Just Add Trouble

by Jinx Schwartz

  “Oh, I see. Far as I know, everyone else is fine, but I’ll check in the morning for you. Is it okay, you think, for me to let folks know you’re safe?”

  “I guess, so long as you don’t tell them where to find me. I have my reasons.”

  “Where are you?”

  “If I tell you, I’ll have to kill you.”

  She laughed. “Fair enough, but everybody is so worried.”

  “Tell them I’m alive and well, in Paris.”

  “Works for me.”

  Retired lieutenant, Marty Martinez, late of the Oakland Police Department, called at eight, waking me from a semi-coma.

  Jan answered. From her end of the conversation, I surmised he was, once again, not pleased with us. Over the past year or so he had been instrumental in bailing me out of a few situations, both when he was still with the OPD, and after he retired to Baja.

  “But it wasn’t her fault this time,” she whined. “We were kidnapped.”

  I snatched the phone from her hand just in time to hear Martinez say, “Must’a been some kind of nitwit to kidnap Hetta Coffey.”

  “Hey, I heard that.”

  “Hello, Hetta. I would ask something clever, like whether or not you’d incited any international turmoil lately, but wait a minute, you have.”

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  “Ha! Prove it.”

  “Did you call to help, or just revel in our misfortunate circumstances.”

  “The latter sounds tempting, but Jenks asked me to get involved in the former.”

  “What have you found out so far?”

  “Not on the phone.”

  Once a cop, always a cop. “Then how do we communicate?”

  “You could join me for coffee.”

  “When? Where?”

  “Now, in the lobby.”

  Chapter 34

  “You two look like hell.”

  “Good day to you, too, Marty. Here’s your reality check for the day. Jan and I can have our hair done and put on makeup, while you, on the other hand, will still be stuck with that face and bald spot forever. And by the by, you look even worse than your usual self.”

  “Ignore her,” Jan interjected as she put her arms around the detective. “She’s had a bad couple of days and we are ever so grateful you’re here.”

  “Had to come, missed Hetta’s smart mouth. Life without her? Well, it’s so calm. So sane, so...”

  “Boring?” I suggested.

  “There’s that.” He opened his arms, and Jan and I melted into his reassuring presence. Jan began to sniffle, and I felt the sting of relief in my eyes, as well. The cavalry had arrived. We were safe. We were—

  “—being taken into custody.”

  I whirled to face whoever had an iron grip on my wrist, and found my nose pressed into a gold shield.

  I stared at the badge. It was shiny, with fish and ducks engraved on it. Department of the Interior, Fish and Wildlife Service. Special Agent. And it was pinned on a vest, which fit snuggly on a broad chest of someone tall, tanned, blond and outdoorsy. Not James Bond, mind you, but if I wasn’t so shaken, I could have been stirred.

  He had his other hand wrapped around Jan’s arm. “You two, come with me.” He steered us through the lobby, and outside. As we stood waiting for we knew not what, I spotted something to divert my attention. Steps led down to the next street, and sitting on the steps was a guy totally covered in pigeons. I hate pigeons.

  “Bird poop man of Bisbee?” I said to nobody in particular.

  The fish and game man scowled. “I should probably bust him for feeding the wildlife, but this is Bisbee, and I guess, technically, these pigeons aren’t really wild, more like pets. We also had a guy walking around with a mouse riding a cat riding a dog. Like I said, Bisbee.”

  An SUV with green Border Patrol markings pulled up and we were asked to get in. I considered protesting, but figured it wasn’t worth getting cuffed.

  Tourists shot worried looks our way, one of them speculating we were probably illegal Russians or some such.

  Martinez, seated in the front seat, sat in stony silence, not reacting to the litany of unkind remarks I aimed at him, Jenks, and the entire state of Arizona, but Special Agent man’s lips twitched a couple of times.

  Fifteen minutes later, we pulled up to the border, and some familiar faces. Jan waved gaily to the two Border Patrol agents who’d taken Nacho away after our dramatic entry into the US, but as Martinez ushered us past them, they only nodded in response to her friendly greeting. Fickle, these federal types.

  We were joined by a baby-faced, but gray-haired gent in a crisp United States Customs uniform. He put us into what looked to be an interrogation room. They shut the door behind us, leaving us alone to stew.

  “Looks like they’s gonna sweat us, Guido,” I snarled, trying to lighten the mood, “but they’ll never get me to squeal.”

  “Very funny, Hetta. Ya think we’re in big trouble?”

  “Nah, but I’d sure like to know what that rat fink Martinez had to do with this.”

  “I want my mommy.”

  “Oh, dear. Do you think someone will contact our parents?” I was trying to remember who I’d listed as a contact on my passport.

  “I sure hope not. Unless, of course, you need bail money,” said the ever-practical Jan.

  “We won’t need bail money, we haven’t done anything too illegal. Hey, hold the horses there, cowgirl, what do you mean, unless I need bail money? You’re here, too. How did we get from we to you, Brutus?”

  “Well, Hetta, far as I can tell, I’m not under arrest.”

  “Neither am I. I’m, uh, in custody.” There is a difference, isn’t there?

  We sat in silence for a few minutes, trying to sort things out, me feeling betrayed by everyone. And hungry. Why hadn’t we eaten dinner last night instead of chugging beer? Why didn’t we have breakfast? For that matter, why didn’t I get married at twenty-one, settle down with two kids and a mortgage?” My growling stomach interrupted this string of whys. “If this is kind of a police station, do you figure they have any doughnuts?”

  “I sure hope so. Hetta, who do you think killed Herbert?”

  “Anybody. If anyone ever needed killin’, it was him.”

  “Shhh. Someone might be listening. You are in custody, you know.”

  “And you aren’t? Why me and not—”

  The door opened and three kinds of uniforms entered, along with a suit, and Martinez.

  We needed a bigger room.

  “Please sit down, ladies.”

  Jan sat. I remained standing.

  Martinez grinned, or what passed for a grin with his phlegmatic self. “Okay,” he said, taking charge of the meeting, “now that all the ladies are seated, I guess we can get started.”

  I glared at him, then at the others, who were not doing a great job of suppressing their amusement. “Gee, Martinez, we should book you at the Not Really Ready for Comedy Club. Okay, what is all this about? Am I under arrest?”

  One of the uniforms shook his head. “No ma’am, we just need to talk with you and your lawyer here.”

  “My…?” Martinez shot me a warning look. “My lawyer, Martinez.” I plopped down next to him. “So, counselor, what are we charging these guys with?”

  The agents looked at Martinez, who gave them an, “I told you so” look, but when I opened my mouth to speak again, Martinez shot me a signal that said, “Shut up before you bury yourself.”

  Amazing how communicative the man can get with his eyebrows. I took his silent advice and clammed up.

  Customs man took over. “Okay, let’s start over. Miss Coffey, we have a witness who, in his own words, indicates you have lied to federal officers, and have committed a criminal offense. We are, however, ready to hear your side of the story.”

  Witness? Who? Only Jan and Nacho were there. Nacho is in jail, Jan wouldn’t rat on me and besides, they were both guilty of running the border. Hell, at least I had a valid passport.
These guys had to be bluffing.

  “I’d like to hear your alleged witness’s testimony first.”

  Martinez actually looked impressed and the corners of his mouth twitched. After all, he’d taught me everything I knew about being obtuse.

  Customs rose and left the room, only to return with a large cage in hand. Trouble saw me, fluffed his feathers, blushed and chanted, “Hetta, Hetta, she’s our gal, if she can’t do it, no one shall.”

  Busted.

  “Do you still maintain that you’ve never seen this bird before, as you told these officers when you were apprehended crossing the border illegally?”

  “Hey, I’m a ninth-generation Texan. How long have you been here?”

  “But Texas is a whole ‘nother country,” he quipped, using the Texas Tourist Bureau’s catch phrase.

  “Very funny. You,” I looked at one of the BP guys, “saw my passport.”

  He nodded.

  “See?”

  “And the bird?” The officer wanted to know.

  “He’s crossed the border so many times he has frequent crosser miles.” I then told them the rest of the story, including Trouble’s Texas beginnings, me giving him to Oberto, and his obvious escape to chase me across the border. I concluded with, “So, as you can see, he’s not my bird, he’s a bird of the world. A veritable feathered jet setter. A—”

  Martinez interrupted, just when I was getting warmed up. “How are we doing here? You guys satisfied that my client is not into smuggling birds?”

  Customs shrugged. “I guess. But here’s the rub. We have to destroy the parrot.”

  Jan and I squawked in tandem, which set Trouble off. His screeches sent men scrambling from the room with their hands over their ears. The wildlife guy waved me out, as well. I slammed the door behind me, muffling somewhat the ear-piercing screeches.

  “Look, ” I told him, “I can calm him down if you’ll let me go back in. Besides, I’d like a minute to say goodbye. ”

  He looked at Customs, who shrugged. “Okay, why not.”

  “Jan, stay here. You’re so upset, Trouble will know something’s wrong. I’ll be right back.”

  I opened the condemned’s cage and he immediately shut up and hopped onto my finger. I gave him a kiss. “Sorry, little guy, but I gave you a home and a job and you just couldn’t stay put. I’ll try my best to get you out of this, but for now, you gotta stay here.”

  I started to put him back on his perch, but spotted a wadded up net in the bottom of his cage. Furious, I snatched it out, stuffed it into my pocket, then put Trouble onto his perch. He protested quietly when I shut the door, but I draped my sweatshirt over the cage and he quieted down. I took a last look, and left the room.

  Confronting the wildlife man, I shook the net in his face. “What was this doing in Trouble’s cage? He could get caught in it and break a wing or leg.”

  Wildlife scowled at the others. “What’s with the net?”

  One guy looked sheepish. “Only way we could get him. He was swooping around like a hawk, so we netted him. Sorry, guess we shoulda taken it out of the cage, but that bird is a menace.”

  I stuffed the net in my pocket again lest they terrorize some other poor unsuspecting creature. “Never mind. He’s settled down now, but the best thing to do is just leave him alone until…you do what you have to do.”

  Jan gasped. “Hetta, you can’t mean…we love Trouble. He’s…” She broke into tears, which sent all the men scrambling for tissues.

  I put my arm around her. “I’m sorry Jan, but it looks like there’s nothing more we can do.”

  Her chin trembled. “Nuh, nuh, nothing?” Shifting her focus on the customs agent, she asked, “How will you do it? I mean, Trouble won’t, like, hurt, will he?”

  The man shifted on his feet, visibly uncomfortable. “I really don’t know. We’ve called Animal Control. They handle these things.” Then, he brightened and added. “Of course, right now they’re up in the Huachuca mountains tracking a bear that broke into a home, probably thinking it looked like a good place to hibernate. They’ll be awhile.”

  Jan refused to be cheered up by a temporary stay of execution. “Can’t we just put Trouble in quarantine or something?” she wailed. “He’s just a little gray bird. He can’t hurt anyone.”

  Unless that anyone happens to be a Mexican male. I spoke up. “Martinez, we’re obviously spinning our wheels here, and since we can’t stop the inevitable, let's take Jan back to the hotel now?”

  He looked at the various agents, who nodded somberly.

  We rode back to the hotel in silence, then headed for the bar to begin Trouble’s wake. Granted, a little prematurely.

  Martinez passed on the wake, preferring to get a nap since he’d been on the road for hours on end. I’d grill him later on how he managed to become my lawyer. As he headed for his room, he tossed me the keys to his pickup. “I’m parked in a four hour zone. Before you get sloshed, will you move me somewhere legal? I was on the road most of the night and I’m flat bushed. I don’t even want dinner.”

  “Sure, no problem. Night-night. See you in the morning, unless something comes up. I’ll probably skip dinner, as well. Too tired.”

  I found another parking space for Marty's truck, this time in a paid parking area, then rejoined Jan. We’d both ordered Jack Black on the rocks and she was blubbering into her second when I returned. Whiskey, straight, on an empty stomach, is a really bad idea, but neither of us were hungry, for different reasons.

  Jan was mourning Trouble’s loss, and I was dreading what I had to do next.

  Chapter 35

  After three fast doubles in the hotel bar, Jan was slurring her consonants.

  I, on the other hand, slowly—what a concept—sipped one drink and chased it with water. We hadn’t eaten anything except stale bar popcorn and a greasy donut or two in almost two days, so Jan’s drinks hit her hard, and we barely returned back to the room when she crashed.

  While she snored, I packed up, then wrote a letter outlining Trouble’s dire straits to the Sierra Vista Observer. I was picking up a WIFI signal, so I sent the letter via e-mail, then, just in case the somewhat dubious plot I’d hatched failed, I copied both CNNI and Oberto headquarters. All that done, I stole a pillowcase from my bed, and slipped out the door.

  In the hotel bar, I bought a couple of bottles of water to go, and stuffed popcorn into my jacket pockets. After a short pause in the park in front of the hotel, I reclaimed Martinez’s Mazda pickup and headed south.

  One stop more and I was ready to rumble.

  By late afternoon I was lurking in Naco, Arizona, slumped down in my car seat and munching on the best damned gyro I’d eaten since a brief stint on Mykonos. Who knew that Gus the Greek’s Pizzarama in the San Jose district of Bisbee would turn out such a fine gyro? I’d ordered extra tzadsiki sauce and was having trouble corralling the tangy mixture of shredded cucumbers, garlic and yogurt in its fresh baked pita bread wrapper. I regretted not ordering two.

  While eating, I took in the comings and goings on the American side of the border. There were few people about, none of them interested in me.

  With my hair tucked under a scarf I’d lifted from Jan’s suitcase, and a baseball cap pulled low over my sunglasses, I walked toward the crossing gate, near enough so I could see there was no Animal Control paddy wagon in the border station parking lot. That, and the unearthly screeches emanating from the BP station, convinced me that Trouble was still alive and well and causing an Excedrin kind of day for all the agents. If he didn’t shut up, one of the BP guys just might get tired of waiting for Animal Control and carry out the execution himself.

  Back at the Mazda, I started the motor and pulled as close to the building as I dared. Still, no one paid me any mind. So far, so good. Turning on the prepaid cell phone I’d purchased at a local Dollar Store next to Pizzarama twenty minutes earlier, I dialed the number on the customs agent’s card. Someone else answered, I told them who I was. After being transferred three
times, Mr. Customs Man answered. I had my fingers crossed that he was still at the border station.

  “Agent Charles Riley here.”

  “Oh, hi, Charles. Hetta Coffey here.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  I could hear screeching in the background. Good.

  “I lost my ring. It was left to me by my grandmother, and I think I lost it when we were with Trouble this morning. Jan and I were so upset when we left, I didn’t realize the ring was gone. Uh,” I managed a voice tremble, “they haven’t come for him yet, have they?” Like I couldn’t hear him raising all Billy hell in the background.

  “Oh, take my word for it, he’s still here. He’s not happy. As soon as you left, he set up a racket and hasn’t piped down since. Look, I’m sorry about all this, I really am. He’s a cute little bird, if a bit noisy. Do you want me to see if I can find your ring?”

  “If it wouldn’t be too much bother.”

  “Under the circumstances, it’s the least I can do. You want to hang on while I plug my ears and take a look?”

  “Sure. Thanks.”

  I turned off the phone, rolled down the window and pulled the purloined hotel pillowcase into my lap. Now all I could do was wait. And pray.

  The agent walked into my line of vision, making for the door behind which Trouble was raising Cain. Holding my breath, crossing my fingers, promising promises toward Heaven that I probably wouldn’t keep, I drove slowly toward the Mexican border crossing, letting other cars pass me by. Doing my best to look like a lost and bewildered tourist, I stopped just short of the Mexico entrada, in a sort of no-man’s land, and pulled out a map.

  Still, no one paid me any mind.

  Suddenly, there was a yell and a loud screech. I opened the pillowcase, let the two hapless pigeons I’d snagged in the park out, then joined the short line waiting to cross the Mexican border. Once in line, I whistled repeatedly as loud as I could.