Bird Brained (11 page)

Laughter erupted outside the kitchen door.

“I’m gonna kill those little bastards!” Bambi vowed.

The boys hit the window with another round from their Super Soakers. But by the time Bambi flung the back door open, the two minidelinquents were already gone. She slammed the door shut, causing the window to rattle.

“You got any kids?” she demanded, the spikes on her head standing on end.

“Nope,” I said, dabbing at the oily residue of spilt coffee.

“Well, do yourself a favor and don’t.” She readjusted her chest inside the bustier.

If I’d needed any convincing, five minutes alone with her offspring would have done the trick. I brought the conversation back to where we’d left off.

“So as far as you know, Willy is still just selling his own stock of reptiles and cats?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Bambi said, examining a nail. “Though I’m not even sure how much of that goes on, with him gone so much of the time.”

That bit of news caught my attention. “Just how much is he gone?”

Bambi wrinkled her nose. “I’d say he’s usually out of town one or two days a week.”

“Any idea where he’s going?” I kept my tone casual.

“Who knows?” she shrugged. Bambi hooked a nail between two of her molars and dislodged a shred of beef, examining it before flicking it onto the floor. “You wouldn’t happen to have the lowdown on what it costs to hire a hit man these days, would you?”

I stared at her. Talk about a change of topic.

“Hypothetically, of course,” Bambi added.

“I haven’t priced it out lately,” I told her. “Why? Are you planning to have Willy knocked off?”

Bambi gave a smile that curdled my blood. “Yeah, if he doesn’t start coughing up some of these payments he owes me. You be sure and tell him that.”

I wondered just how far Bambi would go to collect the money. “Funny you should bring up the subject of murder. Alberto Dominguez was killed last night.”

Bambi looked at me in alarm. “Hey! Wait a minute! Whadda ya think, that
I
had something to do with it?”

“No,” I assured her. “But since Willy was working with him, I thought you might have heard something.”

“Then you think
Willy
knocked him off.” Bambi drummed her fingers along the curve of her hip.

“I don’t think he did it, either.” I tried another approach. “Did you ever meet Alberto?”

“Yeah. I met him once over at Willy’s place. He was walking around like he was afraid something might bite him in the ass. Not only that, but he didn’t even try to hit on me and I was looking real good that day.” Bambi’s eyes began to mist up. “I remember ’cause I thought that me and Willy might be getting back together. Which is why I went and got this.”

Bambi turned around and hiked the miniskirt up above her rear end, revealing a bottom attired in microscopic black thong panties. I followed the path of her midnight-blue nail across her skin to the middle of one exposed cheek. In the center of her flesh was a tattoo of a heart bearing Willy’s name. This was far more than I needed to know.

Bambi glanced at me over her shoulder. “Now what am I supposed to do with this thing? You tell me that!”

I had to admit she had me on that one.

“Do you know if Willy got your bird from Alberto?”

Bambi pulled her skirt down, one tight quarter inch at a time. “Nah. That nasty pile of feathers didn’t come from Alberto. Willy got it as part of a payoff from some broad by the name of Elena. Hell, she probably gave it to him as a bribe to sleep with her. That’s why we broke up, you know.”

“Why was that?” I hadn’t heard this part of the story before.

“Because he’ll sleep with any cheap piece of ass that asks him to. The man has no willpower. Hell, he’d screw a loaf of rye bread if it wasn’t stale,” Bambi moaned. “Sometimes I think it isn’t really his fault. It’s just that women find Willy irresistible.”

Were we talking about the same man?

“That’s the other way he made money when we were together,” she confided.

“You mean Willy was a gigolo?” I wondered what delusional woman would have paid for his services.

“Nah, not that. He rented those big cats of his out for
Penthouse
and
Playboy
photo shoots. He was in tight with Hef and that Guccione guy. Willy even promised that he could make me a centerfold. Then I found out the bastard was sleeping with all of the models! He told me he had to do it to keep the girls happy. Otherwise, they’d refuse to pose with his pets and we’d starve.”

Could the woman who’d given Weed the Cuban Amazon be the very same Elena who’d sent the photos I’d found at Alberto’s? Bambi continued to pace angrily, her bare feet slapping against the grimy floor.

“What do you know about this Elena?” I asked.

Bambi stared blankly at me, preoccupied with chewing on her broken nail. “Who?” she asked.

“The woman who gave Willy that bird.”

Bambi leaned back against the Formica countertop, balancing on one foot, as the other performed figure eights in the air.

“She’s some rich Cuban bitch that calls herself a photographer. I’ve seen her work and trust me—it sucks. She’s just a fag hag.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

Bambi rolled her eyes and sighed. “She specializes in taking photos of beefcake. But the guys are all pansies, ya know? You tell me what she gets outta that, huh?”

Bambi raised her foot higher and I saw that the sole was encrusted with dirt.

“Now to me,
that’s
sick. You oughta see some of the pictures she takes. Those guys pose with their equipment just about hanging out like it was flagpoles.” Bambi hoisted herself onto the counter, her skirt riding up past her thighs. “I’m telling ya, that Elena’s just an example of what’s going on. The damn Cubans have taken over Florida, and you know how they did it?”

She stared at me sullenly, demanding a response.

“Working hard and starting businesses?” I ventured.

“Hah!” Bambi’s mouth pulled into a tight, straight line. “That’s exactly what they want you to believe. But the truth is, the good ol’ US of A hands them a pile of money just for coming over here and getting off their boats. It’s all a plot to make Castro look bad so that the Cubans back home will revolt. Meanwhile, good Americans like me are stuck in shit holes like this, and runaway Cubans are living high on the hog.”

The back door suddenly slammed open as Bambi’s two boys tore through the kitchen and then sped out the front door, allowing the dog to slip in. The critter immediately homed in on Bambi.

“I dare you to tell me that life’s fair!” Bambi complained as she tried to pry the dog off her leg.

The subject of government handouts brought me back around to Willy. “By the way, I saw some medals hanging up in Willy’s trailer. I didn’t know that he’d been in the military.”

Bambi shoved the dog out the back door, bribing it with a biscuit. “Yeah. He was training to be in the air force. I think he was in for about four months before he got kicked out. It near broke his heart. All due to some captain’s wife hitting on him, wouldn’t ya know. But he still stays in touch with an old buddy of his from the base.”

“He told me that he got those medals for serving in Desert Storm.”

The dog yelped as it tried to claw its way back in.

Bambi gave a harsh laugh. “Desert Storm, my ass. Don’t you believe a word he tells you. Hell, he told me that he was a one-woman man.”

“Then where do you think he got the medals from?” I prodded.

“Where do
you
think?” She stared, clearly finding it hard to believe I could be so dumb. “Where he gets everything else from, of course—some truckload of hot goodies.” She looked at the bird in its cage. “You think this thing would taste any good if it was cooked?”

The bird squawked as if it understood.

“You don’t want to do that, Bambi. I’d have to report it and you’d just get in trouble.”

“Boiled, baked, or broiled, whadda ya say? How about I just fricassee this noisy pile of feathers?” Bambi grinned. “Relax, Porter. I’m not gonna touch the thing. Besides, who knows? Maybe I’ll go back to dancing and use the damn bird in my act. If I fry anything, it’s gonna be Willy’s ass. You tell him from me to start coughing up some bucks before I begin to turn the heat up on him.”

I left Bambi’s, the remnants of my chloroform headache beginning to kick into high gear. Calling it a day, I veered onto the Palmetto and joined the rest of the flock heading north.

I tried taking deep breaths, driving the speed limit, and pretending I didn’t care as car after car passed me by. After five minutes, I was sure the relaxation would kill me. I changed gears, cut into the fast lane, and floored the Tempo for all it was worth. By the time I turned off onto Bird Road, my tension headache was gone.

I stopped in at a pet store, determined to make Bonkers a happy bird. I was easy pickings for the saleswoman who swooped down upon me, making sure I bought a book on caring for cockatoos, as well as Krazy Krunch sticks in four exciting flavors: Real Fruit, Real Nut, Real Veggi and Double Cookie. I also bought a bag of bird seed and a swing so that Bonkers could “experience a natural swinging sensation just as if he were perched on a swaying bough.” I didn’t know if Bonkers would be happy, but I certainly felt fulfilled.

I left and swung onto the Rickenbacker Causeway, heading for Key Biscayne to hang out at my favorite hideaway.
Ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump
. The cadence of the Tempo’s wheels cruising across the causeway was as mesmerizing as a hypnotist swinging his watch, each revolution of my tires helping to soothe my soul.

I turned onto an unmarked dirt road where lanky Australian pines majestically cooled the air, slowly thinning out until they disappeared altogether. After that the road quickly deteriorated into an obstacle course of potholes and ruts. Along with no sign, no telephone, and no directions to the place, it was a surefire way to keep tourists, as well as most locals, from venturing any farther.

I drove slowly, easing the Tempo in and out of one hole after another as I passed a down-and-dirty group of shacks, their once-electric Caribbean colors now as faded as my grandmother’s housecoat. Rumor had it that the TV show
Flipper
had been filmed here in the sixties. If so, the road’s brush with fame was long gone; what was left of the set forgotten and neglected.

The dirt path curved and a cove came into view, surrounded by a thicket of mangroves whose spreading branches intricately interlaced to form an aerial canopy. In the middle of a clearing at the water’s edge was an open-air chickee stand. Its thatched roof covered a ramshackle bar where a few drunken fishermen sat listing on stools. Off to the side stood a wooden shack that housed what was loosely referred to as the kitchen.

I spotted Tommy in his uniform of ragged shorts and faded luau shirt, with flip-flops protecting his feet, and a sailor’s cap slapped on his head. His skin was as brown as the bark of the mangrove trees and nearly as rough, having become perma-tanned over the years. Tommy was owner and proprietor of the establishment, but there were never any guests on the premises. Only those he considered to be part of his drifting family. Come once and if you didn’t pass muster, you never came back again.

I parked the Tempo next to a few broken-down pickups and took a seat on an empty stool. There was no need to request a drink. All that was served was beer—a homemade white lightning out of a cooler that Tommy kept behind the bar. I picked up the tin cup that was set before me and took a sip, the liquid working its magic.

I also didn’t need to place an order for the soft shell blue crab sandwich that appeared, accompanied by a small bag of chips. There was never any menu at Tommy’s. There was also no choice as to what was served. The catch of the day was prepared in whatever manner Tommy wanted to make it. A former military man, turned fisherman, transformed into restaurateur, Tommy figured the place was his and it was run his way. If you didn’t like it, he’d point you toward the Rusty Pelican, a tourist trap back on the strip.

I bit into the sautéed crab, so tender and sweet it nearly brought tears to my eyes. Off in the distance the skyscrapers of downtown Miami glimmered, silver monoliths set ablaze by the waning sun, their reflection caught in Biscayne Bay. Coming to Tommy’s was the most relaxing thing I could do. Especially at this time of day. A muted palette of colors painted each ripple that lapped at the cove. Its message: There was nothing that couldn’t wait till tomorrow.

A steaming cup of coffee was placed in my hands, shaking the somnolence that threatened to overtake me. I looked up to see Tommy’s sea-blue eyes twinkling. One evening after several beers, Tommy had revealed that he’d lost a daughter to leukemia years ago. Oddly enough, my father had died of the same disease on the day I’d turned eleven. Ever since then a silent bond had formed between us, as if we somehow helped to fill each other’s void.

“Hey, Tommy. What do you know about the illicit exchange of goods back and forth between Cuba and here?” I asked.

“That it goes on,” he replied. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

“Is there much activity in the way of Cuban cigars?” I queried.

His laughter embraced me in its warmth. “Shit, yes. That’s big business around here.”

I followed Tommy as he left the bar and walked over to a rusty old oil drum. He lit a fire inside its belly and then fed the flames with the leftover garbage of the day. I took a seat on the ground, where I watched the dark body of a little blue heron skim the surface of the water, and a white ibis delicately tiptoe between the gnarled roots of a nearby mangrove. Miami was just a shell toss away, yet from Tommy’s, it seemed like a billion miles. I hugged my knees to my chest and closed my eyes, all the better to hear the fire crackle. When I opened them again I found Tommy sitting next to me, his eyes glued to the horizon, studying something only he could see.

“What about Cuban Amazons?” I watched the shiny black body of a cormorant make its last dive of the dying day. A moment later the bird broke the stillness of the water’s surface, his orange throat pouch bulging with a meal.