brash enough to attempt a break-in of his house. Most likely, he didn’t plan to be gone long. Besides, his front gate was locked. I braced myself for the angry howl of an alarm as I opened the door, but no siren went off. I entered and closed the door behind me.

  I found myself in a spotless kitchen which tattled that Langer never cooked a meal. Not one dirty dish or utensil lay in the sink. The countertop
s, the cabinets, even the floors were spick-and-span, shining with military spit and polish. No wonder I didn’t care for the guy.

  The living room was decorated in Danish contemporary, the atmosphere stiff and spare. There were no pictures, no tchotchkes, no decorations—fewer signs of life than on the planet Mars. If Langer had something that was hidden, it wasn’t in here.

  Next was Langer’s study. A photograph of an F-117A Stealth was taken against a setting sun, while another captured an A-6 Intruder in midflight. Then a photo of a Cobra attack helicopter, with Langer as the pilot. When he’d asked for my name, rank, and serial number, he hadn’t been kidding. This was becoming more and more interesting.

  Langer’s desk held a few more photos. One showed Langer in the full military dress of an army colonel. I hadn’t realized I’d been dealing with such an important person. I examined the shot more closely, only to find that the name tag on his uniform read HUGHES. Either Langer had a twin brother with a different last name, or this guy had a split personality. In the next photo, Langer had morphed into a captain in the air force whose name was now Morgan. Talk about The Three Faces of Eve!

  The last photo appeared to have been shot somewhere south of the border. Decked out in military fatigues, Langer stood next to a camouflage-clad man with a pockmarked face. I did a double-take. Could that be ousted Panamanian dictator Manuel Noriega?

  This definitely cried out for further investigation. I tried to open one of the drawers, but it was locked up tight. No problem; I used the screwdriver blade of my pocket-tool and jimmied the desk open.

  In the top drawer, pencils and pens were lined up in strict military precision. Like tiny toy soldiers, they’d also been arranged according to color and length.

  The next compartment revealed a pile of bills placed in perfect alphabetical order. I was beginning to think Langer had the organized mind of a top-notch serial killer.

  The last drawer contained files. Eureka! In the section marked C was a manila folder boldly marked THE CANDY STORE.