Bird Brained (31 page)

Bambi sat down and picked up the sugar bowl, dumping some into her coffee. Then she lowered her finger into the cup and stirred. When she was done, she popped her fingertip into her mouth and sucked off the liquid.

“He’s my bird now,” she replied.

I took a sip of the coffee. Even sugar wouldn’t have helped. “Do you know if Buzz’s job involves dealing with weapons in any way?”

Bambi leaned forward, resting her 38 Ds on the table. “Listen, Porter. The guy filched me a watch, and once Willy even had him snatch a pearl necklace. Other than that, I don’t know shit.”

This wasn’t getting me anywhere. It was time to hand her the news.

“Somebody planted a black mamba in my bungalow last night. I’m pretty sure it was Willy,” I told her.

Bambi adjusted her flags so that they lay neatly on the Formica surface. “He’s a sick fuck. He coulda done that—except for the fact that he’s outta town again. Must be somebody else out there who hates your guts, Porter.”

“He never left town,” I told her.

Bambi glared at me, running all ten of her sharpened nails across the table. “Are you trying to tell me that he’s out at his place shacked up, doing it with a couple of broads?” she asked.

“Willy’s a shit!” screeched the Amazon.

“Shut up!” Bambi yowled.

“He’s not shacking up with anyone anymore. I went over to his place this morning. He was dead when I got there.”

Bambi’s expression didn’t change. Only her mouth fell open. She quickly shut it. “What are you talking about? He flew to Brazil first thing this morning.”

I couldn’t believe what I’d just heard. “You mean you’ve known about those trips to Brazil all along?”

“How the hell else am I supposed to take care of these kids?” Tears started to run down her face. “For chrissakes! We’re only talking about birds!”

It irritates the hell out of me when people say something stupid like that. “Yeah? Well, now we’re also talking about guns. Whoever killed Willy made off with a pile of weapons from the cargo bed of his pickup.”

Black mascara ran down Bambi’s cheeks. A few drops plopped into her coffee; the rest streaked onto her neck before settling on her breasts. “Buzz would never do something like that,” she said in a whisper.

I jumped on the nugget of information. “Why not?”

Bambi turned her tear-stained face toward me. “Because they were partners, dammit! Buzz was the source, but Willy was the brains behind the plan. You tell me why Buzz would go and screw himself on a sweet deal, huh? I’m telling you, there’s no way he’d do that!”

The phone rang and Bambi jumped up to get it. She listened for a moment, and then cupped her hand around the mouthpiece.

“Willy’s dead. Porter’s here and she’s looking for you. Don’t go back,” she warned. I grabbed the phone out of her hand.

“Listen to me, Buzz. This is important,” I began. But the phone was already dead. I turned toward Bambi. “All right. Where can I find him?” I pressed. “Is he back at the base?”

Bambi wiped her eyes, spreading mascara and eyeliner across her face. “Not anymore, he’s not.”

“Bambi, you’re going to have to talk to me, as well as to the police.”

Bambi stood up and placed a hand on each of her bare hips, her flags waving in indignation. “I’m not saying another damn word without talking to my lawyer.”

Naturally, she meant the killer shark in a suit that I’d gotten for her. Great.

There was only one person who knew something about the military I could talk to, and that was Tommy. Not that I expected much, but it seemed the logical place to go next.

The lunch crowd must have been pretty light at his place today. Most people were already gone, and Tommy was well on his way to being half soused. His sailor cap was pulled down low, and he’d lost his trademark luau shirt, giving me full view of a gallery of faded tattoos. A forties pinup girl sat coyly poised on his left bicep, flaunting her chest with each twitch of his muscle. On his right arm was a tattoo of a heart inscribed with the word
MOTHER
. Another tattoo of a heart had a dagger stuck through it, a drop of blood hanging from the tip of its blade. Maybe it was his answer to a love affair gone wrong.

He threw ball after misguided ball across a small patch of Astroturf in a one-man game of bocci. So far, he’d managed to work up a sweat without hitting a thing. He removed his cap, exposing a bald, shiny head, and used it to wipe the perspiration off his face.

“You gonna let me stand here and die of thirst? Why don’t ya get us a coupla cold ones?”

I walked behind the bar, opened up the cooler, and ladled the brew into two clean but dented tin cups. When I returned Tommy was parked on the Astroturf, having knocked the bocci pins onto the ground.

He slapped a section of the turf beside him. “This stuff is great. Sorta like a pillow for your butt.”

I handed him one of the cups and sat down.

He took a gulp of the beer, and wiped his mouth off with the back of his hand. “You here to drink or to talk?”

“Today I’m here to talk,” I regretfully replied.

Tommy slapped his cap back on his head. “In that case, we need some food.”

He got a container of homemade smoked fish dip and a box of Saltine crackers from the bar. My stomach gurgled as I caught a whiff, and I dug in.

“So, what’s the next piece you’re looking to fit into the puzzle?” Tommy asked.

I looked at him, a cracker stuffed in my mouth.

“That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

I nodded, swallowed, and took a sip of beer. “You remember my telling you about the person who I thought was bringing Cuban Amazons and hyacinth macaws into Miami for Alberto?”

“Yeah. The guy who had a passport without any entry or exit stamps from Cuba.” Tommy snickered.

I blushed. “I discovered he’s been involved in something else besides smuggling birds.”

“Aren’t they all?” Tommy remarked. He piled a mound of fish dip onto a cracker and popped it into his mouth.

“This guy, Willy, has also been running guns,” I said.

Tommy flipped the brim of his cap off his eyes. “Nothing unusual about that,” he replied.

I took a deep breath. “Let me re-word it. What I caught a gander of were M-15s and M-16s, along with grenade launchers, 9mm Glocks, machine guns, night-vision gear, and flamethrowers. And that’s just what I saw in the back of his pickup truck. God knows what else he’s been selling.”

Tommy raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like he’s got quite the source for supplies.”

“That’s exactly what I wanted to talk to you about. His best friend is stationed at an air force base in Georgia, where he works in the surplus division. When I was out at Willy’s, I heard a message on his answering machine that said the Commander could place his grocery list to be filled at the candy store whenever he wants.” I glanced over at Tommy, who had his head tilted back and his eyes closed. “You were in the military; does any of this make sense to you? Or have I just managed to put you to sleep?”

A smile stole across Tommy’s face, followed by a low chuckle. “What a scam. Hell, you can’t help but admire that kind of ingenuity. Especially coming from two crackerbarrel numbskulls.”

I hate it when I’m left out of the loop. “Do you want to tell me what you’re talking about?”

Tommy got up, walked over to the bar again, and dragged back the entire cooler. He opened the lid and refilled both our cups.

“You know what I like about you, Porter?” He took a long swig of beer.

“No, what’s that, Tommy?” I was sure there was a punch line.

“It’s all the shit you get yourself involved in. It amuses the hell out of me,” Tommy replied with a laugh.

“Glad I keep you entertained,” I answered, irritation creeping into my voice.

Tommy gave me a sidelong glance. “Hey, cool down, Porter. If you weren’t out there putting your butt on the line, you’d never find out about any of this. I’m giving you credit for going out there and doing it.”

I took a sip of beer and unruffled my feathers. “Great. Then tell me what this scam is that you’re talking about.”

Tommy leaned back on his elbows, sinking into the Astroturf. “You ever hear of Defense Reutilization and Marketing Offices?”

He could have been speaking a foreign language. “No. What are those?”

“Those, my girl, are where the U.S. sells its military surplus. Think of it as sort of a designer’s outlet. Except instead of sweaters and pantyhose, these outlets offer helicopters, rocket launchers, missiles—things like that.”

“You’ve got to be joking,” was all I could think of to say.

“Absolutely not,” Tommy retorted. “In fact, it’s one of the few programs the Pentagon has that’s actually capable of paying for itself. Hell! Last year, they made $302 million selling stuff.”

Maybe I was tired, but none of this was making a whole lot of sense to me. “Don’t play games by leaving things out, Tommy. How about just explaining the setup to me, and how it works?”

“All right. Basically, DRMOs are a network of sales offices at different military bases. The idea is simple: When the military has a surplus of stuff, instead of just junking it, the material is trucked to a warehouse and offered to buyers who submit sealed bids. Anything that’s a weapon is supposed to be rendered harmless before being sold. Of course, a lot of times that isn’t the case.”

“Why not? What’s the problem?” I took another sip of beer and began to relax.

“What? You want just one problem? Forget it!” he snorted. “This program is loaded with them.” Tommy picked up a flat stone and sent it skimming over the water. “The main objective of DRMOs is profit, which means just about everything else tends to get overlooked. Stuff is supposed to be coded so that high-level weapons are destroyed and key weapon parts are prevented from reaching foreign buyers—that kind of thing. However, this is the military we’re dealing with, which means there are nothing
but
fuck-ups. Military surplus is presumed to be stuff that’s been used. Not in this program! I’d say more than half of what’s sold is brand new. Hell, I’ve known guys who’ve nearly built their own army from what they’ve bought out of DRMOs.”

Educational as this was, I still wasn’t sure how it tied in with Weed. “This guy I’m talking about wouldn’t have been involved in auctions with a bunch of hot shots. He was a lowlife, two-bit wanna-be.”

Tommy held up a hand. “Hey. I’m laying it out, giving you the background here. I’m not finished yet.”

He ladled out another cup of beer. “Okay, now where was I? My guess is that this friend of Willy’s—what’s his name?”

“Buzz,” I replied.

Tommy snickered. “Buzz—I love it. Anyway, Buzz is probably stationed at Robins Air Force Base. Am I right?”

I nodded my head in surprise. “How did you come up with that?”

“Piece of cake,” he grinned. “You already told me that he’s stationed in Georgia. And if Buzz is doing what I think, Robins is the perfect place. He’s probably stealing them blind and they don’t even know it.”

It was my turn to hold up a hand. “Whoa! This Buzz is no brain surgeon, either.”

Tommy polished off his beer, and ladled himself another. “It doesn’t matter. We’re talking about a program that’s an absolute disaster. The Pentagon’s tracking system for surplus is lame as hell, which makes it easy pickings. Not only that, but their sales system is so overloaded that the computers at a number of DRMOs have actually broken down.” Tommy burped and flexed a bicep, giving the forties pinup girl a free ride. “It just so happens that Robins was one of those places. So much property came into their DRMO three years ago that their system collapsed. By the time they got it back up and running, close to $40 million in surplus had disappeared. The base lost track of it, pure and simple. To this day, no one knows where the stuff went.”

“And you think Buzz could have had something to do with that?” I asked dubiously.

Tommy picked up the container of dip and ran his finger inside, digging out whatever was left. “I’m not saying he knocked out the system. But once it was down? Yeah, he could have taken advantage of it. Hell, he can probably even tap into other DRMOs around the country and order whatever he wants, from .38 revolvers to parts for Stealth airplanes. You don’t need a lot of brains. All you need are the right connections to sell the stuff on the outside.”

That’s where Willy came in. But something about this still didn’t sound quite right.

“I have a problem believing the military would sell working grenade launchers,” I told him. “It makes these places sound like grocery stores for terrorists.”

Tommy tipped his cap in my direction. “Don’t it, though? Or like candy stores for your military-minded, entrepreneurial civilian Rambos.” He gave me a wink.

I looked at him. “Just like the message on Willy’s machine.”

He nodded. “You got it. Except that I can’t tell you who the Commander is.” Tommy sipped his beer, getting more and more soused. “Remember I told you everything is supposed to be coded, so that weapons are permanently disabled before any sale? Well, fuck-ups generally happen on purpose—to hide whatever crap is going on. The guy in charge of coding will give intact rocket launchers the same code as an ordinary table, since launchers in working order get more money on the black market. A Pentagon investigation even confirmed that DRMOs are a big source of supplies for arms traffickers.”

Tommy hiccuped, rolled down onto his back, and closed his eyes. Though I wanted to believe him, I was still skeptical. For all I knew, Tommy was drunk to the gills and making this up.

He turned his head in my direction and opened his eyes, as if he’d heard my thoughts. “You want proof of this, Porter?”

“That would be good for a start,” I replied.

Tommy’s eyes floated in their sockets, like two castaways out at sea on a raft.

“Set your fanny behind that computer in your office, log onto the Internet, and type in the letters DRMO. Then, list whatever kind of weapons your little heart desires.” Tommy turned his head back up to the sky, and began to snore.

I figured that was my cue to leave—story time was clearly over.