“Don’t you dare tell Tanner anything to give him the upper hand,” I jokingly warned.
“You know me better than that, chère. I wouldn’t dream of it.” Jake chuckled.
“Yeah, yeah,” I responded as we all walked outside.
I furtively watched as Jake ever so carefully climbed inside Tanner’s vehicle, before jumping into my own Ford Explorer and taking off.
The morning fog was just beginning to lift. A few rays of sun dappled the city streets, stitching in and out of clouds. I made my way past tourist-choked Union Square, down Market Street, and then on to Highway 101. All the while I wondered if my I’ll-do-as-I-damn-well-please ways had finally been curtailed. Ever since my transfer to San Francisco, I’d been consigned to dealing with bad-boy duck hunters and wayward tourists trying to sneak in illegal items. Now I found myself chasing after some joker running around on a hilltop netting butterflies. It was at times like this that I toyed with quitting Fish and Wildlife and joining the FBI.
I took the Cow Palace exit and drove through an area that few tourists rarely ever see. Hidden on the outskirts of the city are garbage dumps, a slaughterhouse, cemeteries, and toxic industry. The visual blight continued all the way to San Bruno Mountain, where identical row houses marched up its slope like troops of invading clones.
I chose to ignore the decay and focus instead on the last bit of wilderness clinging to life on the city’s southern edge. A huge shoulder of rock, San Bruno Mountain dominates the skyline as it floats above a sea of urbanization. I wound my way up the mountain and parked in the designated lot. Then striking out, I hiked toward the meadow as Davis had instructed.
Elderberry trees gave way to stands of eucalyptus before opening onto a prairie of grassland. A profusion of California poppies, scarlet pimpernels, and buttercups intermingled in a colorful palette to create a thick floral carpet. The honking of horns, chatter of people, and ringing of cell phones gradually receded into the background, replaced by the strident call of a red-shafted flicker. I glanced up to where a Northern harrier soared lazily in the sky, unperturbed at being the source of so much fear.
Looking around, I wondered if Mr. Butterfly might not have already left, when a figure began to take shape in the distance. I walked toward it and the form slowly morphed into that of a man. He was just as Davis had described him: overweight, short in stature, and sporting an unkempt bush of red hair. In addition, the guy looked as though he hadn’t changed his clothes in over a month, but lived in the same rumpled short-sleeve shirt and baggy shorts day in and day out.
Drawing closer, I saw that the fabric gaped open where buttons were missing and that his shirttail hung partially out of his pants. The man had a backpack and shovel. However, the cooler that Davis had mentioned was nowhere in sight.
I decided to pass myself off as a hiker, figuring it would be easy enough to do. I never wear a uniform. Besides, this was Saturday—a time when poachers rarely expect agents to be on the prowl.
“Hi,” I said with a smile and approached.
Mr. Butterfly gave me the once-over, and then swiftly glanced around.
“Yeah. How you doing?” he muttered, pulling a pair of binoculars from his backpack.
He placed them against his eyes and looked up at the sky, swinging his head left and right, as if following the Indie 500. Such a grandiose show of birdwatching deserved its own special reward.
“Would you mind telling me what kind of bird that is up there?” I questioned, pointing skyward.
The Northern harrier sailed majestically above us, as if also awaiting the answer.
“Sure. That big-ass bird is a bald eagle. You know, like our national symbol. Why? What’s the matter? Don’t you recognize it?” he cockily responded.
So much for Mr. B passing himself off as a birdwatcher. Still, I had to give the guy an A for sheer ballsiness.
“No, I’m afraid I didn’t, but thanks for filling me in. I guess I don’t know all that much about birds,” I responded, playing along.
Mr. Butterfly lowered his binoculars and visibly relaxed. “Oh yeah? So what do you know about?” he flirtatiously asked.
“I know it feels good to come up here and get out of the city after working with computers all week,” I bantered and coyly stretched. “Besides, it’s a way for me to meet other people who also enjoy nature.”
“Yeah, I like nature plenty, if you know what I mean,” he retorted with a wink. “So what are you? One of those dot commers that’s managed to hang onto a job?”
“Only if you call sporadic temp work a profession. The truth is, I’m going to be in trouble soon if I don’t find something else to supplement my income.”
My new friend made an obvious show of checking out my figure. “Hell, you’re a good-looking woman. It shouldn’t be hard for you to come up with a way to make a few extra bucks. Tell you what. I’ll give you a twenty to do a little communing with me and nature right here and now.”
“Watch it. I’m not that kind of girl,” I laughed, sorely tempted to practice my Krav Maga on him.
It was then I noticed the tattoo on his arm. The design was of the perfect Playboy Playmate: a smiling, eager female with a perky pair of breasts. The cartoon figure was nude but for red high heels and thigh-high stockings. More than likely, it was the most enduring relationship with a woman that this guy would ever have.
Mr. Butterfly followed my gaze and playfully flexed his biceps so that the girl began to dance.
“So, what do you do?” I asked.
“Oh, a little of this and that. Mostly buy and sell stuff that I get at storage auctions. You know, those places where people keep their things when they have too much crap. Of course, they lose it all once they stop paying the rent. It’s amazing what kind of shit you can pick up there. Everything from refrigerators to furniture to family heirlooms.”
“And where do you sell the items? At flea markets?”
“You’ve gotta be kidding me. Standing around all day is for dumb-ass suckers. I’m a techno kinda guy myself. I go eBay all the way.”
“That sounds interesting. So then, what are you doing up here with a shovel?” I asked, gesturing at the spade by his side. “Digging for gold?”
Mr. Butterfly chuckled, and then his face lit up. “You know what? This just might turn out to be your lucky day.”
“How so?” I asked, dragging my eyes from his tattoo. I wondered how Miss Perfect’s body would look when the skin on his arm began to sag. It seemed only fair that she should have to undergo the same trials and tribulations as every other woman.
“Because I think I’ve got a way for you to make some extra bucks. You’d also be helping me out.”
“I already told you, I’m not that type of girl.”
Part of me hoped he’d make a move, just so I could slam the guy to the ground and teach him a lesson.
Yeah, yeah. I know. You’re a nature girl. So nature girl, how do you like butterflies?”
“I think they’re very pretty.”
“That’s jim-dandy. But do you know anything about the little squirts?”
“Just that they fly from flower to flower.”
“How’d you like to learn a whole lot more?”
“What for?” I asked, wondering where he was headed with this.
“Because they’re worth big bucks.” He held out his hand and grinned, exposing a chipped tooth. “The name’s Mitch Aikens and I’m about to save your ass. Say hello to your new part-time employer.”
“Wait a minute. What do I have to do?” I cautiously responded, having been caught by surprise.
“Relax, nature girl. I already told you that I do a little of this and a little of that. One of them is to breed and sell butterflies. All you’ve got to do is learn to be daddy’s little helper. So, are you gonna tell me your name now? Or am I supposed to guess?”
“Sally Peters,” I replied, making up the name as I shook his hand.
“Sally, huh? Whadda ya know? It must be fate. That�
�s the name of my little sweetie here,” he said, pointing to his arm.
Tattoo Sally’s breasts bounced up and down as he again flexed his muscles. “I love it when she does that,” Aikens said with a satisfied sigh.
No doubt about it. She was definitely the right woman for this guy.
“Okay, Sally. Here’s the deal. I don’t have time to raise these butterflies all by myself, what with everything else I’ve got going. Eggs are hatching ’round the clock, and they’re demanding little buggers. Wait till you see. Those caterpillars can eat you out of house and home like there’s no tomorrow. So what say I pay you to dig up certain types of plants and you feed the suckers for me? What the hell. You said you like nature, right? Well this’ll give you plenty of time outside. Then you can go back to my place and make a few extra bucks. Just think of it as watching the beauty of Mother Nature at work. Whadda ya say? Not a bad gig, huh?”
How could I refuse when this guy was nice enough to set my trap for me?
“Just one question. Is all this legal?” I asked, playing the part.
“Absolutely!” he exclaimed, raising his hands in a show of innocence. “Dealing in butterflies is the latest hot thing. Haven’t you heard about those companies selling thousands of them to be released at special events? They’re raking in a cool billion bucks a year and it’s all perfectly legit. Hell, what I’m doing is small potatoes compared to that.”
I’d heard plenty about it, all right. Live releases, in which hundreds of butterflies are set loose at bar mitzvahs, memorial services, corporate events, and even divorces, are a growing trend. Forget about tossing rice. Hurling butterflies has become the “in” thing to do when attending a wedding.
The gesture is meant to celebrate hope, transformation, and new beginnings. However, there are those who vehemently disagree. Experts from lepidopterist organizations to the National Audubon Society have declared war on the practice, branding it the “dark side” of butterfly popularity, and little more than a smokescreen for profit. Far worse is that it’s a dangerous form of environmental pollution.
Butterfly populations are already plummeting due to poaching and habitat loss. The release of farmed butterflies only further complicates matters. Not only are migration patterns disrupted, but they spread disease among their relatives in the wild, while havoc runs rampant within their genetic makeup.
If that’s not enough, ranched butterflies tend to be badly injured during shipment, so that they arrive at their destinations dead and dying. They tumble out of beribboned boxes with wings tattered and torn—all because they’re viewed as nothing more than pretty ornaments.
“I’m not in that league, of course. My business is on a much smaller scale. I like to think that my specimens appeal to the discriminating collector. Which means I can’t pay you a whole shitload of money. Unless you happen to stumble upon a rare butterfly or find some of its eggs. Then we’d be talking a whole different ball game.”
Aikens let the suggestion dangle, clearly waiting to hear my response.
“Well, I take it that’s why you’re in the business of raising butterflies. To make money, right?”
“Correcto-mundo, nature girl. I can tell you’re a fast learner. In which case, you might want to know how to use this little beauty.”
Aikens whipped out a small aluminum tube that opened into a collapsible net. “Those of us in the biz refer to this as a National Park special.” A Cheshire cat grin spread across his mouth, as if he were about to reveal a secret.
“Why is that?” I asked, knowing it would make his day.
“’Cause that’s where you use it; in places where you can easily get caught. Okay, let’s say I hear someone coming. Watch this. Whammo, bammo! The net instantly folds back into the tube so that I can quickly stash it away. That’s just one little trick of the trade. I’ll teach you others as we go along. But right now let me show you what kind of plants I want dug up.”
The shovel bit into earth as Aikens tore out live plants and left bare holes in their place. I didn’t tell him that such activity was illegal. He’d find out soon enough.
“Piece of cake, huh?” he remarked, stuffing a silvery bush with spiky blue flowers into his bag. “You’re gonna have so much fun that you’ll probably end up paying me just to let you continue. What say you follow me home now and I’ll show you my setup?”
I began to traipse after him, when Aikens turned and tried to thrust the shovel into my hand.
“Here, carry this for me.”
“Why? Am I being paid yet?” I retorted.
He stared at me and then broke into a chuckle. “I gotta tell ya, you got moxy, babe. I think we’re gonna get along just fine together.”
We headed back to the parking lot where Aikens homed in on a mini-Cooper as red as his hair. It would have been easy enough to guess which was his vehicle. The license plate bore the logo RED ELF, while a bumper sticker slapped on the rear fender bemoaned, WHY MUST I BE SURROUNDED BY FRICKIN’ IDIOTS? Best of all was the I’m-having-a-bad-hair-day troll doll skewered on its antenna.
Aikens threw his shovel and backpack into the car, after which he pulled out an ice chest and showed me its contents. There were no sandwiches and sodas inside, but rather an array of butterflies, each shrouded in its own glassine envelope. They lay perfectly still, looking like colorful little corpses.
“Are they dead?” I asked, captivated by the rainbow assortment.
“Nah. I just gave them a tiny pinch on the thorax to stun them for now. That way they won’t squirm around and damage their wings. I’ll throw them in the fridge, and then the freezer, once I get home, to finish them off. Here’s another tip for you. That’s the best way to get perfect specimens.”
I gazed at the lineup. Some butterflies were reddish orange, while others appeared copper brown with a purple sheen. Then there were those that had diagonal bands of yellow and black on their wings. Only one small butterfly was iridescent blue and lavender in color. There was something mesmerizing about the bug, even though its wingspan was only about an inch. I wondered if this was possibly the Mission blue butterfly that Mark Davis had told me about. Then I realized what I found to be so bewitching.
The world was now at a crossroads where even a tiny winged creature such as this tottered on the brink of extinction. I’d heard of butterflies referred to as barometers for the health of the planet. If so, what did the future hold for us as human beings? That thought remained with me as Aikens closed the lid.
Three
I followed the Red Elf toward Daly City. Its dense cluster of houses tumbled down the hillsides as if floating on a river of lava. Aikens parked in the driveway of a ticky-tacky dwelling with pink plastic flamingos and a black jockey holding a lantern on its front lawn. I got out of my Explorer and brought up the rear, strolling along a gnome-lined walkway to the entrance.
Talk about your eclectic mix. A suit of armor stood in the hallway guarding an array of Danish, Gothic, and Spanish this-looks-like-it’s-been-through-a-bullfight furniture.
“Pretty cool, huh?” Aikens said, proudly showing it off. “Everything comes from storage units. I always keep the choice stuff for myself.”
His sense of design was certainly unique. I promptly named it “eau de mishmash.” The place definitely made me feel better about my own thrown-together digs.
It was then I caught sight of something moving toward us from out of the corner of my eye. Half tumbleweed/half sootball, the mobile mass of unkempt knots and fur never veered from its course. I’d have guessed it was Cousin It from The Addams Family, but for the fact that rather than two legs it had four.
Whatever it was sashayed up and rubbed against me. How could a Brillo pad possibly move? I wondered. Then the critter raised its head and purred. Whadda ya know? It was a walking, talking hairball. I bent down to pet the cat and my fingers got stuck in its fur.
“Hey, Ma! I’m home! We’ve got company, so make sure you’re decent.”
Ma? Aikens had to be joki
ng. The man was far too old to be living with his mother. Besides, what sort of woman would put up with this mess?
I found out as Ma Aikens shuffled into view. Rail thin, the woman was an animated scarecrow dressed in jeans and a denim jacket, with a pair of terrycloth flip-flops on her feet. A cigarette, consisting mostly of ashes, dangled from her mouth. But it was her face that demanded my attention. This was why hairdressers, makeup artists, and plastic surgeons existed. Her kisser was puckered and lined from too much sun, smoke, and general unhappiness, while a lump of peroxided straw sat like a nest on top of her head.
“Do me a favor, kiddo,” she said by way of greeting. “Marry my son and get him the hell out of here already, will ya? It’s the only way I’ll ever get this place clean.”
Ma Aikens snickered at my startled expression.
“Tell you what. I’ll make you a cup of coffee first. How’s that sound? Come with me into the kitchen.”
I did so out of sheer curiosity. It was well worth the trip. All the appliances—none of which had seen the wet side of a sponge for nearly forty years—were original, dating back to the 1960s. The hairball followed along. Jumping up, it licked at scraps of hardened food so old they’d become a permanent part of the stovetop. A package of chopped meat, long defrosted, sat waiting to be opened on the counter. I wondered if it was for tonight’s dinner, considering that it was queasy gray in color.
Ma Aikens threw a teaspoon of freeze-dried coffee, half of which stuck to the spoon, into a stained cup. “It’ll just take a few minutes for the water to boil. This stove doesn’t work as well as it used to.”
No problem there. I wasn’t in a rush, since the kettle was blanketed in a layer of cat hair.
Aikens stuck his head in the doorway. “Hey Sally, stop dawdling and come into my bedroom. I want to show you the setup.”
Ma Aikens flashed a gap-toothed grin. “That’s my boy. Mitch doesn’t waste a minute once he finds someone he wants.”
In that case, I was grateful not to be the object of his desire.
Blue Twilight Page 2