Solana Del Mar

By Steve Marsh

Nothing leaves Solana but the hangover. The party starts at "high" noon in the island tropics of Beruba until Sander and MarJean stumble on a smuggling cartel led by an Anglo-Caribbean banker and a shadowy arms trader hiding somewhere on exotic Albacore Caye... Chaos erupts when a thieving monkey makes off with Sander's priceless gold doubloon, the key to an ancient Spanish hoard... While in hot pursuit, Sander's odyssey begins as the banker struggles to evacuate his beloved Solana del Mar in a flimsy scheme to grab Solana for his nefarious enterprise, assuring affordable and convenient accommodations for smugglers everywhere... If only a platoon of spooks can infiltrate a beach-rave gone berserk and liberate Solana del Mar on a remote island where deranged youth and Viagratic party hounds run on vapors in a wild, moonlit paradise... An offbeat, outrageous cast of supporting characters keeps this 'intoxicating' mystery thriller pulsing with new developments at every turn... Gripping, suspenseful, hilarious, sometimes reflecting a retro-chic bit of an Ian Fleming adventure, Solana del Mar is a magical Caribbean world with an exotic mix of international culture and ageless characters, offering a behind-scenes glimpse of Euro/American expats 'living their dreams' turned rollicking nightmare in a secluded corner of the tropics.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 25, 2014
• ISBN: 9781493194919

Steve Marsh

Steve Marsh is Reader in international politics at Cardiff University, UK. His principal research interests lie in post-World War Two international politics with a particular focus on American foreign policy and Anglo-American relations. His latest book, (2020, co-edited with Robert M Hendershot), is Culture Matters. Anglo-American Relations and the Intangibles of Specialness.

Book preview

Copyright © 2015 by Steve Marsh.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2014906078

ISBN:      Hardcover      978-1-4931-9492-6

                Softcover        978-1-4931-9493-3

                eBook              978-1-4931-9491-9

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 05/29/2015

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CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Acknowledgements

About The Author

DEDICATION

 . . . To Chris, more than a wonderful wife, my very best friend.

A Timely

Preface

…For Immediate Release to All Media Forthwith

…By Way of Explanation Regarding Our National Disappearance of Late…

From the Desk of R. Nelson Reilly

Department of National Tourism

Public Relations Office of the Secretary

United Provinces of Beruba

Subsequent to a most inaccurately misrepresented international incident resulting in our collective humiliation of late, inquiring future visitors and even the most astute professionals within the global tourism industry have had some difficulty actually locating our lovely island-nation on current maps of the Caribbean region. I endeavor to explain…

First, let me assure one and all that a.) We are indeed still here while b.) Nothing has been moved in terms of land mass, and c.). Our radiant shores of sugar sand still seduce the sanguine sojourner and, finally, d.) Our current lodging fees, restaurant tabs and taxi rates are among the most regionally reasonable as a consequence of unfortunate developments to be relived in the following chapters of this book…which assist in the clarification of a temporary state of lamentable lassitude among our normally cheerful and hospitable citizens.

In other words, please bear us a bit of empathy as our collective emotional status remains under reconstruction.

On the upside and as they say in the USA: Act now for rock-bottom bargain prices!! Hurry!!!

Hurry where? you might ask, as you breathe heavily in anticipation of a Caribbean adventure for the price of a family outing at your local water park. While the better cartographers have promised an updated version of regional maps, for them it may not be an immediate priority. We are, after all, but a humble series of dots and dashes amidst a constellation of nearby island nations, their territories and their principalities. After all, as they contend, the recent scandal afflicting a certain nation to remain unnamed (ours) is, after all, "OUR problem."

A swift and impressively decisive edict has since come down from our national tourism commission, i.e. my employer, leaving me hog-bound to withhold the former name of our charming address in paradise. That said, and as we continue to study our media-relations challenge, I invite one and all to embrace our sunny image as presented herein, which incorporates our new national flag, our new name and our spanking new emblem – all the work of a crack ‘corporate-naming’ and ‘market-repositioning’ specialist in Chicago.

Forthwith, we accordingly are, now and forevermore, the upright, upstanding and utterly welcoming people of BERUBA.

The Sovereign Nation of…Beruba: There it is, and why not?

Names of countries tend to change over the windy passage of time…thus ours. We have endured much in centuries past, from slavery and indentured servitude to terrorism on the high seas in the Golden Age of the Buccaneer - also, of late, an incoming tide of expatriates not only confounding the national liquor supply but adding to an increasing shortage of electrical power along with a modern-day onslaught of offshore intrigues.

In defense of our trusting people, who would have had a bloody hint as to the impending scandal on our own luxuriant shores? Call it the crass and callous effrontery of chameleon culprits from continental concerns confounding an honest citizenry with sly and slippery stealth supplanting our sublime sensibilities with newly intrusive institutions propagated by seedy syndicates of selfishness!! E-gad! Well! Well…indeed!

Saving Solutions Simplified

By way of explanation as promised above and on a more practical note given the overwhelming cost of damage-control alternatives, our most expedient salvation seemed a simple matter of discussing sentient solutions with taxpaying citizens in the act of enjoying our many fine restaurants, saloons, seaside shops and travel services.

A poll was administered. Votes were cast. We decided to Change the Name of the Entire Bloody Country! …And why not? Major corporations seem to do it whenever implacable developments toss their shareholders to the down-side. Not that we did.

So be it. A new national identity was born with a new name: Beruba. At no little expense, I might add but, again, why not?

We had nearly run through the old brochure inventory, anyhow, and our aging print ads had gone stale as month-old Melba toast. So, why not chuck it all for a clean slate and start over? Such evidentiary socio-political flexibility is one of many Berubian highlights inquiring retirees might consider.

So here we are:

Fashionable Man: "You’ve never heard of Beruba?"

Fashionable Woman: "Why, of course, everyone’s in Beruba this season!"

Fashionable Man: "Sunny Beruba - your affordable address in paradise."

Fashionable Woman: "…Ocean views from every Berubian Balcony!"

Together: "Everyone’s booking Beruba! Make your arrangements today!"

How’s that for snappy ad copy?

I’ve even suggested a new slogan: "All Hail Beruba!…Why Not?" (Jury’s out.)

As for the rather seedy particulars that ultimately empowered our historic, defining denouement, please go to Chapter One for the following account, as submitted by one of our many loyal expatriots. Acting as a publicity counterweight to the laughably extreme ejaculations of an over-heated media, the ensuing pages should assuage all fears, urging the ardent adventurer to ‘hop a bird’ (soon available) and give us a try.

Exciting New Developments

If you do decide to come aboard, rest assured that recent changes will add exciting new dimensions to your tranquil, relaxing, stress-free visit:

-A country-wide moratorium has banned all monkeys as house pets (other than those previously kept which, at this writing, must be securely leashed at all times).

-Festive assemblies of more than 20 excessively exuberant individuals under the age of 25 are now monitored by town constables, the latter to refrain from joining the reverie (while on duty).

-An official customs imprint now verifies smuggle-free imports which notably include electronic notepads and certain beverages.

-Recognizable air carriers may soon resume scheduled flights (pending ongoing review by recognizable insurance providers). Our ever popular emergency medivac flights are, however, available as always.

-Discount package tours and other traveler incentives are under investigation as law-enforcement records of service applicants now undergo thorough review.

…And why not? Long live Beruba! Fair Beruba! One and all!

On behalf of everyone here at the O.E.D., I am happy to endorse the following report as a rather accurate account of incidents now considered a national triumph. Bon voyage.

Officially Yours,

Sir Ridley Nelson Reilly

Deputy Chief Commissioner

Office of Economic Development, Tourism Bureau

The Sacred and United Provinces of Beruba

CHAPTER 1

S ANDER SWEPT HIS tanned, weathered hands over the salt-and- pepper crew cut he studied in the mirror every morning. It was steadily shrinking into a tentative peninsula over the lumpy splay of a boxer’s nose, further revealing a forehead sculpted into wavering creases after years of laughter because Sander loved to laugh, loved to crack jokes, loved to make people like Sander Givens.

But it wouldn’t work with poets. His dreaded turn on the hot seat was tomorrow and he was no poet. Everybody knew it. He’d signed up for the class on a bet with Jasper Mendelsohn, causing tension with the poetry teacher because everyone knew about the bet. In fact, everybody knew everything at Solana del Mar - haven of idleness at the western edge of Planet Caribe.

Here on legendary Albacore Caye, Beruba, Central America, he’d dropped anchor for year-round living with a boatload of fun-loving expatriates, and Jasper’s poetry challenge was supposed to be fun. Last month’s scrapbooking class had been fun. Underwater ecology would follow poetry, for fun, also to explain why rampant spearfishing was leading to an empty reef.

He glanced in the kitchen mirror and noted the usual stubble, also the leathery tan with the blue eyes looking back – not unlike other expats ‘living the life’ at Solana del Mar.

Poetry lady hates me, he muttered.

She doesn’t hate you. She loves you for trying.…Jeannie’s voice in his head.

Yeah, maybe, he said, looking around, knowing Jeannie was long gone.

Turning to the cluttered breakfast table, he slumped in a wicker chair and mopped the perspiration off his neck. Looking up from the table, a tired nub of a pencil begged an essential question: Why wasn’t he outside and heading for the beach? Sander dropped a hand to scratch a dime-sized lump on his ankle, the infected work of a sand flea. If the trade winds died tonight the palapa would be infested again, but you either dealt with the fleas and got on with it or they drove you off the island altogether. Today’s total: 22. Mostly calves and thighs…could be worse. He dotted the itchy welts with Triamcinalone 1% cream. So be it. Sander was finally ‘one’ with the island’s natural laws, things the brochures never mentioned, and the reward was a tropical world of mostly sunny days.

Beyond the open French doors and private veranda, his second-story view of a turquoise sea was framed in rustling palms. Birds sang in the groves. The late-morning sun tried as always to fry the manicured monkey grass before it escaped under a leafy canopy, where it meandered among the shady paths of combed sand to the pool.

Sander stepped into the sun and peered over the balustrade, watching a blur of scarlet in a golden glow of banana leaves – some kind of finch - and to his right, just beyond the veranda, his front door and outside stairway were cast in shadow by a domed atrium, where chattering canaries burst out for a nearby poison tree and…

Aaauuuuugh! Snuggles! Somebody!

At first it sounded like a screaming TV actress. Then it didn’t.

Ohhh, Shoo! Snuggles!

Before he realized his feet were moving Sander was out the door and leaping down the outside stairway, taking two steps at a time. The voice was close and rising up from a ground-floor villa: It was Mrs. Harmon, who lived with her hairless Chihuahua.

Aaaaaaugh. It’s…eating…!

Sander met the bottom in a splash of sand, whipped to the right and vaulted up the three steps to Mrs. Harmon’s open door. He could see a squirming heap on her living room floor. It was dark inside. The shades were shut. Mrs. Harmon was in her swimsuit and sarong and beating the undulating heap with a broom handle. The creature’s arrow-shaped head hissed and struck at her. She was just as quick, moving in and out with the broom handle, fencing with it.

Stepping into the room, Sander spotted undulating diamonds on a silvery hide. Within the mass was a purple dog snout: A juvenile boa constrictor was coiled around Snuggles, defending its lunch.

Mrs. Harmon looked at Sander, eyes red with panic.

"My God, Sander! Do something!"

Snuggles’ mouth opened with a fading whine.

Give me the broom, he said, and a bed sheet! RUN!

Sander grabbed the broom handle and tried to yank out the tail. The snake recoiled and lunged at him. Sander jumped back, watching it re-constrict, wrapping itself more tightly around the wheezing dog.

Mrs. Harmon came running in with a sheet.

Sander unfurled the sheet and yelled, Vodka!

What?

Vodka, tequila, anything.

She dashed to a liquor cabinet, grabbed a bottle of vodka and ran back.

Sander muttered, Steady, moving in again, hefting the unfurled sheet like a matador. Watching the poised head of the snake, he threw out the sheet and let it settle over the undulating coils.

Bottle, he said, reaching for it. She shoved it in his hand as he kept his eyes on the sheet. The sheet outlined a flat nub of snout. It rocked back and forth. Sander timed the rocking motion of the head and made his move. A sparkling rain of vodka soaked the sheet over the boa’s head. The snake hissed, recoiling. Sander followed the roving head, unloading another splash and the head whipped around, writhing coils spreading as the squirming grew sluggish, uncertain.

I think it’s working, he gasped.

The shape of the head rose up, rocking slowly, going for an edge of the sheet. A listless tail emerged.

A breathless groundskeeper ran up the steps and poked his head in the room.

He looked down and gasped, Ahhh, culebra! Bien por botas!

Sander turned and snapped, Boa con perro!

The gardener was alarmed.

Con perro? He turned and shouted, Chico! Culebra!

Sander again let the vodka cascade over the boa’s sheeted head, guiding the sluggish form with the broom handle until a belly-laugh filled the room.

Solana’s towering gardener, Chico Morales, stood in the open doorway.

Ho-ho, Mister Sander, Chico laughed. You put him to bed? Nice sheets!

Chico took off his broad, straw hat and swaggered in, barely clearing the top of the door frame. Once inside, he looked down, sighed and whipped the sheet away.

The groggy boa hissed and struck. Chico stepped back and chuckled, Ola!

In a relaxed voice, he said, A mean one, yes, Mister Sander? He sniffed the air. What-choo do? Get him drinking?

Chico sniffed the air again and roared, Culebra muy borracho! Ah-hah!

Chico glanced at the other man.

Jorge, aqui!

The other gardener sighed and stepped in behind him, shaking his head. Both moved casually on the drunken snake: Gardening 101 at Solana del Mar.

"Unos, dos…Tres! Chico said, watching Jorge grab the tail. The snake groggily struck at Jorge. As it did, Chico deftly grabbed it behind the head, the gleaming blade of a machete came out of nowhere and went down, passing through the neck to smack the tile floor tile beneath it with a loud tang!" The remaining coils went into a writhing frenzy – tossing off the dog – and the writhing slowed, going slack as they casually pulled out the coils.

Jorge whistled, admiring the prize.

It is mine! he said.

Still pulling, Chico laughed and shook his head, No, no, no.

Sander stepped in, gently picked up the coughing dog and laid it out on the sofa.

You’re a man of action, Chico Sander said, shaken but relieved. Of course, in the U.S.A. the IPDER would file suit immediately.

What is IPDER? Chico asked with a wry grin. Mister Sander had many jokes.

…Indignant Protectors of Dog-Eating Reptiles: boa beheadings are politically incorrect!

Why?

First, they’d want to medicate and get it into therapy.

Chico paused and burst into laughter.

Good, Mister Sander, muy bien! He held up the dripping machete. "This is jungle therapy. We’re in Chico’s world, yes?"

If I may intervene, said Mrs. Harmon. She tiptoed over to the couch and gently picked up Snuggles, bundling the limp form in a towel.

Eyes wide and moist she said, To the vet. Sander, can you lock up?

Happy to.

Mrs. Harmon was out the door and down the path. The gardeners stood in the living room haggling over whom would get what part of the catch.

Carne muy delicias! Chico said, grunting as he hoisted the bulk off of it off the floor.

Por mi botas! Jorge whined.

Chico ignored him, grinning with a mouthful of silver.

She’s lucky lady, he said. Ees a little guy: Twelve-foot senora kill doggy quick.

Outside in glaring sunlight, the headless remains of a 30-pound reptile brought a gallery of hoots and whistles from nearby verandas. A crowd quickly gathered around the wonder - only seven feet long but a monster to kids racing up, staring in amazement as Jorge and Chico went to work with the machete. Boa was a delicacy, swell on the grill. Jorge wanted the skin for a pair of boots. The arrangement was made with casual efficiency as Chico’s machete flashed.

Back inside, Sander mopped up and finally closed a tell-tale parting of French doors on the front veranda. Had they had been left open to pull in a cross-breeze, the boa might have slipped in under the sofa to wait for Snuggles and Wham! But Sander could only speculate. Like the rest, he was a relative newcomer to paradise.

Chico and Jorge ambled off with their prize and the crowd followed. Sander sighed, wiped his forehead with a paper towel and locked the front door from the inside. Then he let himself out.

****

The Number 2 pencil stirred in a light breeze. The neglected page rustled beside it.

What the hell does a poet think about? Sander asked himself, wondering if a splash of rum and lime would help, which was allowed at Solana del Mar where cocktails could conceivably start at - or a hair before – noon, hence the term Noonzy. A ship’s clock in the kitchen was about to nudge its eleventh digit. He factored the unusually early hour he’d rolled out of bed: 7:30 instead of 8:00. The clock now read 10:55, meaning it was technically thirty minutes later, or 11:25 a.m. Although short of noon, the sun was already heading for battle against purple ships of clouds, which were rolling up from the south with cargos of warm Caribbean rain to, hopefully, scuttle the dreaded weekly golf tournament - he struggled with every club in the bag.

With that in mind, he glanced at a parrot-shaped figurine on the breakfast table and muttered, Let it rain, Birdie Boy! Let it Howl! The ceramic parrot stared at him with a yellow eye. After a few hours of Rum and Seven it could talk back.

Mum’s the word, eh, Birdie?

Caressing the curvature of its hard little head, he went for a splash of rum in a highball glass. Next: frosty limeade from the fridge, and the ice. Always plenty of ice.

Here’s to you, Birdie Boy, he said, and took a long pull. The glass was frosty. Sweat rolled out of his temples and down his cheek. He mixed another and knocked it back. Feeling a tad light, he raised an eyebrow, looked at the bird and rattled the ice in his glass.

…But I’m afraid you’re a cliché.

The bird stared at him in shock.

Sorry, we talked about you in poetry class. Poetry. His wandering gaze left the veranda for the shimmering, sapphire of the pool beyond. He wanted to be out there. Damn the poem. The jade-colored glass of the breakfast table was damp with humidity, as was the poem-less piece of paper because he rarely used air conditioning in the morning. He’d finally become accustomed to the roasting swelter, unlike the hotel tourists who ran the A/C night and day – some of whom considered him local color in his outrageous tropical shirts, a Givens trademark, today’s being a howler of colored orchids over a flaming banner of rayon.

The others were out there by now in flip-flops and old T-shirts, part of a growing clan of mad-house refugees in this affordable hideaway in the tropics. Yeah, so it wasn’t Hawaii, so what? For half-price, he was the Ever-Casual Doctor Florida with an ocean view at Solana del Mar, where his notorious Givens Whoppers were the toast of happy-hour. Here, they even had a huge pool in back – way back – for platoons of shrieking kids to go berserk all day. Beyond that, a handful of unsellable jungle units were empty and slowly seceding into the mangroves, while Sander and his cronies lived way up front with the ocean breeze. And just such a breeze suddenly filled the breakfast nook with a fragrant scent of bougainvillea. Perfect…

A sheepish knock on the front door was followed by a reluctant pause, followed by a sing-song voice on the other side.

Oh, Sander?

It was Eddie the handsome former-TV anchorman with a villa-full of grandkids.

Sander? He knocked again. May I have a word?

Sander groaned. Eddie’s grandson had set fire to a palm only yesterday.

First word’s free, Sander said as he opened the door.

Eddie rushed in breathless, mopping his face with a beach towel.

This should only take a second, he said. I’m afraid Spiderman is in a bit of a fix.

Sander sighed, Another thrilling episode…

He ran into a knot-tying class from Junior-Girls Sailing School.

Sander followed Eddie next door, down the mirror-image of his own hallway to the master bedroom, and finally onto the back porch – where a rope had been tied to the railing. Stretched tight, it disappeared over the veranda jerking back and forth. Something alive was attached.

Peering over the edge, he saw Spiderman dangling upside-down in mid-air and snugly bound.

The upside-down 10-year-old growled, I can do this.

You’ll never get out, Eddie said. He glanced at Sander and muttered, His sister and her girlfriends left him like this. They’re at the pool.

No need to explain, Sander said. I’ll pull him up. You get him on the porch.

I can’t thank you enough.

Just hide the matches. We almost bought the farm when he torched the palm…

I’m confiscating the costume, Eddie said. It does something to him.

Care to join me for an eye-popper?

Eddie rolled his eyes. I’d love to but swim class…Bunky Ball…

It’ll be over soon.

Another week…

Sander pulled. Eddie grabbed the kid and brought him over the rail but the knots were deviously intricate. As Eddie went to work with a knife and scissors, the boy scowled at Sander and snarled, "I am The Death God. My sister must DIE!"

Sander winked at Eddie and chuckled, Have fun.

****

Poetus interruptus. Sander again eyed the sun-dappled pool in the distance. It had a U-shape forming a delightful little island in the middle where a couple of palm trees supported his Sacred Hammock. The day was getting on. Sander glanced at his watch: 11:20. Technically speaking it was actually 11:50 a.m. He examined his dusty cargo shorts: wearable for yet another day and good to go. His copper legs were dotted with salved welts but otherwise well-muscled from scuba diving, snorkeling, and biking up and down the shoreline with his metal detector. Even his toes were tanned from living in flip-flops. He was thus ready for Noonzies in his Sacred Hammock,. The usual cocktail servers would stroll over the pool on a bamboo bridge. He would eventually cross to the lounge, shouting, It is I, the Ever Casual Doctor Florida. The usual suspects at the bar would holler a return-volley of nicknames.

Drink. He drained the sludge of another ‘limey,’ which helped erase visions of tomorrow’s heckle-fest in the poetry workshop. He instead focused on the possibility of another boat trip to town, a daily activity in itself. The bounding craft would pass humble, one and two-story resorts dotting - like an uneven line of dentures - Albacore’s windward shore. The boat would then return from town, passing the final, modestly appointed human structure at the end of a coral road, where impenetrable jungle and the last leg began. Beyond that point, Solana del Mar was accessible only by boat, joined in mutual isolation by its rowdy sister-in-exile, the Shangri-La Grill, which was still sagging over the water after 50 years and within easy paddling distance of Solana del Mar.

…Where, Sander mused, everything stays at Solana but the hangover. He moved the wide-eyed figurine to catch the light and said, Where’s my hat, Birdie Boy? It’s ‘hat’ time! He grabbed a broad-brimmed Panama that went with everything in Sander-land, most notably his shirts with colored birds and flowers, hula girls, palm trees, and more flowers…with ukuleles: all fighting it out in hues of primary red, yellow and green like a wild cartoon in motion. After all, he was the Sander Givens, raconteur of Albacore Caye and resorts between because Doctor Florida was a one-man celebration.

Yet, the doctor had a secret. Adventure was his dreamy-dream, as Jeannie used to say. While the island party zone followed a north-south continuum of beach - facing east along the windward shore - the rest was a tantalizing mystery of crocodile-infested jungle lagoons hiding legends of pirate booty. There were forgotten shipwrecks, and unexplored Mayan ruins, and fresh-water senote labyrinths, where underwater caverns allegedly held the secrets of priceless artifacts…all in a clatter of steel drums and dancing, under a black sky with shimmering diamonds called the Southern Cross.

He sometimes had to pinch himself to realize it was home. Here, he was the Lampshade King of the Barefoot Ball, who filled the heads of visitors with notorious whoppers regarding certain, alleged sightings of "ghost ships in the daaark of noyt."

Dark of night, Dark and Stormy, he said, upending the limey, turning to the liquor cabinet for dark Caribbean rum and ginger beer. "It was a Dark and Stormy night," he said, muttering, "Even I can do better than that." He thought for a moment and boomed, We borrowed Bob’s convertible…twas a warm and top-down night! Not bad, but was it poetry?

Sander shook his head and muttered, "Nah. Let’s do boat drinks and pass out like a real man." Submitting to the daily hunt for sunscreen, his footsteps echoed over travertine tile under mahogany-beamed, cathedral ceilings, a plus for second-story residents. Solana villas were two stories, four units each, beyond which his Sacred Hammock awaited and cheery voices were coming up from the pool. A rising fist of sun had already devoured the morning shadows but they were out there anyway, laughing and dancing the calypso near his hammock with a Jamaican dance instructor. Others were dabbing brightly colored paint on easels behind billowing shrouds in the class room. Or would it be ceramics? He actually, kind of liked ceramics…sort of.

Aaaaaaaaaaaak!

The sound ripped through him. The parrots were out.

Aaaaak! Aaaaak! It was Ricky, a real parrot, brilliant red with a black beak.

The brittle cry of his sister Lucie shattered the calm.

San-der? Aaaaaaaaaak! Huh-huh-huh. That was Lucy, alright. Somehow the big Blue Amazon had discovered his identity and was gathering intelligence by the day.

Weeeeeeep! it shrieked. Birdee Bo-ee!

Lucy somehow knew all about ‘Birdie Boy,’ too.

Creeping to the edge of the veranda, he peered into the grove. Parrot handler Francoise had left them unleashed on their roosts again. He never leashed the damn birds. Francoise was probably off in the bird shack, searching for the spray bottle because they loved their misting, a big deal in the parrot world, and a group