A wave of queasiness broke over me. I nudged the pump’s barrel against the door, pushing it open a little further.
“Willy? I know you’re in there. So why don’t you stop with the games and come out,” I called.
Again, there was no answer. Damn! Damn! Damn! I hated this part.
“All right, Willy. That’s it—I’m coming in,” I warned. “Just don’t make any sudden moves. I’ve got a pump, and I swear to God, I’ll use it.”
I waited for Weed to surrender, but there still wasn’t a sound. Taking a deep breath, I screwed up my courage by rehashing my encounter with the black mamba. If you can’t be brave, sometimes anger works.
The metal steps creaked beneath my feet as I walked through the door into the dark den, as airless and hot as a sauna. I was prepared for the hundreds of hostile snakes as I flicked on the switch—but something additional was lying in wait.
A huge cocoa-colored mountain of flesh, Big Mama was curled up on the floor, her muscles undulating as she drew her girth in tighter and tighter. I caught a flash of something deep within her coils and daringly edged closer. Big Mama paid little attention, consumed by whatever was hidden within her rings of shiny skin. I crept forward inch by inch, determined to see what the big attraction was.
The crown of a beat-up, brown leather cowboy hat bobbed into view. The next moment, I caught sight of the head that was attached to it. Willy had described himself and his python as being like one; it looked as if Big Mama had taken the next step in the progression of their relationship. Willy Weed stared out at me with dead, unseeing eyes.
I stared back as Big Mama proceeded to give Willy one last love squeeze, making his mouth fly open and his tongue slide out. Then the room went pitch-black, followed by the thud of the door slamming closed.
I stood stock-still with cold, gut-wrenching fear, tempted to use my shotgun to blow a hole straight through the ceiling—until I remembered the stack of plywood piled on the trailer’s roof. I’d end up creating an instant skylight, only to knock myself unconscious and uncage a few nasty critters.
As I wavered between finding the light switch and screaming my lungs out, I could almost feel Big Mama slither in my direction, making it “two for the price of one” day. That was all the impetus I needed.
I stretched out my hand, my fingers break dancing along the wall in a desperate race for the light switch, praying the power line outside hadn’t been cut. A hard, plastic nub bit into my skin and I flicked it up, bathing the room in bright light.
I quickly grabbed the door handle, more than willing to face whatever lowdown, nasty creature was waiting on the other side. But the metal arm refused to budge: I’d been deliberately locked inside.
I peered back over my shoulder, where Willy’s corpse now wore a maniacal grin, the blood-red ruby gleaming in his front tooth. Then Big Mama turned her head toward me and flicked out her tongue. The next moment, a car’s engine roared to life and a vehicle screeched away.
That did it. I took a few steps back, wedged the butt of the shotgun up against my shoulder, aimed at the door, and pulled the trigger. The blast nearly rocked the trailer over, and the pump’s recoil flung me back, knocking me right off my feet.
My fall was buffered by something soft, and I turned to find myself face-to-face with Big Mama and her boy toy. I was on my feet and flying through what was left of the trailer door faster than the speeding bullets.
Willy’s pickup still sat in its place. It was the unmarked utility vehicle that had vamoosed, taking Weed’s mother lode of weapons with it. I ran back inside Willy’s trailer and tore straight for the bedroom. His suitcase was gone, as were his fake passport, the ticket to Brazil, the muslin sacks, and the thick wad of moolah.
The lid of Willy’s answering machine was flipped up in salute, its interior as bare as Mother Hubbard’s cupboard. Even the message tape was missing. There was nothing left to tie Willy to any of the things I had discovered. Damn!
Then I remembered the third trailer that Weed kept locked. I grabbed my shotgun and headed out. But there was no need to resort to violence; this time the door easily swung open.
I was relieved to find it contained no creepy crawlies, but disappointed to discover it held nothing at all. I kicked around some scattered remnants of rubble, and my foot hit something beneath a piece of discarded cardboard. I slowly lifted its edge with my toe. Lo and behold: a box of ammo sat on the floor. Inside were 9mm hollow point bullets, announcing loud and clear that this had been where Willy kept his stash of arms. Beneath the box lay a crumpled receipt from a Quik Pik convenience store, with an address that leapt up and grabbed me. The store was located in Macon, Georgia.
I headed back to my car, pulled out my cell phone, and punched in a number.
“Reardon here,” Vern said in a just-let-me-fish-and-leave-me-alone drawl.
“I’m at Willy Weed’s place. You’re going to want to head over this way with a body bag,” I informed him.
“Shit! That sucker didn’t actually kill Bambi, did he?” Vern asked, with a tremor in his voice.
I was genuinely touched, until I realized Vern was probably scrambling to cover his ass.
“No. The bag is for Willy,” I replied.
“What happened? You didn’t kill the bastard, did you?”
“Nothing like that. But when you come, bring a herp expert with you. Willy’s death involved a large snake.”
“A case of kinky sex, huh?”
“More like an embrace that just wouldn’t stop. Did you ever meet Big Mama?” I inquired.
“Who the hell is that?” Vern sputtered. “Some female wrestler, or something?”
“Yeah. Something like that.”
My next call was one that I was looking forward to. I dialed the office of the state Game and Fresh Water Fish Commission.
“Hey, Stevens!” I greeted the wildlife desk duty agent. “Guess what? You’re not going to be needing that warrant for Weed, after all. In fact, you can even skip filing the violation report.”
“What’s this?” Stevens asked suspiciously. “Some new kind of approach you’ve come up with? Well, it won’t work. I don’t care how many times you call. Everything is being done by the book.”
I snickered. “That’s why I’m calling. You’re going to have to make arrangements for someone to feed Weed’s cats until you get them placed in a sanctuary.”
“What’s with you, Porter?” Stevens griped. “Haven’t you heard one word I’ve been saying?”
“Of course,” I politely responded. “But situations change, Stevens. And that’s when adjustments have to be made.”
“Oh yeah? Like what, for instance?” Stevens shot back.
“Like the fact that Willy Weed was just murdered, placing his cats in the abandoned category. I’d hate to think what would happen if the local newspaper got wind that these animals were left to starve due to bureaucratic red tape. It might sell a lot of newspapers, but it wouldn’t win any of us a popularity contest,” I observed.
There was a moment of silence before Stevens finally answered. “You’ve made your point, Porter. I’ll get on it right away.”
“I’m sure the cats would appreciate that,” I replied.
I had told Reardon that Willy had been murdered. I believed that was true. Not that I didn’t put it past Big Mama to grab a meal where she could get one, but it didn’t make sense that Willy wouldn’t have been able to get away. Not unless he’d been knocked out cold or killed first.
Buzz Tregler was the first to pop to mind, but I couldn’t see a motive on his part. Not only did Buzz not strike me as the violent type, but I couldn’t believe he would have locked me in the trailer to await such a gruesome fate. Bambi was the only other connection I had, and it was entirely possible she’d made good on her threats. I decided to find out by breaking the news to her.
Bambi answered the door in an outfit that the postman, the milkman, the handyman, or almost any other red-blooded male would have given a day’s pay for just to ca
tch her in. Her 38 Ds were covered by a pair of pasties from which protruded two miniature American flags. The flags stood at a forty-five-degree angle, mounted on tiny plastic sticks. Her red, white, and blue G-string continued the theme with a gold sequined star in its center. The finishing touch was the foam rubber Statue of Liberty crown embedded on her platinum spikes.
“I’m practicing for my new act,” Bambi explained as she opened the door. “I’m going for a patriotic theme.”
“You got a job, then?” I asked.
Bambi led the way into the kitchen, the two flags gaily waving with each bounce. “Did I have a choice? Besides, I need to get out of this damn house. How the hell else am I ever going to meet anyone?”
The tattooed heart bearing Willy’s name winked at me from her right cheek as I followed behind.
“You won’t believe what I’ve got planned to do with a sparkler,” Bambi confided. “As far as I know, it’s never been done before.”
I could only imagine. Before I informed Bambi of Willy’s untimely demise, though, I wanted to see what information I could get. “Can you tell me a little about Buzz Tregler?”
Bambi’s eyes narrowed to two rings of heavy liner, forming parallel black holes where her peepers should have been.
“Whaddaya wanna know?” she asked suspiciously.
“For instance, do you have any idea what kind of surplus Buzz deals in at Robins Air Force Base?” I asked, going for an off-the-cuff tone.
But Bambi wasn’t about to be suckered. “How the hell should I know?” She pulled her lips back in a sarcastic smile. “Probably Spam.”
Cute—especially since Willy had used those exact words before.
She poured two cups of coffee and joined me at the kitchen table.
“Willy’s a shit!” squawked a high-pitched voice.
Bambi grabbed a ripe peach, picked up a kitchen knife and cut it into slices, one of which she stuck between her teeth. Walking over to the cage, she slipped the fruit halfway through the bars. The Amazon hopped over and gently took the slice from her lips.
“I see the two of you are getting along better,” I commented.
Bambi sat down and picked up the sugar bowl, dumping some into her coffee. Then she lowered her finger into the cup and stirred. When she was done, she popped her fingertip into her mouth and sucked off the liquid.
“He’s my bird now,” she replied.
I took a sip of the coffee. Even sugar wouldn’t have helped. “Do you know if Buzz’s job involves dealing with weapons in any way?”
Bambi leaned forward, resting her 38 Ds on the table. “Listen, Porter. The guy filched me a watch, and once Willy even had him snatch a pearl necklace. Other than that, I don’t know shit.”
This wasn’t getting me anywhere. It was time to hand her the news.
“Somebody planted a black mamba in my bungalow last night. I’m pretty sure it was Willy,” I told her.
Bambi adjusted her flags so that they lay neatly on the Formica surface. “He’s a sick fuck. He coulda done that—except for the fact that he’s outta town again. Must be somebody else out there who hates your guts, Porter.”
“He never left town,” I told her.
Bambi glared at me, running all ten of her sharpened nails across the table. “Are you trying to tell me that he’s out at his place shacked up, doing it with a couple of broads?” she asked.
“Willy’s a shit!” screeched the Amazon.
“Shut up!” Bambi yowled.
“He’s not shacking up with anyone anymore. I went over to his place this morning. He was dead when I got there.”
Bambi’s expression didn’t change. Only her mouth fell open. She quickly shut it. “What are you talking about? He flew to Brazil first thing this morning.”
I couldn’t believe what I’d just heard. “You mean you’ve known about those trips to Brazil all along?”
“How the hell else am I supposed to take care of these kids?” Tears started to run down her face. “For chrissakes! We’re only talking about birds!”
It irritates the hell out of me when people say something stupid like that. “Yeah? Well, now we’re also talking about guns. Whoever killed Willy made off with a pile of weapons from the cargo bed of his pickup.”
Black mascara ran down Bambi’s cheeks. A few drops plopped into her coffee; the rest streaked onto her neck before settling on her breasts. “Buzz would never do something like that,” she said in a whisper.
I jumped on the nugget of information. “Why not?”
Bambi turned her tear-stained face toward me. “Because they were partners, dammit! Buzz was the source, but Willy was the brains behind the plan. You tell me why Buzz would go and screw himself on a sweet deal, huh? I’m telling you, there’s no way he’d do that!”
The phone rang and Bambi jumped up to get it. She listened for a moment, and then cupped her hand around the mouthpiece.
“Willy’s dead. Porter’s here and she’s looking for you. Don’t go back,” she warned. I grabbed the phone out of her hand.
“Listen to me, Buzz. This is important,” I began. But the phone was already dead. I turned toward Bambi. “All right. Where can I find him?” I pressed. “Is he back at the base?”
Bambi wiped her eyes, spreading mascara and eyeliner across her face. “Not anymore, he’s not.”
“Bambi, you’re going to have to talk to me, as well as to the police.”
Bambi stood up and placed a hand on each of her bare hips, her flags waving in indignation. “I’m not saying another damn word without talking to my lawyer.”
Naturally, she meant the killer shark in a suit that I’d gotten for her. Great.
There was only one person who knew something about the military I could talk to, and that was Tommy. Not that I expected much, but it seemed the logical place to go next.
The lunch crowd must have been pretty light at his place today. Most people were already gone, and Tommy was well on his way to being half soused. His sailor cap was pulled down low, and he’d lost his trademark luau shirt, giving me full view of a gallery of faded tattoos. A forties pinup girl sat coyly poised on his left bicep, flaunting her chest with each twitch of his muscle. On his right arm was a tattoo of a heart inscribed with the word MOTHER. Another tattoo of a heart had a dagger stuck through it, a drop of blood hanging from the tip of its blade. Maybe it was his answer to a love affair gone wrong.
He threw ball after misguided ball across a small patch of Astroturf in a one-man game of bocci. So far, he’d managed to work up a sweat without hitting a thing. He removed his cap, exposing a bald, shiny head, and used it to wipe the perspiration off his face.
“You gonna let me stand here and die of thirst? Why don’t ya get us a coupla cold ones?”
I walked behind the bar, opened up the cooler, and ladled the brew into two clean but dented tin cups. When I returned Tommy was parked on the Astroturf, having knocked the bocci pins onto the ground.
He slapped a section of the turf beside him. “This stuff is great. Sorta like a pillow for your butt.”
I handed him one of the cups and sat down.
He took a gulp of the beer, and wiped his mouth off with the back of his hand. “You here to drink or to talk?”
“Today I’m here to talk,” I regretfully replied.
Tommy slapped his cap back on his head. “In that case, we need some food.”
He got a container of homemade smoked fish dip and a box of Saltine crackers from the bar. My stomach gurgled as I caught a whiff, and I dug in.
“So, what’s the next piece you’re looking to fit into the puzzle?” Tommy asked.
I looked at him, a cracker stuffed in my mouth.
“That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
I nodded, swallowed, and took a sip of beer. “You remember my telling you about the person who I thought was bringing Cuban Amazons and hyacinth macaws into Miami for Alberto?”
“Yeah. The guy who had a passport without any entry
or exit stamps from Cuba.” Tommy snickered.
I blushed. “I discovered he’s been involved in something else besides smuggling birds.”
“Aren’t they all?” Tommy remarked. He piled a mound of fish dip onto a cracker and popped it into his mouth.
“This guy, Willy, has also been running guns,” I said.
Tommy flipped the brim of his cap off his eyes. “Nothing unusual about that,” he replied.
I took a deep breath. “Let me re-word it. What I caught a gander of were M-15s and M-16s, along with grenade launchers, 9mm Glocks, machine guns, night-vision gear, and flamethrowers. And that’s just what I saw in the back of his pickup truck. God knows what else he’s been selling.”
Tommy raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like he’s got quite the source for supplies.”
“That’s exactly what I wanted to talk to you about. His best friend is stationed at an air force base in Georgia, where he works in the surplus division. When I was out at Willy’s, I heard a message on his answering machine that said the Commander could place his grocery list to be filled at the candy store whenever he wants.” I glanced over at Tommy, who had his head tilted back and his eyes closed. “You were in the military; does any of this make sense to you? Or have I just managed to put you to sleep?”
A smile stole across Tommy’s face, followed by a low chuckle. “What a scam. Hell, you can’t help but admire that kind of ingenuity. Especially coming from two crackerbarrel numbskulls.”
I hate it when I’m left out of the loop. “Do you want to tell me what you’re talking about?”
Tommy got up, walked over to the bar again, and dragged back the entire cooler. He opened the lid and refilled both our cups.
“You know what I like about you, Porter?” He took a long swig of beer.
“No, what’s that, Tommy?” I was sure there was a punch line.
“It’s all the shit you get yourself involved in. It amuses the hell out of me,” Tommy replied with a laugh.
“Glad I keep you entertained,” I answered, irritation creeping into my voice.
Tommy gave me a sidelong glance. “Hey, cool down, Porter. If you weren’t out there putting your butt on the line, you’d never find out about any of this. I’m giving you credit for going out there and doing it.”
Bird Brained (Rachel Porter Mysteries) Page 24