Bird Brained

by Jessica Speart

  I laughed and added a dash of bewilderment. “What makes you say that?”

  “Let’s just say I used to dabble in the trade. I can smell an agent almost before I spot him.” He raised his chin and sniffed at the air like a well-trained hound dog. “I’d say you’re definitely Fish and Wildlife.”

  I was going to have to try a different brand of soap. I stretched my hand out toward him. “My name is Rachel Porter.”

  A flicker of a smile crossed his lips as he shook my hand. “I’d give you my name, but I’m sure you already know it. I’ll tell you straight off that I’m not involved in that side of the business anymore.”

  “A change of heart?” I asked.

  Saul stretched a finger out to an African grey parrot that sat on a branch. “No. I’ve just reached the age where I don’t want to take chances anymore.”

  The bird stepped onto the human perch and Saul raised the bird up to his face, where he planted a kiss on its beak.

  “You see this parrot? He’s got a better vocabulary than most people I know.” The bird kissed Saul’s nose in return. “Parrots are the chimps of the bird world in terms of intelligence.”

  “It’s the feds! It’s the feds! Run for cover!” screeched the elegant red-tailed parrot.

  “I told you he was smart,” Saul grinned.

  “You might feel too old for smuggling these days; the question is whether you still deal in hot birds?”

  “Absolutely not.” Saul crossed his heart and then crossed the bird’s chest with his fingertip. “I guarantee you that, on the life of Megabite here.”

  Hmm. I hoped the bird would be around to see a ripe old age. “Then where did the palms, the yellow-napes, the hyacinths, and the Cuban come from?” I asked.

  Megabite tackled the rim of Saul’s glasses. “They’re from my former days. And by the way—those particular birds aren’t for sale. Neither is this one here.”

  I gave Saul a dubious look. “That’s a good way to run your business into the ground.”

  Greenberg shrugged. “I’ve already made my money. This is more of a way to keep me out of the house. My wife tells me that the birds and I drive her crazy. I look at this shop as our sanctuary. But then, I bet you didn’t come here to buy a bird.”

  It was apparent the guy knew his customers. “Actually, I’m looking into a bird-theft ring.”

  Saul swayed back and forth on the balls of his feet. “I’ve heard about what’s going on. If you’re trying to track down those birds, you’re wasting your time.”

  “Why is that?” I inquired. I thought about checking Saul’s birds for any telltale markings, but the man was too smart to take in parrots that were traceable.

  “Let me explain how a ring like this works.” Greenberg took a seat behind his counter and offered me a stool. “You ever have a car stolen?”

  I shook my head.

  “That’s probably because you’ve had nothing but secondhand cars, and cheap ones at that,” he surmised.

  I shot him a look. “What do you do for a sideline? Work as an FBI profiler?”

  “Funny.” Greenberg pushed his glasses up with his index finger, and placed Megabite on a stationary perch. “A car-theft ring doesn’t steal just any car. They go out and hunt around till they find a white BMW sports model, or the latest Toyota Camry in hunter green. Particular cars are stolen to fill specific orders. It’s the same thing with these birds. They’re already sold before the theft has even taken place.”

  It was nice to know there was an upside to driving around in a junk heap.

  “That’s a great theory, but I’ve already got a case that disproves it,” I told him. “A few days ago, a bird dealer was knocked off and all two hundred and fifty of his birds were stolen. You can’t tell me that every one of those parrots was already sold.”

  Saul raised his palms. “You’re right. What you’re describing is something different. That was a revenge burglary.”

  Now I knew the guy was nuts. “You want to explain that one?”

  “Look—you and I both know that the rings working this area have never murdered anyone, and that they always take the most valuable birds. The robbery you’re telling me about is something completely different. That theft was personal. The guy was whacked because he pissed somebody off.”

  “He was bringing in lots of Cuban Amazons,” I revealed. “Have you heard about any pipeline dealing in a large number of those birds?”

  Saul thought for a moment and then shook his head. “Nah. All I know of is the occasional small-time hustler bringing in a few parrots here and there. What was the dead guy’s name?”

  I figured there was no harm in telling. “Alberto Dominguez.”

  Saul rolled his eyes. “Oh, a Cuban guy. Yeah, they deal with their own.”

  Tommy had sent me on a wild-goose chase. This guy was racking up nothing but zeros.

  “What you gotta do is figure this thing out like a puzzle until all the pieces fit. That dead guy of yours could have been smuggling for his own personal gain. Or the murder could have been for something else, too.”

  I had the feeling that Saul didn’t get much in the way of human company these days. “Like what?” I asked, working my way out from behind the counter.

  “Well, the case involves smuggling Amazons out of Cuba, right? And the guy doing it, Alberto, was a Cuban. So, take a look around,” Saul suggested.

  I had no idea what the man was talking about. I cleared the counter and edged toward the door.

  “Ask yourself, what have you got here in Miami?” Saul answered his own question. “You’ve got a community of exiled Cubans who are stirring the pot, plotting their brains out to overthrow Castro. If I were you, I’d be checking out what else this Alberto was into. You might even be looking for a political angle to this thing. Speaking of which, have you seen this morning’s paper?”

  Greenberg handed me a copy of the Miami Herald, which I hadn’t had the chance to read. Right on the front page was a story about a bomb attack on a hotel and well-known restaurant in the middle of Havana. The bombing had taken the life of an Italian tourist. The Cuban foreign minister laid the blame on a Miami-based Cuban exile group, referring to it as a CIA-backed, terrorist mafia. This was the third recent attack aimed at the country’s booming tourist industry. Any connection to Dominguez seemed totally farfetched. I rolled up the paper and stuck it under my arm as I headed out the door.

  “By the way,” Saul called out. “My sense of smell isn’t really all that good. Tommy called and told me that you’d be coming.”

  Eleven

  Little Havana is three and a half square miles of pure Cuban heart and soul located west of downtown and south of the Miami River. It got its name from the Cuban exiles who settled there in the late sixties and immediately set about recreating the Cuban capital. I headed there now. The news article had reminded me of Ramon’s story about his family’s flight from the island, and this seemed to be as good a time as any to visit his shop. Maybe I could pry something out of him without that sister of his around.

  I navigated through the traffic fumes, where the beep of horns intermingled with the strains of Cuban Muzak, the sound pulsating out of shop doors. It was easy to take in the sights this way, patiently crawling along in a game of bumper cars as I searched for a parking space. I finally bit the dust and swerved into a pay garage, after losing a showdown over four precious yards of asphalt to a determined mamacita.

  The staccato sounds of Spanish rat-a-tat-tatted like a machine gun around me. Even the street signs were in Spanish, making me the stranger in an exotic, strange land as I hit the pavement. Cafeterias tempted me with their aroma of roast pork sandwiches and white bean soup. But since I’d already had lunch with Tommy, I couldn’t come up with a decent excuse to bolt another one down.

  I enviously eyed the women who glided past smartly shaded by brightly blooming umbrellas the colors of cool tropical drinks. They eyed me as well, wondering why a gringa would be dumb enough to walk unp
rotected beneath the blazing sun.

  I continued on past a fenced-in park where a group of old men smoked cigars and sipped their coffee, intently concentrating on a mean game of dominoes. The clack, clack, clack of the black-and-white tiles transmuted into the sympathetic clucking of tongues, the consoling sound of men kibitzing about when Castro would die and they could finally go home.

  I didn’t have to look in order to know that the humidity had caused my hair to revert to its natural state of frizz. I was so worried about my appearance that I nearly walked past the window with its colorful painting of a puffin, a cigar jauntily stuck in the side of its tangerine beak, giving it an uncanny resemblance to Groucho Marx. The image was set in a circle with the puffin’s wings popping out to point at the words 100% HAND ROLLED, 100% NATURAL. There was no question that this was Ramon’s store, PUFFIN CIGARS.

  As I was on my way in, I collided with a human freight train barreling out. The locomotive was none other than Phil Langer, who leaned his hulking frame against the door.

  I took a step back, and gave him the once-over. “Sorry. I almost didn’t recognize you without the dead bird.”

  His mouth twitched into the sliver of a smile. “Why, Agent Porter. I would never have taken you for a cigar aficionado.”

  “You’re right about that,” I replied.

  “That’s too bad. And you were just about to rise a notch in my estimation.”

  I sighed. “I’ll just have to learn to live with that.”

  “So what brings you here? Rumors that tobacco leaves are being tortured in the back room?” Langer mocked.

  Since it was an innocent question, I filled in the answer. “I’m just here to visit the owner.”

  Langer’s eyes blinked behind their Polaroid shades. “How is it that you know my neighbor, Ramon? Nothing personal, but you’re not his usual type.”

  I found it hard to believe that was the best the man could come up with. I’d received better jabs from my own grandmother.

  “He’s developing better taste these days.”

  Langer let the remark float by. “Too bad you haven’t developed an appreciation for cigars. Ramon makes the best in the business. But you still haven’t told me how the two of you met.”

  “Through a mutual acquaintance.” Alberto’s mangled form flashed in my mind. “Someone with a fondness for Cuban cigars.”

  His lips pulled back tightly. “Then you’re obviously referring to a person with a complete lack of moral character. Some people are just too weak to resist temptation. Then there are those who love to flaunt their disdain for the law—there are deviants in our society who take pleasure in breaking the rules. The next thing you know, the press picks up on this issue and blows it out of all proportion, making the public believe there’s actually a demand for the damn cigars.”

  Jeez—who put a nickel in his slot and got him going? I couldn’t resist a dig. “Do you honestly expect me to believe that a connoisseur like you has never tried a Cuban cigar?”

  Langer’s features hardened. “I guarantee that one has never passed my lips. We’re at war with Cuba, Porter. In case you don’t know, there’s something called the Trading with the Enemy Act. That makes the purchase of Cuban cigars tantamount to treason.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. “Treason? You’ve got to be joking.”

  Langer bridled. “You work for the government, Porter; you, of all people, should know better than that. Or do you consider our laws to be some sort of joke?”

  Langer was turning out to be even crazier than I had imagined. “Oh, come on. It’s not as if smuggling Cuban cigars is the same as giving away military secrets.”

  “As far as I’m concerned, it’s nearly as bad,” Langer snapped. “That kind of attitude is what supports a dictatorship, Porter. You’re helping prop up Castro’s regime anytime one of his cigars is sold.”

  “If the Bay of Pigs, numerous assassination attempts, and an embargo of nearly forty years haven’t dislodged Castro, do you really think boycotting cigars is going to hurt him?” I scoffed.

  Langer glared at me like an angry bulldog.

  “There are more important things to spend our manpower on—beside the fact that it’s nearly impossible to keep people from bringing in cigars.”

  “You want to know how you stop people?” Langer’s eyes warned against any wise-ass response. “You set an example. The punishment should be death. Fry a few of the bastards, and you’ll see the market in Cuban cigars dry up fast enough.”

  Any impulse I had to laugh had vanished. “You can’t be serious.”

  The look Langer gave me could have frozen the sun. “There’s much more at stake here than cigars, Porter. If you don’t know that by now, you’d better learn fast.”

  I watched as he stiffly walked away. Now I knew who the guy reminded me of—Schwarzenegger, in the first Terminator movie.

  I walked into Ramon’s shop, where a pretty Cuban girl stood behind a display counter showcasing a wide variety of cigars. A scoop-necked, skintight dress highlighted her wares. A small gold crucifix dangled, nearly lost, between two mounds of flesh.

  She smiled at me, though her heart wasn’t in it. “May I help you?”

  I’d felt like something out of a Sears store before walking in. Now it was down to Kmart. “I’d like to see Ramon. You can tell him Rachel Porter is here.”

  The girl flashed me a sympathetic glance, kindly letting me know that I didn’t stand a chance, then sashayed into the back room to get him.

  I gazed down at the glass counter to catch my reflection, and a familiar titillation nipped at the nerve endings under my skin. I knew Ramon couldn’t be far away. I didn’t move, but silently waited until his image hovered over me in the display case, like a Cuban missile coming in to land.

  “Raquel! I’m so happy that you took me up on my offer!”

  His voice poured over me like hot fudge on an ice-cream sundae. He paused, letting me melt, before dropping the proverbial cherry. “I can’t tell you how much I was hoping that you would come.”

  He took hold of my hand and raised it to his lips, where his mustache softly brushed against my skin, the ensuing tickle his very own personal art form. His eyes locked onto mine as they drew me into a tango, his gaze slowly bending me back in a visual dip. Then his breath sensuously stroked my palm, followed by what I could have sworn was the faintest touch of the tip of his tongue. I couldn’t believe the hot moves on this guy. I would have decked him if I hadn’t been enjoying it so much.

  “Let me show you my cigars.” Ramon’s fingers were as hot as five embers where they rested on the crook of my elbow, the rustle of his linen pants a confidential murmur as he guided the way.

  “Creating a premium cigar is much like producing a fine wine. It’s all in the soil and seeds.” Ramon’s voice was as soothing as a bedtime story. “I’ll tell you the real secret though,” he whispered in my ear. “It’s that each leaf is hand-chosen personally by me.”

  He opened a door to display a room that was lined with red cedar. The fragrance cocooned me as Ramon softly closed the door behind us.

  “This is what I call the marriage room.” The words were said like a reverent prayer. “It is here that the various flavors in each cigar marry and age. This is the room where I put them to bed.”

  I shot a suspicious glance his way, but he appeared to be totally serious. The room contained bundles of cigars, each labeled with a person’s name.

  “What do the names stand for?” I questioned.

  Ramon smiled, pleased with my interest. “That tells me which of my six rollers made those particular cigars, along with the types of tobacco used, and the brand. Here, I’ll show you.”

  He picked one of the cigars up and held it lovingly in his hand. “This one I call the Churchill. See how long and thick it is?” His fingers danced along its length. “Yet it burns mild with a full-bodied taste.” Ramon held it out toward me.

  I didn’t know whether to touch it, or slap him.


  He smiled and moved on. “This is the Torpedo. True, it is wide at one end. But look how nicely it tapers where it fits in your mouth.” He brought it up to his nose and took a deep whiff.

  Though my face burned, I didn’t say anything, playing it cool, deaf, and dumb.

  Ramon picked up a cigar that could have passed for a miniature dachshund. “This one is called the Old Style, because at seven and a half inches, it is the biggest of them all. Though not everyone can handle it, this is the cigar that is desired by the true… aficionado.”

  Okay—it was time to put the brakes on, before the innuendos skidded out of control. “Thanks, Ramon. But I’ve learned more than I’ll ever need to know.” I turned to leave the room.

  Ramon’s hand shot out, pulling me close. “Raquel, wait! Just one more.” He picked up the last cigar. “This one is called Passion. It’s slimmer than the Churchill, and not as long as Old Style. But when it burns, it ignites a craving that very few others can fully satisfy. Its smoke is deep and long and smooth. This is the cigar for someone like you. Here. I want you to have it.”

  As he placed the roll of tobacco in my hand, it took every ounce of control I had not to throw the thing away. I left the room feeling as if I’d been seduced and bedded without even knowing it.

  “That was very educational, Ramon. But I don’t want to take up your time, and I do have some questions,” I said.

  “Raquel, please be patient.” Ramon held up a long, tapered finger and slowly brought it to rest on my lips. “You will truly hurt me if you will not allow me to show you how my cigars are made.” His eyes smoldered through me, searing my T-shirt to my skin.

  My feet moved as if under his control, as my libido put a stranglehold on what little was left of my reasoning. Who was this guy, Svengali?

  We entered a room where six elderly Cuban men sat on long wooden planks, hunched over their work.

  “These are my master rollers,” Ramon said with pride. “What you are watching is a dying art.”