“Uh-huh,” he said. “Up to your old tricks, but it’s not going to work this time.”
He caught another flicker of movement then, and suddenly the sonofabitch was visible in full profile, swinging around the oak, ready to make his move. After that, things happened quickly.
The squirrel that he’d been watching had climbed at least six feet up by now. It dipped into a four-legged crouch, bringing itself chest to trunk against the tree, as if it were doing some kind of vertical push-up, then sprang away backward into space. It had to be a good ten feet from the trunk of the oak to the place where the bird feeder hung down, Driscoll thought, but the creature soared across the space easily, as if it had little furry wings. It hit the side of the Plexiglas feeder, slid down, and, even though the whole apparatus was swinging wildly by this time, caught the feeding ledge neatly in its claws.
“Little prick,” Driscoll muttered. He’d seen the whole process once before, just after he had hung the feeder from a cord he’d strung from his second-floor balcony railing all the way across to the utility pole at the corner of the property, all that so there’d be no convenient tree limb for the thing to shinny out on. He’d been sure he’d foiled the squirrel that time, but the fact that he’d had to move the feeder half a dozen times prior should have been a tip-off.
By now, of course, it had become a matter of professional pride. How could he bill himself as a security consultant if he couldn’t keep a goddamned squirrel from ripping off a five-pound supply of birdseed moments after he’d replenished it, and never mind if nobody knew about the problem but himself and the other tenants of the fourplex, currently Deal and his erstwhile housekeeper, Mrs. Suarez.
Of course, Deal, who made no end of fun at his expense in the matter, could always make some crack in front of the wrong person, and Mrs. Suarez was a gossip of the first order. She could start the Cuban tom-toms beating down here in Little Havana, inside of twenty-four hours word would have spread to Hialeah, where Driscoll had his most lucrative account with the string of Zaragosa Drive-ins. Hector Zaragosa might still be telling everybody about how his new security man had nailed the
pendejo chingado
who’d been robbing his stores by dragging him bodily through the drive-up window, shotgun and all, where he’d proceeded to beat the living rice and beans out of him in full view of the staff and front-area patrons, but Zaragosa was in fact the only account Driscoll had, and he didn’t need to be taking any chances. Lose the job and he could find himself puttering around some valet parking lot in a golf cart with the rest of the broken-down rent-a-cops. No thanks. No thank you very much.
Meantime, the squirrel—who was so sleek and fleshy that Driscoll had no doubt it was the same one who’d been deviling him since the day he’d brought home the bird feeder, a present for Deal’s young daughter actually, and wasn’t that a sad state of affairs, her and her mother gone away instead of being here a part of things—this rat with a furry tail had steadied itself on the feeding ledge of the feeder, which had stopped its wild rocking and settled into a rhythmic sway in the breeze coming in off the bay. The thing took a last look around, probably to be sure there was no fat ex-cop in bermudas and flip-flops creeping up on him with a machete or a flame-thrower, then bent to the business at hand, which meant scooping every last kernel out onto the ground in about fifteen seconds so that it could hop down and pick out the big black sunflower seeds that it favored.
Only this time, something was different. The squirrel made its usual pawing movements at the trough, then stopped, glancing about the yard again.
“Hah!” Driscoll barked, a smile coming over his face.
The squirrel began pawing again, but again no seeds flew. “Hah-hah-hah!” Driscoll’s bark
He caught another flicker of movement then, and suddenly the sonofabitch was visible in full profile, swinging around the oak, ready to make his move. After that, things happened quickly.
The squirrel that he’d been watching had climbed at least six feet up by now. It dipped into a four-legged crouch, bringing itself chest to trunk against the tree, as if it were doing some kind of vertical push-up, then sprang away backward into space. It had to be a good ten feet from the trunk of the oak to the place where the bird feeder hung down, Driscoll thought, but the creature soared across the space easily, as if it had little furry wings. It hit the side of the Plexiglas feeder, slid down, and, even though the whole apparatus was swinging wildly by this time, caught the feeding ledge neatly in its claws.
“Little prick,” Driscoll muttered. He’d seen the whole process once before, just after he had hung the feeder from a cord he’d strung from his second-floor balcony railing all the way across to the utility pole at the corner of the property, all that so there’d be no convenient tree limb for the thing to shinny out on. He’d been sure he’d foiled the squirrel that time, but the fact that he’d had to move the feeder half a dozen times prior should have been a tip-off.
By now, of course, it had become a matter of professional pride. How could he bill himself as a security consultant if he couldn’t keep a goddamned squirrel from ripping off a five-pound supply of birdseed moments after he’d replenished it, and never mind if nobody knew about the problem but himself and the other tenants of the fourplex, currently Deal and his erstwhile housekeeper, Mrs. Suarez.
Of course, Deal, who made no end of fun at his expense in the matter, could always make some crack in front of the wrong person, and Mrs. Suarez was a gossip of the first order. She could start the Cuban tom-toms beating down here in Little Havana, inside of twenty-four hours word would have spread to Hialeah, where Driscoll had his most lucrative account with the string of Zaragosa Drive-ins. Hector Zaragosa might still be telling everybody about how his new security man had nailed the
pendejo chingado
who’d been robbing his stores by dragging him bodily through the drive-up window, shotgun and all, where he’d proceeded to beat the living rice and beans out of him in full view of the staff and front-area patrons, but Zaragosa was in fact the only account Driscoll had, and he didn’t need to be taking any chances. Lose the job and he could find himself puttering around some valet parking lot in a golf cart with the rest of the broken-down rent-a-cops. No thanks. No thank you very much.
Meantime, the squirrel—who was so sleek and fleshy that Driscoll had no doubt it was the same one who’d been deviling him since the day he’d brought home the bird feeder, a present for Deal’s young daughter actually, and wasn’t that a sad state of affairs, her and her mother gone away instead of being here a part of things—this rat with a furry tail had steadied itself on the feeding ledge of the feeder, which had stopped its wild rocking and settled into a rhythmic sway in the breeze coming in off the bay. The thing took a last look around, probably to be sure there was no fat ex-cop in bermudas and flip-flops creeping up on him with a machete or a flame-thrower, then bent to the business at hand, which meant scooping every last kernel out onto the ground in about fifteen seconds so that it could hop down and pick out the big black sunflower seeds that it favored.
Only this time, something was different. The squirrel made its usual pawing movements at the trough, then stopped, glancing about the yard again.
“Hah!” Driscoll barked, a smile coming over his face.
The squirrel began pawing again, but again no seeds flew. “Hah-hah-hah!” Driscoll’s bark
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