Just for the Birds Read online

  JUST FOR THE BIRDS

  Published by Jinx Schwartz

  Copyright 2018

  Book 10: Hetta Coffey series

  All rights reserved.

  The characters and events in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to persons, whether living or dead, is strictly coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning to a computer disk, or by any informational storage and retrieval system, without express permission in writing from the publisher.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  EPILOGUE

  Acknowlegements

  From the Author

  Books by Jinx Schwartz

  JUST FOR THE BIRDS

  A Mexican walks into a bar, with a parrot on his shoulder.

  The bartender asks, “Where did you get that thing?”

  The parrot replies, “In Mexico. There are millions of them!”

  JUST FOR THE BIRDS

  By

  Jinx Schwartz

  Chapter One

  YOU JUST KNOW it’s gonna be a crappy afternoon when you return from grocery shopping to find your boat’s deck crawling with armed men.

  Okay, so they were at least uniformed armed men, but the Mexican police?

  Break out the foulies, matey! Extreme dung storm dead ahead!

  I’d noticed an unmanned Policia car parked in the marina lot, lights still flashing, but I figured they were just taking a beer break at The Dock Café. Then I saw where they really were and my solar plexus twitched. Mine is a little too well-padded to actually flex, but it spasmed. I burped cinnamon and cayenne pepper. Maybe I shouldn’t have inhaled that triple-scoop dulce de leche ice cream earlier, what with my slight lactose intolerance.

  And then there’s this love/hate relationship I have with the local authorities; they would dearly love to throw me in the slammer, and I’d truly hate that.

  Luckily, I have friends South of the border in both authoritative and low places. It’s a Mexico thing.

  Halfway down the ramp, I heard my golden retriever, Po Thang, yelping, “Help!”

  You know how it is with dogs, they have distinctive barks for different situations, and his frantic yelping did not bode well for whatever this one was. I’d left him inside my forty-five-foot motor vessel, Raymond Johnson, with the doggy door locked so he couldn’t go walkabout while I went for victuals. Since it was an unusually warm January morning in southern Baja, I’d even left the air conditioning on low to make sure he was comfortable. The ungrateful little cur was nonetheless miffed at being left behind, but at least he was safe. Or so I’d thought.

  Leaving my dock cart full of goodies where it was, I raced—okay, fast-walked, which I consider racing—for my boat.

  Four cops were on my deck, tugging on the locked sliding hatch into my main cabin. Several curious cruisers stood around calmly watching the show, and since I didn’t smell or see smoke, at least the fear that my pooch was trapped on my burning boat dissipated somewhat. I took a deep breath and strode toward the boat just as one of the cops spotted me. “¡Señora! You dog! What is wrong with she?”

  I’d long ago given up correcting Mexicans who, because of my advanced age, just assumed I must be married. And this was certainly no time to get into pronoun usage. “No se, Señor. I wish I did know.” I turned to face the growing crowd of boaters. “Anyone see anything?”

  They all shook their heads, but one cruiser said, “Not me. Your dog just went nuts inside your boat, and we couldn’t get in to find out why.”

  “Stand by!” I yelled as I stomped up my resin boarding steps onto the boat. Everyone took a step back, including the police officers, who looked vastly relieved I was taking charge. Clearly, dealing with a snarling, howling, and obviously deranged dog wasn’t in their pay grade.

  Unlocking the slider, I moved it open six inches. “Po Thang! Are you all right, Sweetie?”

  Sixty-five pounds of Sweetie slammed into the teak slider and I was barely able to hold the door to that small opening. Hoping I didn’t lose a finger in the process, I grabbed his collar to hold him in place. His howls of fury turned into whines, so I held fast while I pushed the door wide to pull him outside.

  At least, that was my plan. Po Thang obviously had other ideas. He yanked backward, jerking me into the cabin and almost dislocating my shoulder. As I disappeared through the door, my peripheral vision spotted all four cops brandishing their guns.

  What were they gonna do? Shoot me in the ass? Lord knows even the worst marksman could hardly miss a target that big.

  Po Thang, reduced to small yips now that I was close, was still breathing hard and struggling against my tenuous grip on his collar. My slick hand had gone numb and pain ran up my arm in electric shock waves. Soaking with sweat from the struggle, I was losing patience, fast.

  “Sit!” I bellowed, punctuating the command with a sharp downward index finger stab that stopped just short of his nose.

  Shocked by this unusually harsh and loud demand, he froze and plopped his furry butt down on the carpet. Which left us both bewildered. I had to remember that one.

  Grabbing his leash from a hook by the door, I clipped it onto his collar and secured the other end to my stainless-steel wheel on the lower steering station.

  Kneeling in front of the still-sitting, whining dog, I ran my hands over his body. Not finding any obvious injuries, I took his head in my hands, planning to give him a serious talking to, but blood on his nose made me gasp. “Oh, my precious pup. What on earth have you done to yourself?”

  He dawg-sniveled and tried to paw his nose, but I held him tightly. Looking around, I saw a hand towel I normally use to clean off my feet before entering the cabin and managed, despite my dry mouth, to spit on it. Wiping carefully, I saw he had a small wound on the end of his nose, and another on his ear.

  “You been in a prizefight, Furface?”

  He cocked his head and gave me a silly Golden Retriever grin.

  I interpreted this to mean, “You shoulda seen the other guy.”

  Chapter Two

  AFTER CHECKING PO THANG over again for wounds, I was satisfied that the ear tear and nose scratch were it. But what had happened to him?

  The main cabin—or saloon, or salon, both pronounced like a beauty salon—had been redecorated with an egg beater. Couch cushions were strewn hither and thither, chairs knocked over, Po Thang’s water dish upside down, and for some unexplainable reason a bag of dog food, which Po Thang had never touched (why should he when he had a perfectly stocked refrigerator?) was torn open and kibble was everywhere.

  The evidence pointed to my spoiled rotten dog pitching a hissy fit and ragi
ng separation anxiety when I left him alone, or he had gotten himself tangled up in something and had a hell of a struggle getting free. “You’d better pray to whatever dog god you can that it was the latter, or you are destined to be caged whenever I leave this boat in the future.”

  He looked guilty and pleaded the fifth.

  Dragging him outside, I asked if anyone had a first-aid kit handy. I didn’t want to leave Po Thang alone long enough to go back inside for mine, and besides, now that the hound from hell had been removed, the cops asked my permission to check the boat’s interior for possible intruders.

  Herding Po Thang onto the dock, I grabbed a hose and, of course, he balked. What is it with a Golden Retriever who’ll happily take an illegal dive into the swimming pool at a first-class resort at the drop of a hat, and then freaks out at the prospect of being squirted with a hose? Once he realized I was just washing my hands and wetting a towel, he politely sat while I wiped away the quickly drying blood from his nose and ear.

  Cruisers gathered around, petting and baby-talking him while speculating how he’d been injured. Getting all that attention being right up Po Thang’s alley, he played the pity card to the hilt, spurring his adoring public to fetch tasty tidbits to soothe his distress. In between chomping on goodies, he cut dirty looks back at the boat and grumped.

  “¡Madre de Dios!”

  “¡Chingado!”

  The cops’ shouts preceded a hasty and clumsy retreat, all of them trying to get through the narrow door at the same time. As the last officer backed out, he came close to tripping and landing on his butt while swatting wildly at something with his hat. Slamming the door shut, he took a moment to put on his cap and pull down his jacket in an attempt to regain a modicum of dignity before turning to face the crowd of amused looky-loos.

  Once safely back on the dock, the policemen held a whispered conference, drew their guns and looked as though preparing to shoot up my boat. Since a boat full of holes is a really bad thing, I released the brake on Po Thang’s leash and jumped back on deck.

  Po Thang followed. “Wooooooaaaahhh! Wooooooooooo!”

  “Hush.” I tapped him lightly on the snout, and he lowered his howl level a mite. Just enough so I heard a familiar sound from inside.

  “Oh, ya got trouble, folks, right here in River City,” screeched the perpetrator.

  I threw my arms out, hands in a traffic cop signal. “No!Stop! ¡Alto!” I yelled at the cops.

  They had no problem alto-ing; going back inside that hell ship was the last thing they wanted to do. They held their ground, and for the first time I noticed a bright green feather on one cop’s hat, and another floating above our heads.

  I handed Po Thang’s leash to a cruiser and boarded Raymond Johnson, prepared to give the known mischief-maker a good talking to, but when I stepped inside he was cowering and shivering behind a pillow on the settee, mumbling to himself.

  Picking him up, I cuddled him to my chest and cooed, “Oh, Trouble. You poor thing. What on earth has happened to you, baby bird?”

  He shook and cluck/chuffed weakly in distress. My heart melted.

  Wrapping him in a chenille throw from the couch, I hugged him tighter in case he had any ideas of taking flight, slid the door open and stuck my head outside. “Everything’s okay. It’s just a parrot. My parrot. He flew in through porthole like he used to do, I guess.”

  One of La Paz’s finest mumbled something like, “Devil bird,” and they stomped away as fast as they could. The guy holding Po Thang’s leash asked, above furious barks, “Uh, what should I do with this fella?”

  “Can you take him for a walk, please? I have to make some phone calls.”

  “Well, I was….”

  Another cruiser, a woman who owned a poodle friend of Po Thang’s, stepped forward. “I’ve got him, Hetta. Call me on the radio when you’re ready for him to come home, okay?”

  “I owe you big time, Karen. Okay folks, show’s over. Thank all of you for your help and concern.”

  Back inside, I gave Trouble water and a portion of my coveted Oh Boy! Oberto! turkey jerky, his favorite. Instead of attacking the jerky like a shark on chum in his usual modus operandi, he feebly nibbled on it and let it fall. I was tempted to grab it for myself, but instead I added a jalapeño pepper and an apple slice to his dish. He pecked at both without any real interest. Alarmed at both the way he looked and was acting, I called my BFF, Jan.

  “Hey, Hetta. What’s up?”

  “Our Trouble is back.”

  “Our? Our? Hetta, Hetta, Hetta. I am perpetually amazed at your capacity for two things: downing adult beverages, and somehow sharing, or should I say, ensnaring, me into whatever mess you have gotten yourself into. Trouble? Gee, what a shock. It’s. What. You. Do. And why is it our trouble?”

  One of the things I’ve loved most about Jan for over twenty years is her willingness to sign up for new adventures. Okay, so most times I do drag her into my debacles kicking and screaming, but eventually she dives in with great enthusiasm.

  “What are the chances of you coming down here? I’m kinda in a jam.”

  “Again, nothing new there. But, yes! A thousand times over, yes! Any excuse, even one of your fiascos, to get the hell out of this piece of crap fish camp. I hardly see Chino anymore, anyhow. Whales are arriving in droves this year.”

  “I think that’s pods. Jan, Chino’s a scientist. A world renowned marine biologist. It’s his job to count whales. What do you expect from him?”

  “If you’re gonna go all preacherly on me, I sure as hell ain’t gonna make an eight-hour drive to La Paz.”

  “Sorry, I’m just a little frustrated right now. Please, pretty please with sugar on it, can you get down here, like, ASAP?” I begged. Then as an added incentive I told her, “I just bought a case of Malbec.”

  “Why didn’t you just say so in the first place? I can’t make it before dark tonight, but if I leave soon I can get as far as Mulege before I gotta get a room.”

  “Good thinking, just promise me you’ll stick to the rules, Chica.” All gringos know better than to drive at night on Mexico’s Highway One, but Jan and I have been known to push that boundary in a pinch. “I’m good until you get here. I’ve farmed Po Thang out for the night. Oh, and please throw a cage into your Jeep, okay?”

  “Sure. Wait. Why did you ban the dawg, why a cage, and how big?”

  “Ha! I knew you couldn’t get off the phone without details.” I brought her up to speed on the return of Trouble and the ensuing dustup.

  “Oh, no. Poor Trouble.”

  “Actually, I think he got the best of el dawg. Po Thang’s sporting a couple of minor wounds. Trouble’s sleeping now, but he looks like he’s gone a round or two with something meaner than him before he even met Po Thang. I gotta call Craig, and I’ll send you a text with photos of Trouble for Dr. Chino to take a look at. We can’t have too many veterinarians on the case.”

  “I’ll make sure he sees the pics before I leave for La Paz. He’s got a soft spot for Trouble, as you know, even if they did get off to a somewhat rocky start. If it wasn’t high whale migration season, I know he’d come down with me. I gotta get busy and hit the road so I can get there early tomorrow. Hasta mañana.”

  “Call me when you’ve stopped for the night, okay? I don’t want to have to worry about you and Trouble.”

  She laughed. “Gee, your concern for me is overwhelming.”

  “You know what I mean. Drive careful now, y’all,” I drawled, mimicking our Texas parents. “Keep it between the bar ditches.”

  After I hung up I said aloud, “Not that there are any bar ditches in Baja. The roads don’t even have shoulders.”

  Trouble, who looked as though he’d been in a debilitated state long before his run-in with Po Thang and the cops, finally gave up picking at his food, tucked his head under a tattered wing, and fell asleep again with a tiny piece of jerky still in his beak.

  I wrapped him in on old tee shirt, and retrieved my phone again so I
could send the pictures out to everyone concerned. He barely peeped as I uncovered him for closeups. The more I looked him over, the more my concern increased. He felt light as a feather, was missing some, and was semi-covered in some kind of oily substance. After I rewrapped him and put him on the couch, I texted the photos to Doctor Brigido Camacho Yee, a.k.a. Chino—who is not only a marine biologist, but a vet to boot—at the whale camp, then called Doctor Craig Washington, DVM, in Arizona.

  “Hey, Hetta. What’s new?”

  “Trouble’s back.”

  “I asked if there was anything new.”

  Was I detecting a pattern here?

  However this wasn’t the time to defend my reputation. That was a lost cause anyhow. “No, Trouble, my monk parrot. I put him into a bird sanctuary here in the Baja for his own good, and he seemed okay there. Okay, so he was a bully, lording it over what he considered his lesser species inside the aviary, but he eventually settled down. Sort of. Anyhow, he’s suddenly appeared back at my boat and he looks like holy hell.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Is he obviously injured?”

  “Not that I can see. I texted you photos a minute ago.”

  “I’ll check them out and call you right back. Is he eating or drinking anything?”

  “A little. He drank some water, then ate part of a jalapeño pepper, a couple of bites of jerky, and a nibble of apple. He’s snoring to beat the band right now.”

  “Hmmm. Not like him at all to leave food.”

  “I’m not sure, but he may have ripped open a bag and eaten some of Po Thang’s dry dog food before I fed him. Is that going to be a problem?”

  “Shouldn’t be. I’ll be back with you in a flash.”

  I hung up and listened to Trouble’s bird snores. They seemed normal, if a little on the weak side. When the phone barked, I snatched it up and Craig asked, “Is there a bird vet down there?”

  His question frightened me. “Not that I know of, but I can check around.”