looked like a swimmertrying to shake water out of its ear. The mangled head fellto the ground and the bird started on the new prey.
âTell you what, Digger.â Digger had been an early codename, from the Digger OâDell of an old comedy program; ithad become a nickname when Hackbutt had become morethan an incidental source. âI know that anything I ask youto undertake, Ireneâs got to know aboutâright? I see that.I acknowledge thatâs the nature of your relationship. It isnâtusual, but we go back andâyou two are bonded, right?â Hewas talking bullshit, but this was his spiel.
âBonds of steel,â Hackbutt said. âI heard that someplace.It says it all. Itâs love. It amazes me, but she loves me. Me .Thanks for understanding, Jack.â
âI do understand, Digger, and I respect it, and I respectyou as a man. Thatâs why Iâll shut up right now if you wantme to. I do want something; I want to offer you something,but Iâll keep it to myself and weâll have a visit and weâll partfriends and thatâll be that, if you want.â It was like ice-skatingwhere you know that the farther you go, the thinner the icegets: had he now gone too far?
Hackbutt, finishing with the bird, was offering it its regularperch; it seemed to want to stay on his arm, but he urgedit, moving his arm, nudging the perch, and the bird movedover. Hackbutt picked up the bucket. Down the ragged lineof pens, Piat could hear birds stirring as they smelled theblood. Hackbutt said, âI told myself I wouldnât do any moreof that stuff. Not that Iâm ashamed of it! Butââ He cameout of the pen and latched the makeshift gate. âIâm a coward,Jack. It scares me, what could have happened some of thosetimes.â
Piat had watched him handle the sea eagle, the birdâsvicious beak four inches from his eyes. You used to be a coward ,Piat thought.
âThis wouldnât be like that.â Piat shook his head. The oldHackbutt had merely provided information. He had been thatkind of agentârecords of meetings, oil contracts, stuff heheard at the bar from other geologists in Macao and Taipeiâactually not running much risk but always sweaty about it.âThis wouldnât be dangerous. But I donât want to push it onyou, Digger.â They walked along the pens. Hackbutt stoppedat the next gate. âItâs just that youâre the only man whocould do it. Correction: the best man to do it.â
âI donât want to go back to Southeast, Jack.â
âThis wouldnât be in Southeast,â Piat lied watching himfeed another bird. The older ones, Hackbutt had said, wouldbe flown before they were fed; Piat could see him having tospend all day trying to get Hackbutt to say yes. Still, he madehimself go slow. When Hackbutt had focused on the bird forten minutes and nothing more had been said, Piat murmured,as if it had just come to him, âDoing a big art installationmust be expensive.â
âYou better believe it. But worth it.â This bird was restlessand maybe dangerous; it flapped its wings while on his arm,and its beak flashed too close to Hackbuttâs face, Piat thought.âIreneâs going to be a household name. She has her ownwebsite. But that costs money, yes it does. Just moving aninstallation around from gallery to gallery costs a lot. Just theinsurance! Plus weâve got ideas for a coffee-table book of Ireneâsart, and sheâs into video now, maybe a DVD of the making of The Body Electric . She shot a lot of video of me boiling up adead sheep I found. Thereâre these great shots of the bonessort of emerging out of the fleshâsort of stop-action.â
âThe galleries pay for that?â
âYou kidding?â Hackbutt laughed. He was wrestling thebird back to its perch. âDonât make me laugh.â
âSo whereâs the money come from? Ireneâs