The Falconer's Tale by Gordon Kent Read Free Book Online

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.
    â€œTell you what, Digger.” Digger had been an early codename, from the Digger O’Dell of an old comedy program; ithad become a nickname when Hackbutt had become morethan an incidental source. “I know that anything I ask youto undertake, Irene’s got to know about—right? I see that.I acknowledge that’s the nature of your relationship. It isn’tusual, but we go back and—you two are bonded, right?” Hewas talking bullshit, but this was his spiel.
    â€œBonds of steel,” Hackbutt said. “I heard that someplace.It says it all. It’s love. It amazes me, but she loves me. Me .Thanks for understanding, Jack.”
    â€œI do understand, Digger, and I respect it, and I respectyou as a man. That’s why I’ll shut up right now if you wantme to. I do want something; I want to offer you something,but I’ll keep it to myself and we’ll have a visit and we’ll partfriends and that’ll be that, if you want.” 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, “I told myself I wouldn’t do any moreof that stuff. Not that I’m ashamed of it! But—” He cameout of the pen and latched the makeshift gate. “I’m a coward,Jack. It scares me, what could have happened some of thosetimes.”
    Piat had watched him handle the sea eagle, the bird’svicious beak four inches from his eyes. You used to be a coward ,Piat thought.
    â€œThis wouldn’t be like that.” Piat shook his head. The oldHackbutt had merely provided information. He had been thatkind of agent—records of meetings, oil contracts, stuff heheard at the bar from other geologists in Macao and Taipei—actually not running much risk but always sweaty about it.“This wouldn’t be dangerous. But I don’t want to push it onyou, Digger.” They walked along the pens. Hackbutt stoppedat the next gate. “It’s just that you’re the only man whocould do it. Correction: the best man to do it.”
    â€œI don’t want to go back to Southeast, Jack.”
    â€œThis wouldn’t be in Southeast,” 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, “Doing a big art installationmust be expensive.”
    â€œYou better believe it. But worth it.” This bird was restlessand maybe dangerous; it flapped its wings while on his arm,and its beak flashed too close to Hackbutt’s face, Piat thought.“Irene’s 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 we’ve got ideas for a coffee-table book of Irene’sart, and she’s 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. There’re these great shots of the bonessort of emerging out of the flesh—sort of stop-action.”
    â€œThe galleries pay for that?”
    â€œYou kidding?” Hackbutt laughed. He was wrestling thebird back to its perch. “Don’t make me laugh.”
    â€œSo where’s the money come from? Irene’s