Bird Brained

by Jessica Speart

  Tony met me at the gate in a pair of burgundy silk pajamas and white patent leather shoes, a flashy gold chain perfectly centered on his unruly jungle of chest hair. He’d forgotten to slap on his toupee, exposing a few limp strands that clung to his scalp for dear life.

  “What the fuck took you so long?” he demanded. “I swear, my heart is palpitating like a goddamn squirrel trapped inside a paper bag. It’s threatening to explode every time that miserable bastard drives by. I coulda been dead by now, standing out here waiting for you to show!”

  He swiped at his forehead with a meaty paw, then motioned for me to follow. I dutifully treaded along toward the back of his house, only to come to a sudden stop when I saw a massive German shepherd before us, its teeth bared. The dog instantaneously transformed into a locomotive of flying fur and paws, eyeing my body like a large T-bone steak.

  “Halt, Poopsie, halt!” Tony commanded, with a gesture that made the delicate charm bracelet dangling from his thick wrist flash in the sun. Poopsie froze in midair and crashed to the ground at my feet.

  “Ya can’t be too careful,” he said. “There’s a lot a scum out there, if ya know what I mean.”

  I exhaled in short, jagged bursts, still not trusting the dog, who licked his chops with his eyes locked on my throat. “Friendly pooch you’ve got there, Carrera. He must get his warm, cuddly personality from your side of the family.”

  “Just don’t piss me off and you’ll be fine,” Tony snickered.

  I walked by Carrera’s side with Poopsie loping along, his snout noisily sniffing my fingers. Tony’s house was a sprawling ranch, but it was the grounds in back that made his residence special. Gathered around a large pond were twenty-five flamingos, so seemingly perfect they could have been mistaken for lawn ornaments. They were deep coral in color, with the long, elegant necks of well-bred society matrons. They turned toward me in unison, shyly displaying a chorus line of hooked, Roman beaks. Then the birds leisurely moved away, their long, spindly legs stepping as gingerly as though in a minefield.

  Carrera grunted, collapsing into one of the large pink lounge chairs that was sculpted in the shape of a sleeping flamingo. I joined him, with Poopsie attached to my side. Tony lifted a dark green pitcher and filled two brightly colored plastic glasses to the brim. I picked up my glass and took a sip, expecting it to be some sort of summer drink. Instead, a hot combo of Tabasco sauce and tomato juice bombarded my taste buds with a rousing snap, crackle, and pop.

  “What the hell is this?” I sputtered with a gasp.

  Poopsie let loose a low growl, apparently not pleased with my tone.

  “Haven’t you ever had a Bloody Mary before, Porter?” Tony reached down along the side of his chair and hoisted up a bottle of vodka, looking tickled at having taken me by surprise. He unscrewed the cap and gave his glass an extra hit. “Maybe you should consider bribing someone to take you out once in a while.”

  “You probably shouldn’t be drinking. Aren’t you on some sort of medication for that snake bite?” I wondered if there was any way I could be held responsible, should Tony be found floating face down in his pond. Even more to the point, I wondered if I could get away with the deed.

  “Yeah. So what?” he snorted. “I only buy the good stuff—this vodka’ll kill anything. Even the venom of a goddamn snake.” He downed his drink and poured himself another. “Besides, it’s a nice, healthy midmorning refresher. All that vitamin C and A.”

  I took another sip. Then I thought of how Carlos had been ready to turn my case and all my hard-earned information over to a male agent, and took a larger gulp. The Bloody Mary was beginning to taste better and better. Besides, it seemed to make Poopsie a happy dog. He wagged his tail as Carrera topped off my drink.

  “So, tell me about your neighbor,” I suggested.

  Tony’s eyes instantly filled with tears. “That sick sonuvabitch has been out to get my birds since Day One. I’m talking from the moment the bastard moved in. As far as I’m concerned, you can’t trust someone who don’t have a soft spot for dumb animals, ya know what I mean?”

  I was sure the animal kingdom felt pretty much the same way about Tony.

  “What’s the guy’s name?” I asked.

  Carrera reached toward my glass again with the pitcher. I waved it away, only to hear a low snarl at my feet. I was beginning to wonder if Poopsie had a drinking problem of his own.

  “The bastard’s name is Phil Langer. And the bird that he got was poor little Tallulah.” Tony blew his nose between his fingers.

  “You have names for your flamingos?” I asked, edging as far as I could from Carrera.

  Tony wiped his fingers on his pajama pants, leaving a long squiggly streak. “Course they have names. Don’t your pets have names?”

  I didn’t even want to guess how he could tell each bird apart. “What does Mr. Langer do for a living?”

  “You’re gonna love this.” Tony gave a contemptuous snort. “He’s the goddamn founder of the Electric Doggy Fence Company. You know, one of those places that buries a bunch of electric wires under your lawn, shoves some flags in the ground, sticks a collar on your dog, and then shocks ’em to hell if they try to get out. In fact, that’s their slogan. ‘You lock ’em. We shock ’em.’ Real clever, huh?”

  The name had a familiar ring. “I’ve heard of the company before. I’m just not sure why.”

  Carrera laughed. “It’s ’cause a few of Langer’s branch offices in Georgia and central Florida were recently blown up by some animal rights nuts. Shit—they should have gotten Langer while they were at it.”

  Tony’s fingers fumbled with his pajama top, undoing one button after another until he sighed in relief, exposing a large girth of pink, flabby skin.

  “I’m not so sure it’s good for you to be lying out here in the sun. Maybe you should go inside and rest.” I was beginning to feel woozy at the sight of so much soft, naked flesh.

  “What are you, my mother?” Tony glared. “Just go nail that sucker, will ya?”

  Poopsie bared his yellowed choppers and growled, seconding his master.

  “That’s whatcha gotta do, or I don’t drop the charges against you.” Tony smirked, displaying his own yellow dentures.

  I picked up my glass and polished off the remaining Bloody Mary.

  I headed over to Langer’s hoping that the man would know virtually nothing about the law. I had no legal business sticking my nose in anywhere near their feud. Carrera’s flamingos had been born and bred in captivity right here in south Florida. In addition, the birds weren’t even an endangered species. That made this mess entirely a state wildlife affair. The most I could do was try to scare some sense into the man.

  Langer’s house was situated behind a towering stone wall, the entrance blocked by a locked iron gate. I pulled up to the intercom box and touched the buzzer. The voice that boomed out held all the warmth of a marine sergeant and the force of a jackhammer.

  “State your name, your business, and your rank, if you have one.”

  Oh, brother. Carrera hadn’t warned me that I’d be dealing with some crackpot military wanna-be.

  “My name is Rachel Porter, and I’m a special agent with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service.” The heat made me feel as if the Bloody Marys were performing a cancan in my head. “I’d like to speak with you, Mr. Langer.”

  The gate swung open, allowing me to pass through. I navigated up the long circular drive to the front of the house, where I discovered that Langer’s vehicle was no mundane Land Rover, but an imposing Hummer—the four-wheel drive, all-terrain jeep used by the army during Desert Storm. These days, it was popular among drug dealers and macho men desiring a vehicle reeking with attitude.

  I parked and walked around to check the front of the Hummer. Sure enough, there was Carrera’s flamingo lashed to the vehicle’s grille, its pink plumage stained with blood. Tallulah’s long, lifeless neck hung low like a worn out rubber band, nearly touching the ground, and its skinny green legs were clumsily
bent, crisscrossing at its pink, wrinkled feet. The flamingo’s body was held in place with razor-sharp wire that cut through feathers and skin. From a distance, the flattened flamingo could have been that crazy cartoon character, the Roadrunner. Up close, it was simply a disgusting sight.

  I was about to cut the bird down when the front door flew open. The stench of a cigar barreled through the door, down the steps, and across the gravel drive. Then Langer emerged like a phantom from behind a thick cloud of smoke.

  His thin-rimmed sunglasses were darkly tinted, allowing him to see out while not allowing anyone to see in. The man’s neck had the density of a tree stump, supporting a head of equally impressive size. His strong, square jaw jutted forward in an unspoken dare. I took the challenge and continued up to the thick black stogie held hostage between tightly clenched teeth, framed by lips which pulled back in a grimace. I moved on to Langer’s aquiline nose, his thin nostrils pinched in a display of excessive distaste. I hurriedly passed over the sunglasses, unsettled to see my reflection trapped in their black lenses. Finally I reached the summit, where Langer’s forehead loomed large and wide, the skin as rough and dry as sandpaper. This was topped by a thick flank of white hair, razor-cut into an abrupt, no-nonsense flattop.

  Langer stood more than six feet tall, with arms and legs as massive as tree limbs. He continued to puff on his stogie, staring down at me through those annoyingly impenetrable sunglasses. I stared back with my best bad-ass, Bloody Mary-induced glare, wishing I had something other than Sophie’s shocking-pink sunglasses slapped on my face.

  He finally raised two fingers the size of derringer pistols and removed the cigar from his lips, breaking the silence. “Did I hear you say that you’re from some sort of animal activist organization?”

  His voice rumbled toward me in shock waves that could have logged in on the Richter scale.

  “What I said was that I’m an agent with U.S. Fish and Wildlife,” I answered, standing my ground.

  If this had been the old West, we would have drawn our guns and shot it out right about now. Langer removed his sunglasses, which pretty much produced the same effect.

  I had thought his dark glasses were scary, but Langer’s eyes took the prize. The irises were densely black, with wafer-slim rings of yellow circling each pupil like a solar eclipse. Predator eyes.

  Langer looked me up and down, his lips parting in a silent laugh. “Fish and Wildlife, huh? Well, in my book that’s pretty much the same thing. It’s just a federally funded animal activist organization.”

  Langer’s rough and tough act was beginning to wear on my nerves. “Well, this federally funded wildlife organization has laws which are illegal to break,” I informed him.

  Langer stuck his shades back on, once again blocking me out. “I suppose that means you want me to surrender the bird?”

  He didn’t bother to wait for my answer, but let loose a yawn. Then, grabbing both sides of his head, he casually cracked his neck. “Let me tell you about a little law we have here in this country, that has to do with something sacred called private property rights. It’s my right not to have some long-necked bird flying onto my property and constantly taking a shit. But if that does happen, it’s also my right to get in my vehicle and run the damn thing down!” Langer announced in a bellicose boom. “By the way, when did Fish and Wildlife decide to shoot themselves in the foot by hiring girls to do their dirty work?”

  I didn’t answer, but pulled out my pocket knife and flicked the blade open, allowing a stream of sun to glint off its keen steel edge.

  “What you just said is 100 percent pure horseshit,” I calmly replied. “When you ran that bird over, you broke the law.”

  Langer’s face momentarily darkened before breaking into a Cheshire-cat grin. “I think we’re both aware that it all depends on who you know.”

  “I’ll be reporting this incident to the state wildlife office. Do you happen to know anyone there?” I didn’t wait for his answer, but cut the flamingo down from the Hummer’s grille.

  “Damn. Now I need to go snag myself another good hood ornament,” Langer replied with an indifferent shrug.

  I finished cutting the wire, then looked up toward him. The sun’s rays bounced off Langer’s dark lenses with the concentrated strength of a laser, reflecting back into my eyes. I solved that by bounding up the steps, to put us on the same level. My presence was greeted by a hiss that instantly turned my legs to mush.

  Something brushed against the back of Langer’s pants leg and I looked down to see a pair of deep amber eyes locked onto mine, and quivering whiskers silhouetted against the bright noonday light. An unleashed cougar stood by Langer’s side.

  “That’s my kitty cat.” Langer’s voice curled around my insides and gave a hard yank. “He’s old, but he still earns his keep.”

  The cougar bared its teeth and flattened its ears, as if on cue. I stood mesmerized, half in awe, half in fear. It was the first time I’d stood this close to an uncaged critter that was truly a specialized killing machine.

  “He’s just part of my menagerie.” Langer’s tone was soft and low as a soothing lullaby, his hand gently lingering on the cougar’s head. “Wait here and I’ll show you the rest of my zoo.”

  I couldn’t have moved if I’d wanted to. As Langer disappeared inside his house the cat stood guard, every rippling muscle beneath its sun-dappled fur tightly coiled and ready for instant response.

  Langer returned almost immediately with a flimsy leash, attaching it to the shock collar that was buckled around the cougar’s neck.

  “Does that collar really work?” I asked.

  Langer’s eyes flickered over me, the wisp of a smile licking his lips. “You’d do well to hope so. I’d say that right now, your life depended on it.”

  A shiver softly murmured that I had more to fear from Langer than I ever would from any cat.

  “Meet Fidel,” he said. “I’d invite you to pet him, but you might lose your hand.”

  I suppressed the overwhelming urge to stroke the cat’s tawny coat. “In that case, I’ll pass.”

  As the cougar sniffed the air and looked over his realm, I noticed a scar in the shape of a teardrop under the cat’s right eye. The animal’s body suddenly tensed, then he turned toward me and snarled. I pulled back and glanced at Langer, who held a small radio transmitter in his hand.

  ‘‘It’s how I control the cat,” he stated simply.

  “Must be a pretty powerful zap that you use.” Call me a cynic, but I was beginning to wonder if the cat had been given a jolt in order to provoke it. Specifically at me.

  “I don’t call it a zap,” Langer replied disdainfully. “I think of it as different levels of correction that I choose to administer.”

  Uh huh. That made it sound a whole lot better. “Whatever it’s called, it must hurt like hell.”

  Langer’s mouth curled down in an unpleasant smirk. “Not really. Nothing that you or I couldn’t take.”

  “Have you ever stuck one of those around your own neck and given it a try?” I challenged.

  Langer didn’t respond, but led the way around to the back of his house.

  “Why do you call him Fidel?” I asked, curious as to the unusual choice of name.

  “Because he’s old and declawed, pretty much like that crackpot, Castro. But he can still be a real pain in the ass.”

  Except for being declawed, Langer could have been describing himself. As we reached the backyard, I saw that Langer hadn’t been joking when he offered to show me his private zoo. Steel-reinforced cages held clouded leopards, lions, black panthers, ocelots, bobcats, cougars, and African servals, along with Siberian tigers. A few of the large cats paced back and forth in boredom, their heads lolling from side to side in the heat. Others had given up completely and stared blankly out into space, their bodies almost comatose on their concrete floors.

  “See. I’m an animal lover, too.” Langer gave a sour smile.

  “What’s the obsession with cats?” I in
quired, fighting the urge to run and fling open every cage door.

  Langer studied the animals. “I like the control it gives me over carnivores who think they’re stronger and smarter than I am,” he replied.

  I didn’t doubt that the answer was honest. I counted twenty-seven large cats to be lodged and cared for. It had to cost Langer an astonishing amount of money to feed his harem every day.

  “The Electric Doggy Fence Company must be doing a bang-up business to allow you to maintain this number of animals. To say nothing of what you must have paid to buy them all in the first place,” I remarked.

  Langer turned and looked at me. “You’ve got it wrong, Agent Porter. I didn’t buy these cats. I was given them all for free, compliments of the Game and Freshwater Fish Commission.”

  I couldn’t be certain whether I heard Langer laugh, or if it was my imagination. Either way, I got his point.

  It’s common practice for the Florida state wildlife office to confiscate illegally owned large cats and place them with licensed individuals who have the means to care for them. It’s the only way to keep impounded exotics from being destroyed.

  This told me exactly who might feel inclined to do Langer a favor, making it clear that the issue of Carrera’s flamingo had probably been as dead from the get go as the bird itself.

  I decided to remind Langer that while he might have powerful friends, he also had his share of enemies. “I hear some of your branch offices have been bombed in the past few months.”

  Langer didn’t blink an eye.

  “In fact, wasn’t there an attack on your central Florida office just this past Saturday night? It would seem whoever is responsible is heading this way. You must be worried about that,” I prodded.

  Langer’s hand hovered in magician-like fashion above his feline companion’s head. “Just let them come to Miami. Fidel here would love it.”

  I was caught by surprise as an angry shriek tore from Fidel’s throat. The cat lunged at me, getting within inches of my leg. The rest of Langer’s menagerie instantly picked up on Fidel’s cry, the air bristling with their angry roars. My own temper flew into overdrive, though there was no way for me to be sure that Langer’s finger had actually hit the control button.