Just for the Birds Read online

  “Let me do that from here. What’s he doing right now?”

  “Still sleeping.”

  “In his cage?”

  “No, Jan’s bringing one.”

  “Are his wings clipped?”

  “Nope.”

  “Okay, get one of Jenk’s socks, cut out the toe, and slip it over him for right now. We have to keep him immobile and warm.”

  “Me and what army?”

  “He trusts you. Give it a shot.”

  “You gonna cover my doctor bills?”

  He laughed. “Sounds like he’s not up to his usual mayhem.”

  “You want to bet? You should see my main cabin.”

  “How’s Po Thang taking to him?”

  “Not. Evidently, World War Three broke out aboard Raymond Johnson. Po Thang has a bloody nose, an ear bite, and a great loss of dignity. He’s on another boat for now, and Jan’ll be here tomorrow.”

  “Maybe I spoke too soon about mayhem. Do your best to keep him quiet and toasty. I’ll do some more research and get back to you tomorrow morning. Meanwhile, don’t worry too much, I think once Trouble is rested up and eating normally, he’ll be fine.”

  He hung up.

  I raided that case of wine.

  Chapter Three

  JAN ARRIVED IN time for lunch.

  I was already frazzled.

  My morning started early, with Trouble screeching while struggling with his sock-swaddling restraint I’d sneaked over him while he was dozing in my lap the night before. I’d put him in a towel-lined cardboard box next to my bed, but was awakened by curses and squawks as he did a fair job of ripping up Jenks’s sock that I’d already cut up, and the box.

  I finished un-swaddling him, and once he was free he gave me a nip to let me know he was not pleased. He immediately took to the air, squawking to beat the band. I tried bribing him with jerky to hush his bird-cusses, but his shrieks must have echoed throughout my end of the marina, as I heard the unmistakable barks of my dog carrying on a light breeze.

  Quickly leaving the boat, I rushed to spring Po Thang for a walk and breakfast at the Dock Café. He was somewhat pacified by scrambled eggs and bacon, but kept shooting me dirty looks. He ate most of my breakfast for I was distracted, ears cocked for screeching, which seemed to have ceased for the time being.

  When my dog finished off my toast, I walked him back to his keepers. As we passed Raymond Johnson, he let out a low growl. “Suck it up, Buttercup,” I growled back.

  Handing his leash over to Karen, I apologized profusely for the early wakeup, but she waved me off. “Not to worry, he was a good boy for the most part. Until your parrot let loose this morning.”

  “I’m sorry about that. Guess I won’t be voted Best Dock Mate of the Week. The truth is, though, I’m a little relieved that Trouble’s even feeling well enough to raise a ruckus.”

  “He’s sick?”

  “Not sure. He looks awful and just picks at his food. Even jerky! He’s just not himself. I’ve called a couple of veterinarian friends of mine to look into it. Hopefully I’ll be able to fetch Po Thang later today, since Jan’s on her way.”

  “That should send the entire male population of the marina into a frenzy of deck projects, just in case she walks by. Nothing like a tall, blue-eyed blonde to make their day.”

  “True, that. Anyhow, between Jan and me, we’ll come with up a plan. If all else fails, I’ll send either Trouble or Po Thang home with her. Meanwhile, I may have to call on your hubby to build a peace wall down the center of my boat.”

  “Ha! I’d rather keep Po Thang indefinitely rather than send Kevin down to your boat with Jan on board,” she teased.

  Back on Raymond Johnson, I found Trouble dozing, but noticed he’d finished his jerky. I collapsed on the settee, planning on a short nap, but remembrances of how Trouble entered my life the first time kept me awake.

  I was taking a siesta aboard Raymond Johnson at Marina Real, in San Carlos, Sonora, that day, not all that long after I arrived in Mexico. Jenks had returned to the Middle East, leaving me to work on a project—a feasibility assessment on Sea of Cortez ports—for my on-again-off-again employer, Wontrobski, A.K.A. The Trob.

  I am Hetta Coffey, CEO, CFO, president, and sole employee of Hetta Coffey, SI, LLC. The SI is my little inside joke on the phonetic pronunciation of Civil Engineer.

  A single woman of forty—yes, I can actually say that now without requiring heart defibrillation—I'm an engineer by degree who stays somewhat employed thanks to a penchant for engaging in, shall we say, much less than run-of-the-mill endeavors.

  My best friend of many years, Jan, says I tread heavily upon the felonious side of life, but what does she know? She's a CPA who's flipping tortillas for her honey at a whale camp. At least I get paid.

  Perpetually single, I actually have a wonderful—but too often absent—man in my life. Jenks Jenkins works in Dubai and I live in Mexico. When we are together, all is well, but left on my own, I teeter on the brink of blowing the best relationship I’ve ever had because I’m bullheaded and as temperamental as any Texas redhead. I prefer to think of myself as self-governing, but according to Jan I’m doing that even worse than the U.S. Congress. She says I’m stubborn, incorrigible, and morally corrupt, which is why she likes me so much.

  One can clearly see why Jan and I are like sisters.

  I live aboard my 45-foot motor yacht, Raymond Johnson, named for my dearly departed dog, RJ. I live aboard in the relative lap of luxury compared to many of my fellow cruisers, for my boat is outfitted with wall to wall marine blue carpeting throughout, a large master cabin with a queen-sized bed, spacious head with shower, another cabin for guests (with their own head), state-of-the-art galley with a dinette I use for my office, and every bell and whistle a yacht of this size should have. I can anchor out for long periods and still have all the comforts of landlubbers and dock dwellers; they are just a little harder to maintain. My eight KW generator, multiple solar panels, inverter, large battery bank, and several five-gallon propane tanks, give me the ability to make fresh water from sea water, air condition and heat my cabins, cook, and make ice. These luxuries come at the price of constant maintenance and gallons of diesel but are worth the time and expense.

  The only drawback is that Jenks, the wonderful man I’m in love with, works in the Middle East and though we do see each other often, it can get a little lonely at times.

  Anyhow, at present, Po Thang and I were parked at the dock in La Paz, Mexico, but that was not the usual case. I'd spent most of my time cruising around in the Central Sea of Cortez, where I managed to stay employed. Not always exactly safely or legally employed, mind you, but I'd made enough to keep us in kibble and refrieds.

  Back when I worked as a project engineer for large corporations, I traveled the world, stayed in five-star hotels, and ate and drank high on the hog, thanks to a fat expense account. Those days are but a memory, thank goodness. I much prefer living aboard my boat in Mexico’s spectacular Sea, drinking cocolocos and eating tacos. The downside is missing Jenks and scrambling for work to keep my head above water.

  Literally.

  But I digress.

  Back to The Day of Trouble, as I now refer to it. It is much more amusing in hindsight, but at the time, I was not amused.

  I’d settled in for my habitual afternoon siesta, and just drifted off, when someone rapped on my hull. A hanging offense in my book.

  “¡Day Hache Elle!”

  I tried to ignore it, thinking it was a vendor selling shrimp, lobster, or whatever. They’d be back at a more reasonable hour, I was certain.

  The pounding increased and I stomped to my teak slider.

  Willing myself into what passed for consciousness, I staggered out onto the deck, primed to strangle anyone with the nerve to disturb my sacred siesta period. Two beaming men in red and yellow shirts stood on the dock. One held a matching yellow clipboard.

  “Buenas tardes, Señora. Day Hache Elle.”

  “What d
o you want? Uh, que quieres?” My Spanish sucks, but I can make myself understood.

  “¿Usted es Señora Café?”

  “No, soy Señorita Hetta Coffey.” Back then I was still trying to convince the locals that I was a Miss instead of a Mrs., but it was an uphill slog. Evidently Mexican women are married well before pushing thirty-nine. Now that I’ve fallen over the forty cliff, I’ve given up.

  He thrust the clipboard at me and indicated I sign by the X. It was then I saw who they were, DHL. Figuring that Wontrobski, the man who keeps me in projects and thereby rice and beans, had messengered paperwork, I signed and held out my hand for a package, but received the Mexican thumb and forefinger hand signal that means anything from, wait a minute to I’ll be right back. It was the latter, for they both left.

  Thirsty, I went inside for a glass of water and when I returned, the men were lugging a large box down the dock. Actually, not a box, a crate. Actually, not a crate, a cage. From it emanated an unearthly screech, followed by earsplitting, but recognizable, lyrics. “Ack! Oh, ya got trouble, folks/right here in River City…”

  Trouble had arrived. Starts with a T, ends with an E.

  Flummoxed, I bribed the DHL guys with a beer, and slugged one down myself, all the while trying to figure out how to get rid of the pesky parrot. Several Tecates later, between my Spanish and their almost non-existent English, I finally obtained a phone number in Hermosillo. Since getting a Mexican cell phone was on my list for the next day, I was forced to fire up my million peso a minute satellite phone.

  “Day Hache Elle,” a woman answered.

  “Do you speak English?”

  “Si.”

  “Okay, here’s the deal. I’ve received a shipment I don’t want. I want to send it back.”

  “Back?”

  “Si. Uh, devolver. Return to sender.” Elvis sang in my head, but I suspected I knew the address, for certain.

  “Momentito, por favor.”

  Very expensive momentitos ensued. I ticked off the ka-chings while watching the delivery guys raid my refrigerator for more Tecate. I signaled for them to bring me one. It was half gone when there was a click. I thought maybe the connection was cut, and almost hung up when a hearty, unaccented, voice boomed, “DHL. Can I help you?”

  “Oh, thank God. Yes, you can. I just received a shipment I don’t want. How do I send it back where it came from?”

  “Bill of Lading number?”

  I grabbed my copy and read off the numbers. It was then I noticed the critter was definitely, as I had suspected, from my mother in Texas, and recalled a conversation about some bird my aunt had taken in.

  “Can you hold?” he asked but didn’t wait for my answer. Ka-ching! More expensive satellite phone time, with the added insult of scratchy elevator music. The parrot sang along.

  One of my yellow-shirted new best friends popped another top and handed me a bottle.

  What seemed an eternity later, I heard, “Miss Coffey?”

  “That would be me.”

  “You are in Mexico?”

  “Yes I am.”

  “Why is it that you don’t want the box of jerky?”

  “Jerky? I didn’t get jerky, I received a parrot.”

  “A parrot? I don’t understand. We have suspended bird shipments in both directions temporarily, what with the bird flu thing.”

  “Look, Buster, I don’t know what the hell you’re trying to pull off here. These two guys showed up with a damned parrot and I don’t want the little bugger.”

  “Miss Coffey, there’s no need to get upset. What does your manifest say you received?”

  I squinted at the blurry writing, rummaged for a pair of reading glasses and finally made it out. “Caso de la machaca.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Hell, I don’t know. Hold on, I’ll get my Spanish to English dictionary.”

  I did. Machaca: dried meat. Dammit. “Okay, I found it. A machaca is a rare Mexican parrot.”

  “Miss Coffey, I don’t think so. However, you only have to refuse the shipment.”

  Now, why didn’t I think of that? “So, if I do, will these guys take the, uh, machaca back to Hermosillo? I mean, they won’t just put it in a warehouse somewhere, will they?” I conjured a vision of this cute, if noisy, bird dying a slow horrible death by starvation. Hunger is something I avoid at all costs.

  “How would I know? I’m in New Jersey.”

  No amount of beer would convince the guys to reload Trouble into their truck.

  After all, they pointed out, I had signed for the shipment and they must leave, now that I was getting low on Tecate.

  My normally not-at-all treacherous mother had figured out a way to ship the pesky parrot she’d gotten stuck with, from Texas to Mexico. It was my least favorite Aunt Lillian who fobbed the bird off on Mom and Dad, and now he was my problem.

  And, I was out of beer.

  And now Trouble had landed once again in my life.

  I checked the time; Jenks, an early riser, would be up and at ’em in Dubai by now. My long-distance sig-other picked up on the first ring. “Hey, Red. I was just getting ready to call you. I miss you.”

  “Great minds and all. I miss you, too.”

  “Seems like forever since I was there on the boat, but it’s only been a couple of weeks.”

  “Twelve days, three hours.”

  “Not that anyone’s counting, right?”

  We shared a laugh, then I said, “Uh, I have a problem.”

  “Already? You need bail money?”

  “Very funny. I am in need of a birdcage. Uh, and by the way, you are short one sock.”

  “Let me guess. Another of my favorite Navy socks has once again disappeared?”

  I grinned. Those polyester Navy issue socks were indeed mysteriously meeting with accidents in the laundry. “You mean those baby-doo-doo colored, mustard-brown-yellow polyester horrors you are so fond of? Nope, I think they’ve all gone walk about. Besides, I needed something cotton and fashionable. Trouble has standards, you know.”

  “I’m intrigued. I feel a story coming on.”

  “Yes. Trouble has arrived.”

  “So, what else is new?”

  Yep, there was for sure a pattern here.

  “Trouble, my Quaker parrot. He’s back. He flew in this morning.”

  “You pick him up at the airport?”

  That made me laugh out loud, something I badly needed to do. I sighed again, told him thanks for being there for me, and all about my crappy day. And why the demise of his sock.

  “Went for a good cause. Poor Trouble. You think he’s sick?”

  “More like rode hard and put away wet.”

  “Did you call the bird sanctuary where you left him for safe keeping? Obviously, they aren’t doing a great job of it.”

  “Called twice. No answer. I left a message for Humberto, the caretaker, to call me back. Jan’s on her way to help with the bird versus hound problem, thank goodness. And I’ve sent photos of Trouble to both Craig and Chino, two of the best veterinarians in the entire world, in my humble opinion. I’m just so worried about the poor little thing.”

  “Hetta, he’s safe now as long as Po Thang is farmed out. Trouble’ll be fine. He’s one tough hombre, as you well know.”

  I did know that. Because of his singing and talking abilities, we figured Trouble was once a pet, but by the time my aunt found him, he was a wild street scrapper. But then, most Monk parrots are. It’s their constant loud squabbling that makes them unpopular as neighbors. That, and causing power outages by several mating pairs building large, elaborate nests that cause damage to electrical lines and utility poles. Those nests allow them to survive the cold winters in the northern United States, much to the dismay of many a neighborhood. And removing their sturdily crafted homes is an exercise in futility; they are known to rebuild within an hour.

  My Aunt Lillian, who I consider a giant pain in the keister, had saved him from a gang fight. Several large Texas blue jays, w
ell known for their own cantankerousness, were set on giving him a shellacking, but he was holding his own when she got tired of all the noise and shooed them off. She offered Trouble a treat and he adopted her. That alone shows he’s a lousy judge of character.

  Anyhow, after she heard him sing his signature song, she named him Trouble, then dumped him on my dad when she took off with hubby number whatever on a honeymoon. So, then my parents dumped him on me, and I dumped him on the bird sanctuary. Poor bird probably has an identity problem.

  After Jenks and I said our goodbyes, I hung up and eyed my scraggly-looking dumpee. “I feel your pain, as I too, am feeling unwanted. And we’re both unemployed. At least you’ve lost weight.”

  “Ack! Trouble is a pretty bird.”

  Chapter Four

  AFTER MY CHAT with Jenks, I cuddled up with Trouble on the couch and finally zonked out.

  “Hetta! Wake up! The cavalry has arrived!”

  I startled awake, as did Trouble, who broke into his rendition of “The Yellow Rose of Texas” when he heard Jan’s voice.

  She left a cage on deck, rushed inside, gently picked up Trouble and held him close. “Oh, you poor baby. What on earth has happened to my handsome boy? Hetta, what is this…slime…all over him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Can he fly?”

  “Sure can. Judging by my dog’s nose and ear injuries, he was up for one hell of an aerial dog fight.”

  Jan laughed. “I’d liked to have seen that. Probably something akin to King Kong versus the bi-plane scene.”

  Trouble scurried up onto Jan’s shoulder, leaned against her neck, and dozed off again.

  I hugged her, careful not to dislodge Trouble. If you think I can be a stone bitch when someone wakes me, I can’t hold a candle to that bird.

  “Jan, I can’t thank you enough for coming down. What did Chino have to say about the photos I sent of Trouble?”

  “He’s puzzled. For sure, this little bird has been in some kind of, you should excuse the expression, trouble. He and Craig were going to have a telephone confab this morning.”