Bird Brained (36 page)

I was up and out of the dip faster than you could say “giddyap,” Ramon’s lips still plastered against my chest.

‘‘What are you celebrating this evening?” I asked breathlessly.

“Nothing special; it’s only a party.” Ramon’s fingers slowly massaged my back, seductively moving down from my neck, past my shoulder blades, until they were well on their way toward uninvited territory.

It was time for me to turn on the charm. “Everything you do is special, Ramon. Though I must admit when I saw the festivities, I was hoping your father might have been released from prison.” My fingers gently did their own dance along the nape of his neck. “What was he doing inside Cuba, anyway? I thought he came to Miami with you and your sister.”

Ramon’s fingers came to a dead halt. “He did,” he tersely replied. “However, my father was lured back to the homeland only to be jailed in a government conspiracy.”

I softly brushed my lips against his ear, keeping my voice soothingly low. “How terrible for you! Though I’m sure you know rumor says your father was caught hauling rockets into Cuba. In fact, there are those who say he was the founder of the terrorist group, Omega-12.”

Ramon snorted contemptuously. “That is totally ridiculous; it is Castro who is the terrorist. Don’t you find it interesting that no one ever bothers to mention that little detail?”

I wanted to play out a hunch that was growing nearly as hot as Ramon’s hands. “Absolutely,” I whispered seductively. “But what’s even more interesting, is that there are those who claim you’ve stepped in and taken over as Omega-12’s leader, filling your father’s place.”

Ramon’s skin paled to a light shade of beige. “There are people who will say almost anything to have something to gossip about. What you’ve heard is totally false. I suggest you not believe what everyone tells you.”

Ramon glanced around, and I followed his gaze to Elena, playing queen bee to a fawning circle of male models. Tonight’s attire consisted of a teensy-weensy leopard-print bikini that was barely covered by a white, see-through dress. Stiletto-heeled mules stabbed the ground where she walked. Elena’s phosphorescent hair glowed nearly as brightly as the Japanese lanterns that littered the trees, her tresses teased into a glorious lion’s mane, so that I expected her to throw back her head and let out a roar.

“Please forgive me for a moment. There is something I must see to,” Ramon courteously excused himself.

He turned on his heel and glided away toward Elena. Ramon whispered in her ear, and I guessed that I was about to be approached by a couple of burly hunks and quietly escorted out of the party. But Elena just pivoted and sinuously wrapped her arms around her brother, as the two melted into a slow and torrid dance.

Apparently, I’d had a stay of execution. I wandered deeper through the crowd and soon I stood at the fringe of partygoers, near the rear of the estate. A thick grove of banana trees cast shadows on the caretaker’s cottage, beckoning from beneath its haven of palms.

I’d noticed Miguel, the caretaker, on the far side of the lawn, drinking beer and playing cards with a group of elderly Cuban men who were well on their way to being soused.

I melted among the shadows and was soon standing in front of the cottage door.

I don’t know what I expected to find inside—an illegal stash of firearms; grizzled old men plotting an overthrow; maybe just Miguel’s memories of the home he’d left far behind. But as I turned the knob and slipped inside, the awakening shrieks of at least fifty young birds greeted my entrance. I quickly closed the door and pressed my back against it, hoping the sound had been covered by the blasting salsa.

Sitting on two long tables were fifty small metal cages, stacked five high. I stood mesmerized at the sight of a hundred wings fluttering in the air, keeping pace with the pounding of fifty tiny beating hearts, all wrapped in an explosion of electrically charged colors. Each tiny green bundle of feathers had a throat that was dabbed with a touch of red: Cuban Amazons.

Then a glimmer of cobalt blue caught my eye. I glanced up at the higher cages, where pale yellow rings surrounding starry black irises hungrily glared down at me. Either Ramon was secretly subbing as Dr. Dolittle, or these flashy, exotic creatures were extremely valuable, critically endangered, and highly illegal baby hyacinth macaws. I had stumbled upon a mini-Fort Knox of endangered birds. And this was only the first room.

The sane thing would be to leave before I was found, and get hold of a search warrant. But Carlos had kicked me off the case, and I’d be damned if I’d see all my hard work handed to somebody else.

I opened the next door and entered a temperate room, soothingly quiet after the racket of the nursery. A Formica counter ran along its length, where plastic buckets sat neatly lined up like pretty maids, all in a row. I tiptoed over, not daring to make a sound as I peeked inside, and found exactly what I had suspected. Each tub served as a nesting box, its bottom thickly lined with soft cotton towels, its occupants scrawny balls of fluff that lay curled up together. Dozens of week-old nestlings slept peacefully. I wondered if these babies ever dreamed of having been snatched from their jungle home.

Above a stainless-steel sink a hand-lettered sign read,
A DIRTY BIRD IS A SICK BIRD
. In the basin were a number of small plastic syringes without needles, and a bowl filled with a semiliquid mixture. All the chicks, the nestlings as well as those in the nursery, had to be hand fed every two hours. Suddenly, Miguel’s title of caretaker took on a whole new meaning. The old man clearly had his work cut out for him.

There was one more closed door. I walked into a small, dark room that was considerably warmer than either of the other two. Flicking on the light, I saw two high-tech incubators, fully loaded and set to bake and hatch.

I leaned down and counted forty-five eggs in all, each glossy surface about two inches long and an inch and a half in diameter: endangered hyacinths. After my earlier airport egg fiasco, I’d trained myself to recognize a hyacinth egg on sight. The rest of the room was bare, except for empty plastic bird carriers that stood like a sixties pop-art monument in the corner, ready and waiting to be used.

The incubators were set at ninety-nine degrees. Besides feeding the birds, Miguel would have to frequently give the eggs a quarter turn. I definitely needed to get out of here fast.

Suddenly the chorus from the nursery rose sharply in volume, their shrill shrieks piercing my nerves. I didn’t dare move a muscle, straining to hear above the sound of my blood’s Morse-code warning.

Then the door to the nestlings’ room opened, followed by the sound of someone rattling around in the stainless-steel sink. I quickly flicked off the light, hoping Miguel hadn’t looked at the crack under the door, then squeezed behind the stack of carriers and rolled myself up into a tight, compact ball. After Miguel finished feeding the birds, he’d be in to check on the eggs.

I passed the time imagining parrots in flight, their wings hiding me beneath their colorful canopy. With plenty of time to think, it finally dawned on me that there were no breeding cages here. Female hyacinths tend to lay only two eggs to a clutch, which meant that whoever had gathered the eggs must have ripped off at least twenty-two nests. Talk about the rape of the forest.

Having still more time to think, I added up what kind of money the uninterrupted sale of hyacinths and Cuban Amazons must produce.
¡
Aiiee caramba!
The amount was more than enough to purchase M-16s, grenade launchers, and all the rockets Omega-12’s heart could desire. I was ready to run out and call in the armed forces, when Terri’s words echoed in my brain.

Elena hoisting an automatic rifle in stilettos was more than even I could imagine. It wasn’t any easier picturing Ramon in cammo, swiveling his hips and smoking a cigar. But it was clear that the high-flying gravy train of birds kept the siblings rolling in their sumptuous lifestyle. At least I now knew who Alberto’s partners in the bird business had been.

The door abruptly flew open, and Miguel marched in and turned on the light. I lowered my head to my knees and closed my eyes like one more sleeping nestling. But some tiny feathers floating around chose this moment to lodge themselves up my nose, bringing back memories of the night I’d walked into Alberto’s, when feathers had rained down through the air. The struggle to hold back the sneeze became sheer torture. I was on the verge of raising my hands in surrender, when Miguel finished jiggling the last egg and left the room. I dug my nails into my palms until the volume in the nursery rose, announcing that Miguel had passed through. After that, I counted to sixty for good measure.

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.