Page 24 of Snowbirds
Chris was staring across the street at the possibly missing taxidermist’s house.
“I wonder…” His voice trailed off.
Ivan loved watching Chris Hatch think. It was almost better than sex, the way he nibbled at his lower lip, his jaw flexed. It was almost more than Ivan could take.
“What do you know about taxidermy? Did your creepy uncle ever tell you anything?”
“Uncle Scott? He could be dead by now. One can always hope anyway. I don’t know much about the process really. I do know there are some animals people need permits to stuff, and some need to be tested for diseases they are known to carry so humans don’t get sick. And endangered species are a big no-no. Which is why they always claim, ‘Oh no, Mister Fish and Wildlife Officer, I just found this perfectly intact northern spotted owl lying in the road.’”
“Maybe our friend Cleevus got mixed up with the wrong kind of people?”
“The kind who deal in black market shit?” Ivan asked.
“Or he could be the wrong kind of people. Is that a thing in taxidermy?”
“Sure.” Ivan nodded. “Just like in the art world, there are freakos out there who want to own the last white rhino and will pay big money to acquire it just so they can stuff the thing and display it in their massive jack-off library. Also exotics and endangered things like sperm whale penises.”
“Sperm whale penises?” Again Chris sounded shocked.
“There’s a penis museum in Iceland,” Ivan explained. “They don’t have human ones, I don’t think. We should go.”
Chris didn’t immediately respond, processing, Ivan assumed, things like taxidermized penises and going to a museum in Iceland together. “Well, while that is interesting,” he finally said, “and maybe information I never needed to know, look around you. This retirement community doesn’t scream big money to me. Does it to you? Are residents here clamoring for grizzly bear dicks or out hunting the last known Tasmanian tiger? No.”
Ivan was impressed that Chris brought up the long-extinct creature. He did have a point about the community though. These were people living on a fixed income, not highflyers.
“Might be a good cover for him,” Ivan said. “Who would suspect some rando living in a fifty-and-up community to be dealing in black-market stuffed creatures? But maybe it’s not the animals. It could be the terracotta,” he added. “If I was smuggling something, it seems like in those would be a way to do it without getting noticed. That stuff is everywhere.”
“You could be onto something there. What if our friend Cleevus was the middle man for something small enough to hide in pottery?—”
“Or a taxidermized owl,” Ivan interjected.
“Or a taxidermized bird.” Chris actually rolled his eyes. “And instead of passing it along, he took it for himself.”
“Okay, but then what? Someone found out and—and what? Offed the guy? Why would a bunch of MCs drop by to say hi if he’s dead? Maybe he’s enjoying a vacation somewhere far away?”
“They don’t know he’s gone. He’s probably not dead. He could have scarpered.”
“Scarpered?” Ivan frowned and stared over at Chris. “What kind of word is that?”
“A good one when we’re discussing taxidermy and seventy-year-olds.”
“Why didn’t they trash the place, then?” Ivan asked. “Why shoot off their weapons?”
“No idea there.”
“If they didn’t want to alert Cleevus that they’re onto him, the guns were a bad idea. If he knows someone is looking for him, he might decide to permanently disappear.”
Even in the shade, Big Blue was heating up fast in the Arizona heat. Ivan shifted to open the door, automatically glancing in the rearview mirror first.
“Or,” he said, “we could talk to them. This is them, am I right?” A group of five motorcycles rumbled up behind them and came to a stop in front of Cleevus’s house. “How about first we sit tight and see what they’re up to? If they’re up to no good, they aren’t being very sneaky about it,” Ivan pointed out.
“Does it look to you like anyone around here cares? They could come in blazing like Clint Eastwood, and if hearing aids were turned off, no one would hear them. Plus, it’s community time,” Chris said. “My folks are probably playing Ping-Pong or something, and I bet they aren’t the only ones.”
Ivan watched the group of motorcycle riders slowly dismount. They weren’t all senior citizens, but something aboutthe front man pinged his radar. He wasn’t sure what it was about him—the shape of his shoulders, maybe. His movements, even as an obviously older man, were much like a tiger’s. Not a lion. Lions were inherently lazy and believed they deserved to rule their kingdom. Lions expected to be fawned over, adored. Tigers though. Tigers inherently knew they were the apex predator and they would fight to prove it, but they rarely had to. They didn’t care about being adored or fawned over, they were the supreme ruler.
“Did you tell me what their colors were?” he asked.
“No, that’s not my area of expertise.”
