The Falconer’s Tale. Gordon Kent

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      Piat opened his mouth to say something that would have been ugly, then thought better of it and leaned back—they were in the small living room, he on the sofa in a bare spot in a pile of mess—and said, “What did he tell you about me?”

      “He said you were a great guy.”

      “That sounds right.”

      “But he won’t tell me how he knew you, so that part doesn’t sound so great, does it?”

      “We used to bum around together in Southeast.”

      “Southeast?

      “Asia.”

      “Yeah, he said he knew you from Macao. So, what did you two do together?”

      “This and that. Some deals.”

      “You were in oil, too?”

      “I was in a lot of things. We just bummed around together, had some laughs, some drinks.” He thought he’d launch a trial balloon. “Some girls.”

      She didn’t like the balloon. “Eddie didn’t know his cock from a condom till he met me.” She gave all the signs of talking a better sexual game than she actually played, he thought. But you never could tell.

      Piat shrugged. “We were guys together, how’s that? Pals.”

      She looked at him. She put her chin up, ran her fingers through her hair. She said, “You look to me like bad news.” She laughed. “I like that in a man.”

      By then, Piat was hungry and annoyed, and when Hackbutt came out of the bathroom, he said he had to go. Both of them protested, but he could see that she wasn’t going to let him talk to Hackbutt alone, and there was no way he was going to go into his recruiting pitch with her there. He could see Partlow’s five thousand growing wings. He was damned if he’d let it fly away. “I’d like to come back,” he said.

      Oh, great, yes, great idea, sure!

      He gathered the handles of the shopping bag in his fingers—they absolutely didn’t want the stuff—and said, “I’ll come back tomorrow; how’s that?”

      Oh, sure, wonderful idea, yes, they’d even have lunch.

      “But I want to talk to Digger alone.”

      That was not so well received. Hackbutt looked pained; she looked insulted.

      “I need one hour with Hackbutt. Then he can talk to you, Irene, and then the three of us can talk, but first it’s just him and me, and the girls have to stay at the other end of the dance floor. Nothing personal.”

      Hackbutt said, “Honey—” and looked at her. His face was flushed, as if he liked being fought over.

      She said, “Just gonna be guys together?”

      “Something like that.”

      “Unless you can offer him eternal youth and a lot of really cute chicks, I can make him a better offer than anything you can say. Can’t I, sweetie?”

      “It isn’t a competition.”

      She looked at him and then at Hackbutt and then at Piat again, and she fluffed her hair and said, “I need a bath, anyway. An hour’ll be about right.”

      They all smiled and touched each other and said tomorrow, then, right, yeah, tomorrow. And Piat went out to his rented car, but to temper the humiliation of seeming to have been chased away, he detoured by the dog.

      It was still lying with its head on its paws. It watched him come, then cringed when he put out his hand. Piat squatted and extended the hand, but the dog pulled back, then got up and went into its hovel, dragging a length of chain behind it.

      Frowning, Piat made his way to the car, still feeling like an asshole because he was carrying back all the gifts that Hackbutt was supposed to be pathetically grateful for. And because Irene had made it very clear just who was Hackbutt’s real case officer.

      When Piat wheeled the rented Renault into the grass in front of Hackbutt’s house next day, he was better prepared. During an evening much clarified by the Johnnie Walker he’d bought for Hackbutt, he’d scolded himself for poor preparation and overall laziness; then, the personnel work done, he had decided what he must do. It all came down to two things: learn to like Irene Girouard, because she ran Edgar Hackbutt; and accept the new Hackbutt, consigning the old one to history.

      Now, as he got out of the car, he grinned as Irene appeared in the doorway. She was in another long dress, blue denim, fairly waistless. Piat was wearing a black polo shirt and a sweater and a pair of khakis. He waved. She waved. He took a plastic sack from the car and loped up to the door. “I’m going to try this again,” he said, holding out the bag.

      “For little ol’ me?”

      “For both of little ol’ you.” She hesitated, holding the storm door open for him. He had to go past her, face to face. Going by, he bent his head and kissed her, quickly, lightly. “Good to see you again.”

      “Edgar’s with his birds.”

      “Good chance for me to talk to him?” Make it a question, he told himself; get on her good side. When she didn’t answer, he said, “What’s your dog’s name?” People like you ought to like their dogs, right?

      “No idea,” she said. “He kept hanging around when we moved in.” She was taking things out of the sack. “Greek honey—well!” He’d found the gourmet shelves at the Island Bakery in Tobermory. “Oh—!” She had something clutched between her breasts. “Porcini cream!”

      “Organic.”

      She gave him an odd smile. “You’re a quick learner.” She pulled out other things—balsamic vinegar, olive oil crushed with blood oranges, a set of hemp place mats. She was pleased, maybe only with the effort and not the things themselves, but she was pleased. “Sure, why don’t you go talk to Edgar. I’ll get naked.”

      And if that wasn’t a peace offering, what is? She made sex so overt, however, he was suspicious. He thought that maybe she was performing her sexuality, not being it. Maybe for her it was like a language she’d learned on paper but couldn’t get fluent in. If so, if they actually got to it, there would be a lot of drama—costumes like crotchless panties, oils and perfumes, sound effects like yum-yums to go with the obligatory blow job and glad cries for orgasm, real or simulated, probably the latter. And afterward, the reviews: You were so good. Was it good for you? Was I good? But maybe it wouldn’t be like that at all. But either way, he already wanted to know.

      He was only going to be with them for a few days, and then he’d be on his way, so it wouldn’t be endangering his own operation if he took what she seemed to be offering.

      He went out the rear door and stumbled because of the unexpected step down. Nobody cut the lawn at Hackbutt’s, but a path was worn between coarse grass and a bed of nettles, which Piat knew from Greece and managed to avoid. He tried to remember how to get to the bird pens; giving up, he shouted, “Digger! Digger!”

      Hackbutt appeared, СКАЧАТЬ