Bird Brained (30 page)

A tarp once again covered the cargo bed of Weed’s pickup and I walked over to see what goodies Willy had lying inside. I lifted one corner and nearly fell flat on my butt, barely able to believe what I saw. Quickly wrenching the rest of the tarp off, I grabbed a better look. Now I knew Willy had totally lost his marbles.

Lying on top of a packing blanket was everything from M-15 and M-16 rifles to M-79 grenade launchers, .50 caliber machine guns, 9mm Glock semiautomatic pistols, and night-vision scopes and gear. There was even a flamethrower, along with an assortment of .38 and .45 revolvers. Willy was ready to take out half of Dade County. Apparently, I could add gun running to his list of activities.

“Willy! I know you’re here!” I shouted. “We need to talk.”

There was no reply.

I pushed the safety off my shotgun and pumped a round into the chamber.

Cha-chiiiing!

The sound reverberated with a bone-chilling clarity that boldly stated its purpose. I placed my finger lightly against the trigger and headed for Weed’s trailer. Raising the shotgun, I kicked in the door.

Nothing had changed. The stench and the garbage were the same as ever; so was the platoon of road-warrior roaches that scattered as I made my way in, avoiding the unidentifiable food items that littered the floor.

“I advise you to come out, Willy!” I warned.

The trailer mocked me with its silence. Even Big Mama still wasn’t around. I headed toward Weed’s bedroom, stepping over his putrid laundry. The mound was nearly generating toxic fumes by now.

The sweet smell of a recently lit joint filled the air. Lying near the stained mattress was a partially packed suitcase. I placed my gun down and began to rifle through its contents, gingerly picking up soiled T-shirts and underwear emanating a distinct odor that even the smell of pot couldn’t disguise. I dumped the articles one by one on the floor.

Beneath the clothes was a pile of small muslin sacks that were neatly folded, waiting to be used. Nearly identical to the bag in Dominguez’s living room, except these sacks were smaller. I removed the miniature shrouds and dug a little deeper.

I hit pay dirt in the form of an airline ticket. Whadda ya know—Willy had managed to cook up a new passport. Wally Wang was booked to migrate south, all the way to Brazil. Along with the ticket was a wad of crisp green bills, most of them bearing the likeness of Ulysses S. Grant and Benjamin Franklin. Willy had either won lotto, or was being paid extremely well for his illegal talents. It seemed entirely possible that Willy had knocked Alberto off to go into business for himself. Without Dominguez working as middleman, Willy could now deal directly with the next level up in the pipeline and make double the money he had before.

The bottom of the suitcase was lined with choice reading material, including those all-time favorites,
Shaved Orient Tails
,
Big Ones
, and
Black and Blue
. It was nice to know that even when Willy traveled, he managed to stay current.

A jarring creak outside abruptly split the air. I grabbed my shotgun and stood up, Willy’s underwear jumbled around my feet. The blood pounded in my head with the steady beat of a conductor’s baton as I tiptoed out of the bedroom, my ears trained to pick up the slightest sound.

Craaaack!

I jerked the shotgun up, ready to transform Willy’s home into an air-conditioned canister. Then I saw that my foot had landed squarely on one of the dozen empty Budweiser cans. So much for sneaking up on my quarry.

I opened the door of the trailer and stepped outside. No one was there. Holding the shotgun in front of me like a high-powered shield, I headed for the remaining trailers.

A gang of bad-boy vultures sat like leather-clad thugs, eyeing my shotgun with as little respect as if it were a toy. Even the lions lazily dismissed me, turning their backs and rolling onto their sides. I readjusted my grip on the stock and boosted my confidence by picturing myself as Sigourney Weaver. The image came in handy when I spotted one of the trailer doors standing ajar. It was the entrance to the “hot” room.

A wave of queasiness broke over me. I nudged the pump’s barrel against the door, pushing it open a little further.

“Willy? I know you’re in there. So why don’t you stop with the games and come out,” I called.

Again, there was no answer. Damn! Damn! Damn! I hated this part.

“All right, Willy. That’s it—I’m coming in,” I warned. “Just don’t make any sudden moves. I’ve got a pump, and I swear to God, I’ll use it.”

I waited for Weed to surrender, but there still wasn’t a sound. Taking a deep breath, I screwed up my courage by rehashing my encounter with the black mamba. If you can’t be brave, sometimes anger works.

The metal steps creaked beneath my feet as I walked through the door into the dark den, as airless and hot as a sauna. I was prepared for the hundreds of hostile snakes as I flicked on the switch—but something additional was lying in wait.

A huge cocoa-colored mountain of flesh, Big Mama was curled up on the floor, her muscles undulating as she drew her girth in tighter and tighter. I caught a flash of something deep within her coils and daringly edged closer. Big Mama paid little attention, consumed by whatever was hidden within her rings of shiny skin. I crept forward inch by inch, determined to see what the big attraction was.

The crown of a beat-up, brown leather cowboy hat bobbed into view. The next moment, I caught sight of the head that was attached to it. Willy had described himself and his python as being like one; it looked as if Big Mama had taken the next step in the progression of their relationship. Willy Weed stared out at me with dead, unseeing eyes.

I stared back as Big Mama proceeded to give Willy one last love squeeze, making his mouth fly open and his tongue slide out. Then the room went pitch-black, followed by the thud of the door slamming closed.

I stood stock-still with cold, gut-wrenching fear, tempted to use my shotgun to blow a hole straight through the ceiling—until I remembered the stack of plywood piled on the trailer’s roof. I’d end up creating an instant skylight, only to knock myself unconscious and uncage a few nasty critters.

As I wavered between finding the light switch and screaming my lungs out, I could almost feel Big Mama slither in my direction, making it “two for the price of one” day. That was all the impetus I needed.

I stretched out my hand, my fingers break dancing along the wall in a desperate race for the light switch, praying the power line outside hadn’t been cut. A hard, plastic nub bit into my skin and I flicked it up, bathing the room in bright light.

I quickly grabbed the door handle, more than willing to face whatever lowdown, nasty creature was waiting on the other side. But the metal arm refused to budge: I’d been deliberately locked inside.

I peered back over my shoulder, where Willy’s corpse now wore a maniacal grin, the blood-red ruby gleaming in his front tooth. Then Big Mama turned her head toward me and flicked out her tongue. The next moment, a car’s engine roared to life and a vehicle screeched away.

That did it. I took a few steps back, wedged the butt of the shotgun up against my shoulder, aimed at the door, and pulled the trigger. The blast nearly rocked the trailer over, and the pump’s recoil flung me back, knocking me right off my feet.

My fall was buffered by something soft, and I turned to find myself face-to-face with Big Mama and her boy toy. I was on my feet and flying through what was left of the trailer door faster than the speeding bullets.

Willy’s pickup still sat in its place. It was the unmarked utility vehicle that had vamoosed, taking Weed’s mother lode of weapons with it. I ran back inside Willy’s trailer and tore straight for the bedroom. His suitcase was gone, as were his fake passport, the ticket to Brazil, the muslin sacks, and the thick wad of moolah.

The lid of Willy’s answering machine was flipped up in salute, its interior as bare as Mother Hubbard’s cupboard. Even the message tape was missing. There was nothing left to tie Willy to any of the things I had discovered. Damn!

Then I remembered the third trailer that Weed kept locked. I grabbed my shotgun and headed out. But there was no need to resort to violence; this time the door easily swung open.

I was relieved to find it contained no creepy crawlies, but disappointed to discover it held nothing at all. I kicked around some scattered remnants of rubble, and my foot hit something beneath a piece of discarded cardboard. I slowly lifted its edge with my toe. Lo and behold: a box of ammo sat on the floor. Inside were 9mm hollow point bullets, announcing loud and clear that this had been where Willy kept his stash of arms. Beneath the box lay a crumpled receipt from a Quik Pik convenience store, with an address that leapt up and grabbed me. The store was located in Macon, Georgia.

I headed back to my car, pulled out my cell phone, and punched in a number.

“Reardon here,” Vern said in a just-let-me-fish-and-leave-me-alone drawl.

“I’m at Willy Weed’s place. You’re going to want to head over this way with a body bag,” I informed him.

“Shit! That sucker didn’t actually kill Bambi, did he?” Vern asked, with a tremor in his voice.

I was genuinely touched, until I realized Vern was probably scrambling to cover his ass.

“No. The bag is for Willy,” I replied.

“What happened? You didn’t kill the bastard, did you?”

“Nothing like that. But when you come, bring a herp expert with you. Willy’s death involved a large snake.”

“A case of kinky sex, huh?”

“More like an embrace that just wouldn’t stop. Did you ever meet Big Mama?” I inquired.

“Who the hell is that?” Vern sputtered. “Some female wrestler, or something?”

“Yeah. Something like that.”

My next call was one that I was looking forward to. I dialed the office of the state Game and Fresh Water Fish Commission.

“Hey, Stevens!” I greeted the wildlife desk duty agent. “Guess what? You’re not going to be needing that warrant for Weed, after all. In fact, you can even skip filing the violation report.”

“What’s this?” Stevens asked suspiciously. “Some new kind of approach you’ve come up with? Well, it won’t work. I don’t care how many times you call. Everything is being done by the book.”

I snickered. “That’s why I’m calling. You’re going to have to make arrangements for someone to feed Weed’s cats until you get them placed in a sanctuary.”

“What’s with you, Porter?” Stevens griped. “Haven’t you heard one word I’ve been saying?”

“Of course,” I politely responded. “But situations change, Stevens. And that’s when adjustments have to be made.”

“Oh yeah? Like what, for instance?” Stevens shot back.

“Like the fact that Willy Weed was just murdered, placing his cats in the abandoned category. I’d hate to think what would happen if the local newspaper got wind that these animals were left to starve due to bureaucratic red tape. It might sell a lot of newspapers, but it wouldn’t win any of us a popularity contest,” I observed.

There was a moment of silence before Stevens finally answered. “You’ve made your point, Porter. I’ll get on it right away.”

“I’m sure the cats would appreciate that,” I replied.

I had told Reardon that Willy had been murdered. I believed that was true. Not that I didn’t put it past Big Mama to grab a meal where she could get one, but it didn’t make sense that Willy wouldn’t have been able to get away. Not unless he’d been knocked out cold or killed first.

Buzz Tregler was the first to pop to mind, but I couldn’t see a motive on his part. Not only did Buzz not strike me as the violent type, but I couldn’t believe he would have locked me in the trailer to await such a gruesome fate. Bambi was the only other connection I had, and it was entirely possible she’d made good on her threats. I decided to find out by breaking the news to her.

Bambi answered the door in an outfit that the postman, the milkman, the handyman, or almost any other red-blooded male would have given a day’s pay for just to catch her in. Her 38 Ds were covered by a pair of pasties from which protruded two miniature American flags. The flags stood at a forty-five-degree angle, mounted on tiny plastic sticks. Her red, white, and blue G-string continued the theme with a gold sequined star in its center. The finishing touch was the foam rubber Statue of Liberty crown embedded on her platinum spikes.

“I’m practicing for my new act,” Bambi explained as she opened the door. “I’m going for a patriotic theme.”

“You got a job, then?” I asked.

Bambi led the way into the kitchen, the two flags gaily waving with each bounce. “Did I have a choice? Besides, I need to get out of this damn house. How the hell else am I ever going to meet anyone?”

The tattooed heart bearing Willy’s name winked at me from her right cheek as I followed behind.

“You won’t believe what I’ve got planned to do with a sparkler,” Bambi confided. “As far as I know, it’s never been done before.”

I could only imagine. Before I informed Bambi of Willy’s untimely demise, though, I wanted to see what information I could get. “Can you tell me a little about Buzz Tregler?”

Bambi’s eyes narrowed to two rings of heavy liner, forming parallel black holes where her peepers should have been.

“Whaddaya wanna know?” she asked suspiciously.

“For instance, do you have any idea what kind of surplus Buzz deals in at Robins Air Force Base?” I asked, going for an off-the-cuff tone.

But Bambi wasn’t about to be suckered. “How the hell should I know?” She pulled her lips back in a sarcastic smile. “Probably Spam.”

Cute—especially since Willy had used those exact words before.

She poured two cups of coffee and joined me at the kitchen table.

“Willy’s a shit!” squawked a high-pitched voice.

Bambi grabbed a ripe peach, picked up a kitchen knife and cut it into slices, one of which she stuck between her teeth. Walking over to the cage, she slipped the fruit halfway through the bars. The Amazon hopped over and gently took the slice from her lips.

“I see the two of you are getting along better,” I commented.