Southern Comfort - Fern Michaels [24]
And then he saw it, a building on what he perceived as his goddamn beach. How’d that happen? It wasn’t there . . . When had he last run? Two weeks ago, he decided. In ten days, someone put up a building, and he was just now noticing it? What’s wrong with this picture?
“Told you man, shit happens. Deep water. This sucks. Boy, does this suck!” Bird squawked. Then he let loose with another volley of words, “Bang! Bang! Bang! Get the girls! Get the girls!”
His eyes bulging, Tick stopped and bent over, his hands on his knees as he stared at what looked to be something like a mini airport hangar. Caught off guard, Bird flew past, doubled back, and landed on his shoulder.
“Oh, shit, now I have neighbors. How come you didn’t tell me this was going on, Bird? You’re supposed to be my lookout. I appointed you to guard the portals of my domain, and you damn well fell down on the job. Well?” Like the damn bird was really going to answer him.
“You screwed up! You screwed up!”
Tick tilted his head to look at the bright-eyed bird on his shoulder. “Was that an answer? Are you talking to me?”
“Listen! Listen, shit happens.” Tick burst out laughing and couldn’t stop. He turned around and started to jog back to his stilt house. Maybe after his coffee, he’d shower and head into the village to see what if anything he could find out about his new neighbor. He didn’t want neighbors, didn’t want his space invaded. Because he still thought like a cop, he wanted to know the who, the what, the when, and the why of everything. Nothing else would satisfy him. Cop school 101.
Back in his house ten minutes later, Tick headed for the kitchen to put on his coffee and fix his cereal. “What’ll it be this morning, Bird? Cheerios or Fruit Loops?”
Bird ruffled his feathers and let loose with an ear-piercing shriek. Then he made another sound that one, if desperate, could take for laughter. “Nada. Zip. Zero. Bacon, eggs, pancakes, more, more, more!”
“In your dreams, my feathered friend. That crap will clog your arteries. Even birds must have arteries. The answer is no. Besides, you know we only eat bacon and eggs one day a week. The heart book says we can do that.” Tick looked over at the parrot, who was perched on his chair, waiting for the breakfast he didn’t want. His eyes were shiny bright as he watched his roommate get out two different boxes of cereal and a container of milk. He didn’t make his move until the bowls were placed on the table, at which point he reared up, spread his wings, and flew low over the table, knocking the cereal boxes on the floor. His return flight sent the milk carton skidding across the table and onto the floor. Then he was airborne, lighting on one of the paddles of the fan, which had yet to be turned on. “Shit happens, man,” Bird squawked.
“Son of a bitch!” Tick swore as he looked at the mess he had to clean up. Not knowing what else to say other than, “Bad bird,” Tick started mopping up. And then he laughed. At least he couldn’t say his life wasn’t interesting from time to time.
“C’mon, c’mon, time is money,” Bird said, ruffling his wings.
“Listen, you . . . you . . . bird. We need to talk straight here. I want some answers. First off, are you male or female? Who taught you all this stuff? Where the hell did you come from?”
“Cuba.”
Tick froze and looked up at the bird. “Did you fly here? What a damn stupid question. Or did someone bring you?”
“Boat. Deep water. Bang! Bang! Bang! Get the girls! Get the girls! Shit happens, man.”
Tick digested this latest volley of words as he tried to decide if they meant anything. “You got a name, Bird?”
“Tick.”
“That’s my name. What is your name?” He’d asked this question a hundred times, and