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

work, I guess. You’re the experthere, after all. Sure, I’d think you could maybe write yourown ticket about that.” Would Partlow buy it? Did it matter?
    Hackbutt was hot-eyed. “There are some incredible birdsout there! But Jeez, man, they cost thousands—I mean, bigfive figures!”
    Piat knew he was overstepping his bounds. Still, what thehell. “The US is the richest country in the world, Dig.”
    Hackbutt looked away, his mouth working. Was he calculatingfigures? Almost without voice, he muttered, “Wow,”and picked up the bucket. He unlatched a gate and thenturned back. “I don’t want to seem mercenary, Jack, but—Irene’s installation, and everything—what kind of money arewe talking? For me?”
    On firmer ground, Piat said, “Fifty thou?”
    Hackbutt’s lips moved: fifty .
    â€œIf you score.”
    â€œGod, I’d love to do that for Renie. God, that’d be great.”
    They went down the pens, feeding and handling birds,Piat lying back, letting Hackbutt think it over. They wereheading for the farther pens where the older, trained birdswere, and Hackbutt said as if out of nowhere, “Let’s trot itpast Irene. I think it’s a fantastic opportunity. Incredible.” Hebeamed at Piat.
    A woman after her bath was always attractive to Piat. Therewas something about the skin, which seemed whiter, cooler,enormously tactile. If you added to this the baking of freshbread, the appeal was overwhelming. He wanted to put heron the rug and go to it. Unfortunately, her husband wasstanding next to him.
    Irene smiled at him as if they had a secret. “Almost done,”she said. She was back in the day’s long-skirted dress, withoutjewelry, little makeup that he could see on her broad face.She was a fairly tall woman, not Rubenesque or heavy butstrong. Vegetarianism hadn’t made her thin the way it hadHackbutt. “Surprised?’ she said.
    â€œThe bread? I guess I am. I didn’t figure you to cook.” Piatwas surprised.
    â€œI’m a damned good cook. I do great country ham andshit like that, or I used to.”
    â€œBread smells fantastic.” He was laying it on too thick, butthe smell of the bread—he pushed his mind back into therole of case officer.
    â€œBaking bread is an art.” She opened the oven, looked in,poked something. “Did you boys talk?”
    â€œWe did. Now you two need to talk.” That seemed to pleaseher.
    Hackbutt went into the small living room, leaving the twoof them in the kitchen.
    She took the bread out and put it on the already litteredtable. One loaf was a low-mounded oval with coarse saltand something else on the top; the other was more ordinary,but both were beautifully browned and high. “Notasting,” she said. “It has to cool.” She came past him, stoppedwhere he was in the doorway. She kissed him lightly on thelips. “So do I.” She smiled. “All things in good time.” Shewent out.
    When he left, Piat paused at the dog again. This time, itsniffed his extended hand, then looked at him. He tried topet it, but it withdrew its head; something like a warning,no more than the sound of the most distant thunder, camefrom its throat.
    â€œYou’re a tough sell, doggie. Thank God you’re not thefalconer.”
    Explaining Irene and her importance (tactically, not sexually)didn’t go down so well with Dave.
    â€œIt was great until she got involved,” Piat said as if he hadn’tplanned it that way. “Then I had hell’s own time with it.”
    â€œWhat the fuck did you even let her near it for?” BeforePiat could answer, Dave shouted, “It’s not the way you doit! You don’t recruit the fucking girlfriend!” His broad facewas red. Dave had been to the Ranch and had taken thecourses, and so he knew at least in theory how things weredone. Piat again had the feeling that he hadn’t put