Just for the Birds Read online

  My phone barked, and I picked it up. “Speak of the devil. Hey, Craig. Jan just got here. What did you and Chino come up with?”

  I put him on speaker so Jan could hear. “Not much. Is the patient better today?”

  “Still looks like hell, and weary, but he is eating a little and drinking lots of water. He was always a feather weight, but I swear he’s lost a few ounces.”

  “Ha! Chino said Trouble looks a mite green around the gills.”

  Jan and I giggled. Leave it to a British-educated Mexican marine biologist to say that about a parrot.

  “Have you, by any chance found a bird veterinarian in La Paz?” Craig asked.

  “I asked on the cruiser’s news this morning but didn’t have any luck. Does Chino know of one?”

  “He’s on the case. Why does Trouble appear sweaty, or wet, in the photos?”

  Jan piped up. “He’s not wet. He’s greasy. Can we give him a bath? He loves them.”

  “He’s oily? Or do you think it’s some kind of grease?” Craig asked.

  “Kinda looks like vegetable oil.”

  “Okay, try this first. Just make him a shallow warm-water bath and let him do his thing. Then shower him off. If that doesn’t remove the grease, then we’ll try a couple of drops of Dawn in the water when I get there. I’ll be in La Paz tomorrow, so try the plain water thing, but make certain the boat is warm, and draft free. Don’t dry him off…I want him to preen.”

  “You’re coming to La Paz?”

  “As soon as I can get there, which is tomorrow.”

  Jan and I cheered. Trouble opened one eye, grumbled, and went right back to sleep.

  “I’ll pick you up at the airport,” I said. “What time does your plane arrive?”

  “I’m flying into San Diego, then catching Volaris from Tijuana to La Paz. My connection is a little tight, but if I make it, I’ll be there around eight-thirty your time. What hotel would you recommend?”

  “You don’t need one. I have the keys to my friend Rhonda’s condo that is right next to the marina. She’s gone for a month. And there’s a bonus; you get Po Thang, as well.”

  “Oh, grand.”

  He sounded like he meant it.

  Silly boy.

  We ran about two inches of warm water in the kitchen sink and Trouble jumped right in. He splashed, shook, dunked his head, flapped his wings, and stopped occasionally to preen. Soaking wet, he looked downright pitiful. I tested the water temp, turned on the spray in the other basin, then showered him while draining the sink.

  All that activity taxed what little strength he had, so with one last half-hearted shake, he promptly fell asleep. I wrapped him in a towel and called Craig to ask him if I could use my hairdryer on low to finish the job.

  “Absolutely not. That’s a draft, in my book, warm or not. Just wrap him in a series of warm dry towels until he dries out. Pat, don’t rub. Is he still greasy?”

  “Hard to tell. The feathers on his head, the ones he has left, seem to be fluffing up.”

  “Good. See you tomorrow and try not to worry too much, okay?”

  “Uh, Craig, the fact that you’re flying down here to examine him? That means I probably have plenty to worry about.”

  “Nah, just using Trouble as an excuse to head for Mexico. It was twenty-six degrees here this morning. Oh, and Roger is coming, as well.”

  I glanced at a photo of Craig and Roger on my desk. Both were dressed in western duds, and not the drugstore kind. Craig, tall-black-and-handsome, and Roger, a little shorter, white, and weathered from years of ranching, mugged for the camera, their arms draped over each other’s shoulders. They made a Marlboro Man meets La Cage aux Folle kind of couple.

  “Even better. We’ll have your condo, and dog, ready for you. Hasta luego, hombre.”

  I tried reaching the bird sanctuary again, but no luck. I went online to see if I could learn anything at all and found an article on the Pronatura website that the entire ranch had been purchased by some conservancy group out of Mexico City. I was looking for a contact number for that agency when Jan, who was on the hunt on her own laptop across the table from me, said, “Hey, Chica. You gotta see this. Sending now.”

  I waited impatiently for her find to travel the two entire feet from her Dell to my HP. It only took three minutes, but in this day and age we expect instantaneous results. Like, I didn’t eat breakfast, so does that mean I’ve lost weight today? In my dreams.

  After reading the purloined missive, I was shocked to learn Trouble might be worth way more than his weight in gold.

  “Good grief, Janster. Smuggling parrots is more profitable than marijuana these days. The markup on Mexican marijuana is about a hundred percent. A pound of pot in Mexico costs around seventy bucks and resells in the States for double that. The profit margin on a double yellow head starts at three hundred percent. Who knew?”

  Jan caught me sizing up my bedraggled bird. “Forget it. Trouble ain’t no double yellow head. In fact, I’m not sure you could even sell his breed up north, so get those dollar signs out of your greedy little head.”

  Jeez, that woman knows me all too well. “Au contraire, Miz smarty britches.” I opened a bookmarked page on my PC and read, “ ‘Sweet baby monks, hand fed. Five hundred dollars.’ ”

  “Trouble is far from sweet, and no baby.”

  “Yeah, but he talks and sings. He even made TV commercials for Oh, Boy! Oberto jerky for a while until a peck of PETA persons filed suit. Said jerky isn’t good for parrots.”

  “And poor Trouble lost his job. Shades of that ‘Yo quiero Taco Bell’ Chihuahua.”

  “I loved those commercials. Some PCer always spoils the fun for everyone,” I lamented.

  “Speaking of fun, isn’t it official? Jenks isn’t here to declare it, so I will.”

  “Official enough for me. Break out the booze, Chica.”

  “What a beautiful evening,” Jan said as we sipped our tall drinks on the back deck.

  We’d perfected our own concoctions based on cocolocos, made with fresh coconut water, a splash of coconut cream, sugar water, lime, and dark spiced rum. We added nutmeg and ginger juice. “I wonder what the poor folks are doing tonight?”

  “Freezing their tails off. It even snowed in the Texas Hill Country yesterday.”

  “Always a treat when that happened when we were kids. Quarter of an inch, and they closed the schools. Phone.”

  According to my caller ID, the call was from Rancho Los Pajaros! I quickly answered and hit the speaker button so Jan could hear. “¡Hola! Hum—”

  A gruff voice cut me short and rattled off something in rapid Spanish.

  “Mande? Quien habla?” I asked. I wanted to know what he said, and who was talking.

  Silence. I thought they’d hung up, then I heard whispering in the background, and scuffling noises. A familiar voice asked, “Señora Café?”

  “Yes! Humberto, is that you? Are you okay?”

  The bird sanctuary caretaker said, “Lo siento, Señora. No hablo ingles.”

  What the hell? Humberto speaks English very well. And, he is one of the few Mexican men who calls me Señorita instead of Señora.

  “I am calling to tell…” I stopped. Something was rotten in Mexico. I turned up the volume and hit the recorder I keep next to the phone. “Uh, how is my little parrot, Trouble?” I asked in English.

  In Spanish, he answered that Trouble was fine and happy, and playing well with his bird friends.

  Jan gave me a cut-it-short sign by dragging her finger across her neck, so I started to say goodbye, but then said, “That’s good. Please give my regards to your wife, Paula.”

  He said he would and hung up.

  “What do you make of that?” I asked Jan, who was frowning. How the heck does she look good doing that?

  “I smell a giant zorrillo.”

  “Ya think? Humberto does speak English, his wife’s name isn’t Paula, he always calls me señorita and Trouble sure as hell ain’t there. Yep, skunk stink all
over it.”

  “On top of that,” Jan added, “even when he is there, Trouble, taking after you, steadfastly refuses to make nice with those of his species.”

  I shot her the finger, but she continued. “In fact, he doesn’t even acknowledge he is a bird. He much prefers human company and spends most of his time in the house with Humberto and Anna. Ya think we oughta call the cops?”

  Realizing the ridiculousness of what she just said, the two of us broke into raucous laughter. Even Trouble weakly chuckled. No one in her right mind called the Mexican police for, well, any reason.

  After we ran out of breath, Jan swiped tears from her cheeks. “Seriously, who we gonna call? Bird Busters?”

  “We’ll think of something. I’m worried about Humberto and Anna. I’ve heard of cartel thugs taking over entire villages, so who knows what’s going on out there at the ranch?”

  “We could drive up there and snoop,” Jan suggested. “Uh, you do still have your gun, right?”

  “Yep. Not only that, like I told you before, I’m legal now. Nacho arranged somehow for me to get a Mexican carry permit.”

  “Ya know, I’ve been thinking about that. What did he say when he gave it to you? Like, you work for him now, or something?”

  “He said, and I’m quoting him now,” I tried to replicate his low, velvety Spanish accent, “ ‘Café,’ ”—he calls me Café because he hasn’t mastered Hetta—“ ‘this is not a license to kill.’ ”

  “What did you say?”

  “Rats.”

  “Did you ask him just how he arranged this almost impossible feat?”

  “Ha! Like he’d tell me?”

  “Righto. Why would anyone ask how Nacho does anything. But, maybe we should put a little buzz in his ear about Trouble, Humberto and Anna.”

  “Yeah, right. I’m sure he’d rush right into the fray. Nacho and Trouble hate each other. I don’t want to involve him until we’re certain we can’t handle the problem ourselves. You know how he is.”

  “Yes,” she said, all dreamy-like. “Handsome, in a criminal kind of way. Mysterious, with friends in low places. And, he has the hots for you.”

  I scoffed. “Must be why he keeps either trying to kill me, or save me from others so he can have the pleasure later? If you remember, after the little French debacle, he said not to ever call him again unless I stumbled into, or caused, a threat of an imminent nuclear attack on Mexico.”

  The phone barked, and Jan grabbed it. Craig and Roger had made their connection in Tijuana and would arrive in a couple of hours. She hung up and it barked again. This time she handed it to me. I hit the speaker, on the off chance it was Humberto.

  “Hola.”

  “Uh, hola back. Hetta, how nice to hear your voice.”

  Jan frowned and mimed, “Who?”

  I rolled my eyes and grabbed my neck in a choking motion. “Well, hi there, Doctor Washington. How are you and Doctor Washington doing these days?” I sing-songed.

  “Very well. Thank you dear, for asking. Actually, I wanted to let you know we’re coming down to La Paz to see Doctor Washington while he’s there. It’s a surprise so don’t tell him, please?”

  Jan’s mouth fell open, then she slapped her hand over it and rushed onto the deck to stifle a big har har. I was left to stumble through the conversation, suggesting La Perla when Doc Wash asked for the name of a good hotel. I ended the call as fast as I could. Jan was still hiccupping laughs when I joined her on deck.

  “I’m glad you find this situation amusing, Miz Jan. What the hell are we going to do?”

  “Have the Doctors Washington, of Atherton, ever met Roger? Do they know he even exists?”

  “Far as I know, they are fully aware that their son, Doctor Washington, Junior, has a business partner in his large animal veterinary hospital and cattle ranch.”

  “More like a monkey-bidness podner.”

  Jan stayed with Trouble while I picked up Craig and Roger. They’d shed their western attire for Margaritaville duds, shades and boat shoes. Both looked healthy and happy. It was too bad I was about to rain on their vacation.

  Once we were all in the car, I said, “Uh, Craig, your mom called me today.”

  “She did?”

  “Yep. When did you last speak with her?”

  “Right after I…we…decided to come down here. Thought it was a good idea to let her know I was going out of the country on vacation. Why?”

  “Because she and your dad are headed for La Paz to surprise you.”

  Craig and Roger chorused, “Oh, hell.”

  When we arrived at the boat, Craig examined Trouble and deemed our warm bath did a good enough job removing whatever the mess was all over him.

  “Good. Sooo, what’s the plan, guys?” I asked as we relaxed with cocolocos on deck.

  “Just keep him warm. I’ll take a blood sample tomorrow and send it to a lab. Also, I’ll have one of those gooey feathers you saved tested to see if they can figure out what it was.”

  I looked at him under my eyebrows, “Craig, I mean about your parents. They’ll be here tomorrow.”

  He and Roger exchanged a glance. Roger said, “You know we decided not to drop our relationship on our elderly parents. All four of them would be extremely distraught to learn their only sons are fairies.”

  “Oh, come on,” Jan said. “Surely in this day and age—”

  “Trust us,” Craig said. “It’s something we’ve agreed on. My parents have come to terms with their baby boy being what they call a confirmed bachelor, as have Roger’s. We are content with each other, and don’t find it necessary to upset the fruit cart, so to speak.”

  Chapter Five

  CRAIG’S QUIP ABOUT upsetting his parents’ fruit cart set all of us giggling, even Trouble. His laugh was usually a loud, “Haw haw haw,” but in his weakened state, it was more of a, “Hee hee hee.” When he said “fruit” at the end, that was a side-splitter.

  After we calmed down, Craig said, “Roger’s parents have been to the ranch, but since we maintain separate houses, it wasn’t an issue. We got along really well. My folks have never been to Arizona, so they haven’t even met Roger yet.”

  “Sounds stressful to me,” I said, “but it’s your lives. Anyhow, as you saw, the condo has two bedrooms, so you’ll have separate closets, so to speak.”

  “Enough with the lame gay humor, okay?” Jan said, after a snort. “My stomach hurts.”

  “My stomach is growling. Let’s go get some chow. I’ll collect my badly-behaved hound and then you guys can haul him home with you after we eat.”

  When I coaxed Trouble into his cage, he weakly protested instead of raising the roof like he normally does until I wrestle him in and get a cover over the cage. He was already sawing logs as we left. Or, in his case, maybe dreaming of shredding Po Thang’s ears.

  Po Thang, whose ear was healing quickly from their run-in, was overjoyed to see Craig and Jan. He gave Roger, whom he’d never met, a friendly lick, and snubbed me. As we passed my boat, he strained on his leash and growled. I gave his lead a gentle jerk. “Give it a rest, Po. You two are gonna have to get over yourselves, but for now, you are the banned one. Suck it up, Buttercup.”

  Growl.

  “Okay, bad boy, you asked for it. Jan, why don’t you grab Trouble and take him with us. That okay, Craig?”

  “Did you find his tether?”

  “Unearthed it this morning before everyone arrived. It’s behind his cage.”

  Jan and Craig returned with an energized Trouble. He knew he was going on an outing the minute they strapped him in his harness. He gave Po Thang a hiss and a wing flap. “Ack! Bad Dog!”

  Po Thang went bonkers, but I had harnessed him, as well. Roger had his leash, so there was no way he was going anywhere. Just to make sure, I waved his hated muzzle in front of him as a threat. He settled down some, but nonetheless grumbled all the way to the Dock Café until he realized food was afoot. He quickly forgot about Trouble once we settled into our chairs and I let
him loose to make the usual rounds of his adoring public with his, “I am such a mistreated puppy. Please, oh, please may I have a morsel?” act.

  Trouble, on the other hand, promptly fell asleep.

  While Po Thang successfully begged, we ordered drinks and four fresh snapper Veracruz dinners. As we waited for our food, I told Craig and Roger about our mysterious phone call, and the perceived cryptic signals, from Humberto, the man who was supposed to be taking care of Trouble.

  Both frowned. Roger spoke first. “Sounds to me like he’s tryin’ to send you a message, alright. I’ve been livin’ on the border all my life, and I’d bet a penny to a peso they had him call you back so’s you don’t come snooping ’round because that fella, Humberto, didn’t return your calls. Too bad for them they’re idiots who didn’t pick up on his clues.”

  “And that now they are dealing with Hetta Coffey, to boot,” Jan quipped.

  “Yes, they are,” I snarled. “I’m going to find out what happened to poor Trouble, and make someone pay for it.”

  Trouble, who was snoozing on Jan’s shoulder, raised his head from under his wing and mumbled, “Poor Trouble.” He sounded just like me, only…parrot-ier.

  Roger growled “We will make them pay. Your posse is here now, and we for sure will hold some zorillo’s huevos to the fire. There’s nothin’ that gets my dander up more than some skunk mistreating a helpless animal.”

  “Roger that, Roger.”

  He chuffed. “I get that a lot, Miz Hetta. Seems to me we need to take a foray out that way, and soon. Just whereabouts is this bird joint?”

  Jan pulled her huge designer tote into her lap and handed Roger a map book of Baja. “Homework. I’ve folded over the corner of the page where Rancho Los Pajaros lies. It’s circled in red.”

  I filled him in on the location and lay of the land. Jan added a few more details. “As you’ll see, this map is very detailed. It shows almost every goat path, topographically.”

  Roger put on his glasses and gave the ranch’s page a once over. “I’ll mull on this later, but it looks to me at first glance like ideal horseback country. I’ll make a few calls in the morning and come up with somethin’.”