Just for the Birds

by Jinx Schwartz

  The powerful diesel engine made a high-pitched whine as he reversed toward my shiny yellow pangita, I was temporarily nonplussed, and at a loss for my next move. Just before he hit Johnson Jr. he expertly stopped his momentum with his engines, grabbed the cage, ran to the aft of his boat and stepped off into my precious baby panga.

  Which Cholo had left idling.

  If he escaped the anchorage in Johnson Jr., he could be miles away in no time—with my fifteen horsepower Evinrude flat out, the mini-panga can get on up a plane and do twenty miles an hour or more.

  Recovering from my momentary shock at this sudden turn of events, I yelled, “Everyone hang on!” and jammed my own boat into reverse, threw the wheel full over, and hit the throttles.

  Jan, realizing what I was about to do, ordered, “Divers! Prepare for emergency underwater rescue! Jump. Now!”

  Was I really about to ram my yacht into my own dinghy? What would the insurance company say? Wasn’t there a better way out?

  From my high perch, I had the best view in the anchorage. Captain Despicable had to place the birdcage into the dinghy and move back to the outboard in his haste to escape. In a split-second decision, I said a little prayer that all the divers were out of my way, put my boat into forward gear, cringing at the ungodly racket of protesting machinery as I used my engines as a brake without going into neutral first. Boats do not like this.

  Hitting the emergency ALL STOP button Jenks had installed on the bridge to kill the engines, I turned around, braced myself on the back of my captain’s chair, drew a bead on the fleeing captain, and squeezed the trigger four times in quick succession.

  The semi-automatic ejected hot brass onto my fiberglass deck and bare feet.

  Note to self: repaint bridge deck.

  Second note to self: Do not shoot while barefoot.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  “HETTA! HETTA! Are you all right?” Jan screamed from below. “Cease fire!”

  She rushed the flying bridge to find me frozen in place, the XDM still in my hand.

  “What the hell? Hit the deck.”

  She pushed me flat behind the steering station while more shots rang out. “Did I get him?” I asked, when the gunfire suddenly stopped.

  “I dunno. Do you think you did?”

  “Is there a cow in Texas?” I pocketed my spent cartridges and stood to take a look. My target was slumped over while my pangita, with the Evinrude outboard still in gear, made slow circles in the anchorage. “Jan, the birdcage! It’s gone!”

  Just as I said that, three divers surfaced with a cage full of sopping wet birds. Only the putt-putt on my outboard engine broke the eerie silence in the anchorage until first one, then another bird shook and began squawking their displeasure by raising all Billy Hell. A cheer echoed throughout the anchorage, and on land.

  “Bring the cage over here,” I yelled. “Fast. We have to get them warm and dry.”

  Jan keyed the VHF radio. “Raymond Johnson to the fleet. Thank y’all! Now can someone please round up Hetta’s yellow panga, Johnson Junior? It’s running in slow circles in the Waiting Room, and the driver seems to have lost consciousness.”

  She replaced the mic and guffawed. “Lost consciousness? How was that for a tall reach? Yeppers, being shot full of bullet holes will do that to a person every damned time, but I didn’t think it prudent to mention that. We saw nothing!”

  “I sure didn’t, but gotta get rid of this gun, and my .380, before the Mexicans board us. Jump in the kayak and take both of them to Cholo, okay?”

  The harbor was suddenly abuzz with boaters coming to the rescue, and the radio waves were so busy they were stepping all over each other. I turned to start the engines again when I felt a bump. We’d drifted between Endless Summer and the concrete dock. Seconds later, Doña Esperanza gently nuzzled into the log jam of our boats.

  Helpful cruisers swarmed around the area in their dinghies like worker bees, fending boats off from each other, re-securing Doña Esperanza to the quay, and Raymond Johnson right behind her. Under normal circumstances, being tied up to a rough concrete dock wouldn’t be my first choice, but this was an emergency, even if my paint job was going to take it in the shorts.

  Craig was the first one to leap aboard the minute we were close enough to do so. The wet birds, still in their cage, had been hefted onto my back deck just seconds before, and time was precious.

  Some of the macaws were logy, but at least breathing and even screeching in fear and anger. However, others were not so fortunate.

  “Hetta, I need a pair of the heaviest gloves you have,” Craig said. He was trying to extract the unconscious birds from the cage, but the others were attacking him, and an angry macaw can easily bite off a finger.

  Jan ran to a nearby locker and pulled a pair of welder’s gloves I’d midnight-requisitioned—construction talk for stolen—from a project site I’d worked on. I keep them on board for emergencies, and this certainly qualified.

  Hands and arms protected by thick leather, Craig carefully opened the cage, pulled out unmoving birds, and handed them off to us. “I’ll deal with the ones that are raising hell. You guys hold these poor babies by the legs, upside down, and swing them gently between your legs. We’re trying to clear their lungs of water, so they can hopefully breathe.”

  Boaters hovered around, volunteering to help any way they could, but we only had one pair of those heavy gloves, so reaching into a cage full of frenzied birds with huge beaks was a one-at-a-time task. With more volunteers, and more gloves fetched from other boats, the rescue operation picked up speed.

  Soon my decks, and the concrete quay, teemed with people swinging eight inverted birds while quietly talking to them in a prayer-like manner, willing them to live. Others stood around until asked to spell those who were tiring from holding the heavy birds. After what seemed an eternity, one large hyacinth coughed, squawked, and bit his Good Samaritan in the butt on the back swing. No good deed goes unpunished.

  It took another two minutes until my bird heaved a noise and opened its eyes. “Craig! Mine’s breathing!”

  “Keep him upside down as best you can until I can deal with him. We gotta get all these big boys inside, out of this breeze. Can someone take the cage into the main cabin? As your birds recover, bring them in and I’ll examine them. Hetta, I’ll need a ton of towels.”

  “I’ll take the cage, and get towels,” Roger told him.

  I bit my tongue before telling Roger to leave the expensive towels in my head alone. Oh well, add new towels to that new carpet, and paint job.

  Small price to pay for nailing that pendejo smuggler, Captain Despicable, and saving the birds.

  The encampment’s military commander, who had held his troops back instead of turning us into fish food with a free-for-all shootout, was led aboard by Cholo as soon as the wet birds were all recovering inside my boat. They were enjoying warm baths, while their bathers were getting pretty chewed up. My band aid supply was quickly depleted, so the commander called in a couple of medics, and more supplies.

  By now we’d drawn quite a crowd, but the six armed and ominous marines posted on the quay kept any non-workers at a distance.

  I hadn’t had time to even worry about my Johnson Jr, or the body in it, but I was told someone snagged it and delivered it to shore. Someone called the Port Captain and he was sure to alert the cops. Thank goodness Jan had palmed off our guns to Cholo during the confusion after the shooting stopped. Until any more officials arrived, it seemed the man in charge was the Comandante, but he was head-to-head with Cholo, talking quietly, so who knew who was really calling the shots?

  The rest of us, however, knew the best thing to do was disappear. Unfortunately, that wasn’t possible at the moment, so we decided to play stupid. It wasn’t hard, as we were stupid-tired.

  Jan and I drag-assed after Cholo and the Comandante to the after deck of Raymond Johnson, where we all collapsed into cushioned chairs. Not having any idea what Cholo’s story had been, we played
along—with facial cues from Cholo—the best we could.

  Topaz signaled to me from the deck of Doña Esperanza, that all birds she found below decks were A-OK. She showed no inclination to join us and faded into the crowd, right past the six marines. Being a woman in Mexico has its advantages at times; if any male had tried that move, they would have stopped him in his tracks.

  I offered beer to our little group.

  No one declined, dagnab it. I only brought three cases.

  We let the Comandante do the talking, since he was officially, albeit somewhat reluctantly, large and in charge. Jan and I drank beer and did our best to appear hapless.

  The commandant, who was trained in the United States for some time, asked in accented, but correct English, “Miss Café, when you prevented the Doña Esperanza from leaving the harbor, you were trying to rescue your parrot?”

  Any lawyer worth her salt would leap to her feet and holler, “Leading the witness!” But we didn’t have a lawyer, good or not, and we were quite willing to be led if this was the direction he was going.

  Cholo gave me a barely perceptible nod.

  “Yes, sir.” Uncharacteristically, I did not elaborate, because when I do, I invariably end up hoisting myself by my own petard.

  “Hetta,” Cholo said as the commandant scribbled something in the notebook he carried, “perhaps you would like to introduce El Comandante to Trouble, now that you have retrieved him from those thieves.”

  “Hoookay,” I drawled. Kidnapped? Well, we think he was. At some time. By somebody.

  For a gal who lies at the drop of a hat when the truth will do, I found myself at loggerheads with my second nature.

  Cholo’s eyes cut toward my main cabin and I jumped up so fast my head swirled. “Yes. Yes, that is an excellent idea.” I fled the interrogation.

  Retrieving poor Trouble from my master cabin where I stuck him for safety, I put his harness and tether on, and took him outside on my arm.

  “Ack! Bad Hetta! Bad!”

  “I’m sorry, Honey Bird,” I cooed. “Look here, a new friend wants to meet you. Say hello to the nice comandante.”

  “Ack! Pinche Puto!

  That insult, along with knowing how much Trouble detests Mexican men, sent Jan’s eyebrows reaching for her bangs. “He just talks like that, Comandante,” she cooed, flashing some lash. “He doesn’t mean you. But, he can be a bit on the unpredictable side, so I wouldn’t try to pet him if I were you.”

  Just in case the man was foolish enough to ignore the warning, I gave Trouble a large piece of jerky to keep his beak of death busy.

  Po Thang, who must have heard Trouble, bounded onto Raymond Johnson after running right between the legs of a marine. Luckily, the young man—I guess, he had on so much gear it was hard to tell if he was young, or even a he—just laughed.

  Po Thang made a bee line for Trouble, who broke the jerky into two pieces, dropping one for his buddy.

  “And this is Hetta’s dog, Po Thang” Cholo said.

  I had not made the introduction, as I wasn’t sure I should admit I was his human.

  “And a very handsome dog he is,” the comandante said, giving Po Thang an ear rub. “Now, is it also true that this dog of yours discovered your bird being held captive upon the Doña Esperanza?”

  Cholo rotated his finger, and I interpreted it as a go ahead to embellish.,

  “Yes, sir. We were searching for Trouble when my dog pointed to the boat. He is a trained hunting dog.”

  He made notes again. “And where were you when shots rang out.”

  Taking aim at the low life in my dinghy?

  “I was on my boat.”

  “Where on your boat?”

  I looked at Cholo but he was no help at all.

  “I was on the flying bridge,” I said, pointing upward.

  Cholo nodded approval.

  “So you had a good vantage point. Did you see who the shooter, or shooters, were? Or where?”

  “No sir. When I heard the first shot, I ducked behind the steering station and hid there.”

  “So, you have no idea who shot the captain of the Doña Esperanza?”

  “No, sir!” I clasped my hands to my heart. “Oh, my goodness. Someone shot him?” The practiced prevaricator in me simply couldn’t resist the little drama queen move.

  Cholo shook his head and closed his eyes. Probably to shut out the view of my smoking britches.

  “Yes,” the comandante said, “he is…wounded.”

  “Wounded?” What? I was sure I plugged him in permanent places.

  Cholo spoke. “The comandante is being…delicate, Hetta. The man has died.”

  Jan and I chorused “May his soul rest in peace.”

  And burn in Hell, his roasting flesh being picked from his bones by fire ants, who are certainly from there.

  The commandant stood. “I think we are about done here. Perhaps you would not mind to show me your boat papers and identification, just for the record. And allow us to search your boat? It is routine, and my men can use the practice.”

  Cholo nodded.

  “¡Pásale! Por favor,” I said with the confident arm-sweep of someone who has ditched her guns. “Mi yate es su yate.”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  THE COMMANDANT’S MEN made a perfunctory search of my boat’s interior, which stank of wet parrot, bird vomit, and seawater-soaked carpet, then quickly disembarked. He left two marines to stand guard on the dock, mainly to protect the birds, now that all of them were back on Doña Esperanza.

  Craig and Roger moved onto the Doña, to keep an eye out for the yellow truck that was scheduled to arrive after dark.

  Cholo accompanied the comandante back to his encampment, and between the two of them, evidently made short work of dealing with the local cops and the port captain. Within an hour of arriving, they left with a body bag in the back of a pickup. You gotta love Mexican justice: bad guy gets offed by unknown killer and oh, well, he was probably guilty of something.

  We pushed away from the dock as soon as Topaz came back on board, then we tackled the job of de-stinking my boat. After my brand new wet/dry shop vac overheated for the fifth time, we called it a day; after all, only the main cabin area was affected by the dozen rescued birds, and since my cabin and the guest cabin were still dry and clean, we declared cocktail hour officially official.

  We had just settled on the aft deck with cold Tecates (we were too tired to mix anything more exotic) when, miraculously, my phone rang.

  I quickly checked the bars: four? Now I get four? I vowed to sue Carlos Slim for extreme emotional suffering and trauma due to unreliable phone service.

  No caller ID, but this was no time to get picky. The damned thing was working!

  “If you’re a Nigerian prince asking me to marry you, the answer is yes. Get a pen and I’ll give you my social security and bank account numbers.”

  Jan and Topaz almost spit out their beers.

  I can be sooo amusing.

  “Café, will you settle for me?” Nacho’s unmistakable velvety voice asked.

  I mouthed his name, catching the undivided attention of both women. They closed in to eavesdrop.

  “Where the hell have you been? We’ve been through hell up here, and now that it’s all over you call?”

  “You are correct, it is over. Check your email. And please give my best to the lovely Jan and Topaz. "Hasta luego mi corazon.”

  “I ain’t your stinkin’ Corazon!” I growled, but he had ended the call.

  My friends, who had their ears as close to the phone as possible, heard the whole thing, and we rushed downstairs to get to my computer. I’d made a path over the damp carpet with blue tarps, so we skidded across the living area. I turned on my laptop and we waited impatiently while it booted up.

  Since I never knew how Nacho would contact me, I started opening mails I normally would delete as spam.

  “Hetta, you know better than to open attachments from unknown sources. Let me read the addresses firs
t, before you get a virus.” Jan hip-bumped me out of my chair and cursored down the email list, zeroing in on one from Zorro.

  “Gotta be,” Topaz said. We all agreed, Jan opened the attachment.

  It was a news story out of Mexico City, dated three days before.

  Abandoned by the Police, Mexican Villagers Fight to Take Back Their Towns

  Just a week after a so-called Comandante X bragged that the cartel’s hold on remote villages in Mexico was unbreakable, mysterious paramilitary forces proved otherwise.

  His statement in an interview, obviously meant to terrorize anyone who would take on the local cartel, was chilling. “When a cartel commander dies, another one always comes along. The fiesta must continue.”

  But for at least seven villages in Mexico’s southern region, the party is over.

  In midnight sweeps, an estimated six hundred cartel henchmen, including the above mentioned Comandante X, were lined up and shot, execution-style, by surprisingly well-armed locals, aided by what they called, “The Zorros.”

  No one knows what precipitated this attack, but it is rumored that the cartel leaders had taken several young girls from the villages, with an eye to sell them into prostitution, overstepping even the loose morals of the bloodthirsty cartel leaders.

  Now that the villages are free of cartel control, the Mexican police and military have moved in, at least temporarily, to ensure they remain so.

  However, one frequent tactic used by cartels in the region is to co-opt well-intentioned self-defense groups by gifting them high-grade weapons and cash to win their loyalty.

  Only time will tell if these Zorros are the leaders for a bellwether of change for Mexico.

  “I take back every single, crappy thing I ever said about Nacho,” I said as we high-fived over unbelievably wonderful good news..