Worst In Show: A Jamie Bravo Mystery

by Layce Gardner

  I go to the living room and he’s now standing on top of the bookshelf. I pick up the box of bird seed and shake it. “Birdie num num,” I say. “Who wants some birdie num num?”

  Lebowitz cocks his head at me.

  “Who’s a hungry birdie? Is Lebowitz a hungry birdie?”

  He cocks his head the other way.

  I hold the box up over my open mouth and pretend to shake the bird seed into it. “Yum yum,” I say while pretend chewing. I rub my belly in circles.

  “Don’t be an asshole,” Lebowitz squawks.

  I ignore the insult and pour some of the birdie num num into the bowl inside his cage. “There’s your food. If you want to eat, you have to go in the cage.”

  He ignores me and buries his head under his wing. I pounce.

  Well, actually my pouncing is more like I run, hop, and dive. I’m still too slow. Lebowitz caws and flies straight up into the air. Unfortunately, the ceiling fan is also straight up. I hear a sickening crunch and there’s an explosion of green and blue feathers.

  Then I hear a thud.

  Oh no. Lebowitz is lying on the floor, not moving.

  I bend down and pick him up in my hands. He’s limp and I don’t think he’s breathing. I don’t have the slightest idea how to do CPR on a bird. I can’t believe this. I killed a bird! A harmless, helpless little birdie. I’m a bird killer. “Please, don’t be dead,” I whisper. “Please, wake up.”

  SQUAWK!

  Lebowitz shoots up into the air, circles the ceiling, craps on my head and drunk-flies into the kitchen. “Okay, now you’re making me mad,” I say, marching into the kitchen with his crap dripping down the side of my face.

  I find Lebowitz standing inside the microwave. The door must’ve flown open when I almost knocked it off the counter. I can’t believe my good luck. The bird is just standing inside the microwave.

  “You think you’re so smart,” I say between clenched teeth. I leap and bat at the microwave door. The door slam shut, trapping Lebowitz inside.

  “Jews and Gays! Jews and Gays!” he squawks from inside the metal box.

  “Fire in the hole!” I shout back.

  I study the buttons on the face of the microwave. There’s not a button marked ‘parrot,” but I have to tell you, as I look at all those buttons, I am tempted. I am soooo tempted.

  But, because innately I’m a moral person, I don’t zap Lebowitz like he’s a Lean Cuisine. I do, however, make him stay inside the microwave while I wash his poop out of my hair in the kitchen sink. Then I put on a pair of rubber gloves I found under the sink, grab the bird and toss him back into his cage. I lock the cage door.

  I hope Mrs. Friedman comes home soon.

  Thirteen

  I hang my trench coat on the peg above the new bench seat in the hallway. Travis must have acquired a new object d’art. That’s what he calls all the garage sale items that he buys and spray paints. This bench is painted hot pink. “I see we got a new object d’crap,” I say while hanging my fedora on the peg next to my coat.

  He calls out from the kitchen, “Dinner’s almost ready. I hope you’re hungry.”

  “When am I not hungry?”

  Sure enough, I find him busy at the stove. “Where’d you find the bench?”

  “You’ll never believe this. Somebody was throwing it away!”

  “No!” I say with a gasp.

  “It was on the curb. I barely got to it before the garbage truck came by.”

  “Lucky you.”

  Travis glares at me. I remind myself to play nice. After all, he does have a spatula and he’s not afraid to use it.

  He says, “Martha Stewart would be proud of me. By placing it beside the door, I have effectively created a foray where none existed before.”

  “That’s just what I was going to say.”

  He studies my hair. “What?” I ask nervously patting the top of my head, hoping there’s no residual bird crap up there.

  “I like your hair. You did something different. New conditioner?”

  “You could say that.”

  Tonight is Travis’s night off from his bartending job. I always look forward to his nights off because that means he cooks dinner. He always cooks low fat, low calorie, low taste meals. I just like the fact that I don’t bloat afterwards and I also don’t feel guilty enough to have to go to the gym. At the moment, he is chopping up something orange that I don’t recognize. I do recognize the broccoli so I reach out to snag a piece, but he slaps my hand away.

  “How was your day, Ward?” Travis asks, doing a pretty good impersonation of June Cleaver. Of course the apron he’s wearing does add to the illusion.

  “The worst part was the parrot,” I say. Then it hits me that maybe I shouldn’t have said that. Maybe I can play this parrot thing to my advantage. You know, like Tom Sawyer painting the fence. “Did I say worst?” I quickly backtrack. “I meant best. The parrot was the only good part of my day.”

  “Can he say a lot of words, you know, like more than Polly wants a cracker because that’s been overdone.”

  I sit down at the counter where he can’t see my face and know I’m lying. “He talks a lot. He’s a very remarkable bird. He dances and sings and –“

  “Dances?” Travis asks. “The bird can actually dance?”

  “Oh, yes. He does a better feather dance than any of the Burlesque dancers.”

  “This I have to see,” he says.

  “I can arrange that if you want. How about going with me tomorrow morning? You can feed him. Gain his trust. Then he’ll do a mean can-can for you.”

  “I’ll set my alarm,” he says.

  Bingo! Now I’ll get Travis to feed the bird and I’ll get to keep all my fingers. “So, what’s for dinner, June darling?” I ask in my best Ward Cleaver voice.

  “Spinache frittata with low fat Swiss cheese and sweet potato wedges.”

  “Sweet potatoes? What wrong with just plain potatoes?”

  “Sweet potatoes are nature’s super food. Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it,” he says as he mists the skillet with coconut oil.

  I squint one eye and wrinkle my nose at the same time. He sighs and says, “Oh, all right. How about olive oil?”

  “How about butter?”

  “Not happening.”

  “Okay, olive oil then.”

  He wipes out the pan, adds olive oil and goes back to cooking. I open the fridge and grab a Yoo-Hoo.

  “Set the table, please. So what else happened today?” he asks.

  As I put out the plates, napkins and silverware I say, “I interrupted a potentially fatal altercation using only a banana. Our missing hymen man got himself bashed with a motorcycle helmet. It broke his nose and he lost a tooth.”

  “Holy shit. Did you take him to Dr. Who?”

  “Had to, the emergency room would’ve asked too many questions.”

  Travis flips scrambly egg pie-shaped looking things on two plates.

  I continue, “I met one of Mrs. Friedman’s neighbors. She lost her German Shepherd because the dog can open doors. I met her in the elevator on the way up to feed Lebowitz.”

  “Mrs. Friedman named her parrot Lebowitz? That’s hysterical,” Travis says as he joins me at the table. “Talking Jewish parrots and a dog the opens doors. My job is so dull compared to yours.”

  “I’d rather watch Burlesque all night, thank you,” I say, taking my first bite. It’s not half bad. I swallow and add, “Oh, and I’m pretty sure I figured out the lost hymen thing.”

  Travis puts his fingers in his ears—female parts gross him out. “Say no more.”

  “I don’t mean I found her hymen. I just found out why Milton was so concerned with her missing hymen. He needs a divorce settlement because he owes money all over town. Gambling debts.” I take another bite. “And that was my day. How was yours, honey?”

  Travis looks at me funny. “Why do I get the feeling you’re leaving something out?”

  “I’m not leaving anything out.”
<
br />   “Uh huh. Did you see Veronica today?”

  “No.” He raises an eyebrow. “Maybe.” He raises both eyebrows. “Yes. How’d you know?”

  “Because you smell like…”

  “Sex?”

  “I was going to say Calvin Klein’s Obsession. She’s the only woman I know who wears that fragrance. So… Tell me all about it.”

  “Nothing to tell.” I suddenly get real interested in eating my sweet potato wedges.

  “So are you guys on again?”

  “No.”

  “Does she know that?”

  He has a point. “I’ll probably have to break up with her again.”

  “I’ll never understand lesbians,” he says.

  “Me either.”

  Fourteen

  Today is the kind of day that makes you want to stay in bed where it’s toasty warm. By the time Travis and I brave the cold wind rushing off the lake and the snowy, slushy streets, and get in to the Friedman’s building we are both shivering. In between teeth chatters, I mumble gratitudes for my new coat and hat.

  Once we’re in the elevator, Travis takes a deep breath and caresses a loving hand over the red satin walls. He says, “Tres swanky. This place even smells like money. Maybe someday we can afford to live in a building like this.”

  I shrug. “Maybe.” Living in luxury isn’t high on my list of priorities. I kind of like slumming it. It’s less of a headache and you never have to worry about what the Jones’s are up to.

  I press the button for the seventh floor.

  Travis says, “Do you ever dream of going somewhere warm? Just for a week or two. Lounging in the sun, walking on the beach and drinking fancy cocktails in pineapples?”

  “I’m not a big fan of pineapples.”

  He looks at me like I’m crazy. “Who doesn’t like pineapple? Are you some kind of Communist?”

  I don’t understand what communism has to do with pineapples, so I don’t ask. I’m not in the mood for a non-linear lecture, so I add quickly, “But I do like coconuts. Especially when girls wear coconut shells over their boobs.”

  “Then let’s go to Belize. First one of us who makes enough money, treats the other to the vacation of their dreams,” he says.

  “Deal,” I say. “I know a good travel agent. I met her at the mall yesterday. I could probably get a discount.”

  Travis looks at my coat. “Is that new?” He reaches out and runs the tip of his finger along my sleeve and makes a yummy noise. “My God, is it a Burberry Brit?”

  “Yeah. I overspent, but what the hell. My blue puffy coat wasn’t very detective’ish. It didn’t exactly inspire confidence from potential clients.”

  “You do look rather film noir’ish now.”

  “That’s what I was aiming for.”

  “I commend you on your good taste.”

  “Thank you, but actually, the sales woman at Nordstrom’s picked it out for me.” The elevator doors open and we step out into the hallway. I lead the way to the Friedman’s apartment.

  “Who was the saleswoman? Reggie?”

  “How do you know her?”

  “Honey, everybody knows Reggie. She has divine taste. I’ve even let her help me pick out stuff. She has a good eye.”

  “I think she was flirting with me,” I say.

  “Want me to fix you up?”

  “What? No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I can handle my own love life, thank you very much.”

  “Like you’re doing such a good job of it by yourself.”

  “I’m not going to take offense at that,” I say. I stick the key in the door and turn the lock. Then I put in an Oscar worthy performance as I widen my eyes and snap my fingers, saying, “Oh, no!”

  “What?” Travis asks.

  “I totally forgot that I need to pick up a parcel for Mrs. Friedman. The doorman is supposed to have it waiting for me. Why don’t you go ahead and feed the bird?” I backtrack toward the elevator. “And I’ll just pop down to the lobby and get the package. I’ll be right back.”

  “Well…”

  I don’t give him time to back out. I hop in the elevator and press the lobby button, waving and saying brightly, “No worries. Food's on the table. You’ll love Lebowitz.”

  The elevator doors close before he has time to object.

  “Have fun with Satan’s parrot,” I say with an evil chuckle.

  I really do have to check on a package that’s supposed to be arriving for Mrs. Friedman. She ordered a Panini maker from one of those shopping networks. When I get back down to the lobby, I find the doorman, Jonathan, sitting behind a newspaper reading the sports section. His brow is furrowed in concentration and his lips are moving silently as he reads. You could have put a three-ring circus in the lobby and this guy wouldn’t notice. Mrs. Heinz’s German Shepherd could shuffle off to Buffalo and he would be none the wiser.

  Jonathan is of indeterminate height—he’s sitting down—and he has wispy gray hair that he combs over a balding pate. His jowls are droopy and so is his porn ‘stache. His nose is red and his cheeks are splotchy like most heavy drinkers. I bet he sits out here all day watching ESPN on his “security monitor” and sipping from a hip flask.

  I walk up in front of him and flick the newspaper. He grunts, but doesn’t put the paper down. I flick again. This time he grunts louder.

  “Excuse me,” I say to the newspaper.

  The gray blob that is Jonathan moves his paper down just enough so one watery eye looks at me. “Yes?”

  “I’m parrot-sitting for Mrs. Friedman and she wants me to check and see if her order from the Shopper’s Network came in.”

  The eye behind the paper squints at me. “How do I know you aren’t a parcel thief?”

  “I don’t steal Panini makers. And even if I did, I wouldn’t know where to fence one,” I say sarcastically, which probably isn’t helping my cause any.

  “Maybe you have a thing for hot sandwiches,” Jonathan says.

  “Who doesn’t like a nicely grilled sandwich,” I say. “Did the package arrive or not?”

  “If she really did ask you to bird sit, answer me this one question: What’s her bird’s name?”

  “Lebowitz,” I answer.

  “Where did she go?”

  “That’s two questions, but I’ll answer anyway. She went to England to retrieve Mr. Friedman.”

  “She lost him again?”

  “He went missing. She didn’t lose him, he got lost all by himself,” I say rather testily. I don’t know why exactly, but I feel the need to defend Mrs. Friedman. I guess us Jews and Gays have to stick together.

  “Good answers. You win a new Panini maker.” Jonathan reaches below his desk and pulls out a package. “You got to sign for it though.”

  I grab his clipboard and sign ‘S. Spade.’ I hand the clipboard back over to him and take the parcel, asking, “You haven’t by chance seen a German Shepherd walk through here, open the door and walk out, have you?”

  “No, we have not,” he says.

  I wonder at his choice of words. Who’s this ‘we’ he speaks of? Is there somebody under his desk? Or is he doing that royal “we” thing like those English people with the crowns. He snaps the newspaper back up over his face, saying, “Now, if you don’t mind we have work to do.”

  “We understand,” I say. I get back in the elevator and head for the seventh floor. I only make it up to the third floor before the elevator stops and the doors open. A lady steps inside. She’s tall and skinny, and looks like Mrs. Jane from The Beverly Hillbillies, minus the binoculars.

  “Oh, thank you,” she says like I did something to be thanked for. She hands me a flyer. “I’m putting up flyers in the building.”

  I look at the flyer in my hand. There’s a photo of a Weiner dog. I don’t know much about dogs—actually nothing at all about dogs—but I think this dog looks very expensive, judging by the blue ribbons and the trophies in the background of the photo.

  “You lost
your dog?” I ask. I’m not psychic or anything, the flyer says ‘Lost Dog’ in big letters.

  “Yes, and I’m ever so worried.”

  “How’d she get out of the building?” I’m pretty sure the dog is a she because it is wearing a pinkish sweater with little poofy things on it.

  “Well, that’s just it. Every day I walk down to the newspaper kiosk on Lexington Avenue and I buy the New York Times. You see, I used to live in New York and I still miss it. So I always tie him up on the nearest parking meter. I was talking with Anthony, he runs the kiosk and he used to live in New York. We always reminisce for a minute. But when I went back to get Max— he’s all I have now that Jeffrey has passed on—he was gone. I don’t know how it happened. I know he wouldn’t run off by himself.”

  Whoops, my bad. The dog is a boy dog. So much for the femme attire. Maybe Max is a gay dog. You never can tell anymore.

  I say, “I’ll keep an eye out for him. If you want, I can put up some of those flyers for you.” I add Max to my mental checklist. First there’s Lady Sybil and now Max. That makes two dogs that have gone missing in the same building around the same time.

  “I’d be so appreciative if you could do that. My name is Ethel Myers. And I live in 8 A,” she says, handing over a stack of the flyers.

  “My name’s Bravo. Jamie Bravo.”

  Mrs. Myers’s face brightens. “Are you the private detective? Mrs. Heinz told me about you. She said you work for the Friedman's.”

  “That's me,” I say. I hand her a business card. “In case you ever need help with something.”

  “If Maxie doesn’t turn up, you’ll be the first one I call,” she says. “I saw this TV program once where people dog-napped dogs just to turn them back in for the reward.”

  “I’ll be sure to keep an eye out.” The elevator stops and I get off, saying. “I hope you find Max.”

  I press my ear up against the Friedman’s apartment door. I’m fully expecting to hear bombs or heavy artillery sounds from inside.

  I don’t hear a thing.

  I slowly open the door and peek my head in. Everything looks okay, so I enter. I tippy-toe down the hallway and peer into the living room. The birdcage is laying on the floor, its door open, birdseed scattered everywhere, coffee table upside down, books laying in piles, feathers floating in the air… it’s like the aftermath of a bird bomb.