Southern Comfort - Fern Michaels [26]
Tick shrugged. He was not about to pick a fight with this old man, who had gone out of his way for him and who had been nothing but kind. He would have extended his hand to shake the elder’s, but the man’s hands were clasped behind his back. Tick nodded and started to walk away, then turned around and came back. “Do you happen to know, sir, how I ended up with that parrot? Or where it came from?”
“I have heard that it belonged to someone in that thing at the end of the Key. I am told parrots are very loving, loyal birds and extremely loyal to their owners. Supposedly their vocabularies are phenomenal. And that they bring good luck. I would assume when the people who lived there were arrested, the bird was left behind, but I do not know this for certain.” The elder allowed himself a small smile before he turned to enter the house.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Tick muttered to himself as he walked through the small village, nodding to the women who were bustling about. He stopped once, to buy a sack of mangoes and a bucket of oranges, before continuing on his way home. He knew how he was going to spend the rest of the day. On the Internet and making calls to some friends back in Atlanta. He wondered how many sites there were for parrots and what kind of information he could garner. Maybe he could find an online Spanish class while he was at it, brush up on his Spanish. Maybe he’d get that CD that he heard the CIA and FBI used to train with.
Even though his sack and bucket were heavy, Tick’s steps were lighter and faster the closer he got to home. He had a purpose now, a goal.
Back at the house on stilts, Tick poured himself a glass of orange juice, gulped it down, rinsed out his glass, then looked for his boat keys. He snatched them up, checked to make sure he had his wallet, and left. There was no sign of Bird when he walked down to his dock. He grinned to himself, hoping the parrot had paid attention, if that was possible, and was checking out his new neighbors. The computer and what he’d planned could be done when the sun went down. He told himself there was no hurry these days to do anything he didn’t want to do.
Tick took a moment to admire his cigarette boat the way he always did when he set foot on the dock. The boat was his only real purchase since coming here to Mango Key. He always got a good belly laugh when he rolled into the marina in Miami. A cop with a cigarette boat! Everyone in the world knew cigarette boats were the drug runners’ boat of choice. The reason for the belly laugh was that no one knew he was a cop. While he wasn’t on the payroll of the Atlanta PD, he was still on the books. Next to his name and badge number it said he was on extended leave. And that was the way it was going to stay.
Tick climbed into the Miss Sally, named after his wife, and fired up the boat with a big roar, wondering if his new neighbors were watching. Like he gave a good rat’s ass what they were doing. He recognized the lie he was trying to feed himself as he headed out to open water. Once a cop, always a cop. Didn’t matter if he wrote books, drank himself into a stupor, or packed a gun. The bottom line was he was a cop, and at one time he’d been a damn fine one. His instincts were kicking in now and telling him something was going to go down on his turf, and he didn’t like it one damn bit. He’d bought and paid for peace, quiet, and tranquillity. Anything interfering with