First a bird.

Now a dog.

At six a.m., perched on the fire escape railing outside Doreen’s studio apartment pecking at the window with is beak, the parrot woke her up spitting, cursing and making rude, inappropriate remarks.

At first he was cute.

Dillon wants a pizza, he said.

Then he got just plain rude, making a raspberry noise and asking who farted.

Shooing him away with a broom in case he was rabid, Doreen went to the kitchen, made an egg white omelet with plant-based sausage and took a fast shower to try to clear her head in the small stall in the tiny bathroom. Talk about bad luck. Her two big crime targets, white supremacists she wanted to bust just on principle, died in a fiery head-on crash just outside of town.

Cased closed on Big Bob and Capt. Jones. Without them, her undercover white power investigation collapsed. Doreen sensed Capt. Jones also killed the two hazardous waste workers and had no doubt Big Bob’s negligent recklessness put Buck in traction and almost killed him.

Did that wrap it for the boogaloo?

Would Black lives ever really matter?

Peeking out the window, Doreen saw Big Bob’s runaway dog sitting in the same place he was when she first saw him that morning wagging his tail, looking around like he wasn’t sure where he was and whining out of fear.

Now the bird was back.

Let sleeping dogs lie, the bird squawked.

Dog tired, Clancy lowered his head and went to sleep.

Dillon lifted off and flew away.

Doreen’s doorbell rang.

Yes?

I’m looking for a runaway parrot, the voice said.

He’s not here.

I just saw him outside your window and thought maybe you let him inside.

Doreen opened the door.

He flew away, she said.

I’m sorry to bother you, William said.

No problem.

A few minutes later Doreen heard another light knock on the door.

I told you he flew away, Doreen said.

Another polite tap put her on alert.

Looking out the peephole, Doreen saw two men. Thin as a Vermicelli pasta stick and wearing a dark blue Adidas track suit with a white stripe, the younger man stood with his feet apart in a boxer’s stance. The older man stood erect, portly, but not fat, a heavyweight impeccably dressed in a white linen sport coat, a black mock turtleneck despite the heat and a 24K gold medallion with Dante’s head imprinted on the front.

Go away, Doreen said.

The skinny man pounded hard on the door with the bottom of his fist.

I’m not playing, lady, he said.

As soon as Doreen opened the door more than a crack, she shoved the barrel of her Glock 19M into the goon’s right nostril as deep as she could push it. Charging forward, she gripped the back of his neck with her other hand, digging long blue fingernails into the skin. The back of the goon’s head slammed against the hall wall, pushing the gun barrel even deeper into the now broken bone of his heavily bleeding nose.

I’m not playing, either, Doreen said.

People call me the Godfather, the older man said. I am sincerely sorry for the intrusion.

I know who you are, Doreen said, and if I knew you were coming I’d have baked a cake.

We snatched your confidential informant, the older man said.

The goon struggled to breathe.

The Godfather continued in a lightly accented Italian accent that tickled the ear the way a touch of Parmesan in minestrone soup tickles the palate.

We heard through the grapevine that Buck planned to implicate us in Sal’s murder. We simply could not risk the bad publicity. Buck was telling people Big Bob told him Vic admitted killing Sal to become a made-man in our family. We’d make that bird that’s flying around the neighborhood a made-man before we ever considered that stronzo.

Maybe we can work something out, Doreen said.

Maybe we can, he said.

Doreen outlined how she might save everybody a whole gondola full of trouble if the Godfather helped her make at least one major arrest to salvage something of her failed mission to take back to Washington D.C. They could do whatever they wanted with Buck, she said, although she recommended they let him go.

“Other than as a rat, he’s worthless,” she said.

We can help you, the Godfather said.

Just then Clancy ambled into the hallway, approached the goon, lifted his leg and in one smooth motion peed on the goon’s new Nike Air VaporMax running shoes.

Good dog, Doreen said.