The
Day
of
the
Falcon
The law relating to falconry:
The falconer must have knowledge of
And
Comply with
The legislation concerning quarry.
In simple terms,
The species which a falcon can be flown at
Are divided into three groups:
1. Game
2. Species not under wildlife protection
3. Vermin
I paid special attention to the meaning of vermin.
Keefer picked up the deadly duo at two o’clock as arranged.
He said,
“The smart-ass rides in the back and you, dear, you ride shotgun.”
A look passed between Stapleton and Jericho but they complied.
They drove in silence until Keefer asked Stapleton,
“You bring your knife, boy?”
Stapleton sneered, said,
“You’ll see soon enough, shithead.”
Keefer hit the sound system and “Street Fighting Man” filled the jeep.
Jericho was in a zone and seemed utterly focused. Stapleton fidgeted and seemed set to rumble. Keefer said,
“Try to keep it in your pants, boy.”
They arrived at a country road. The time was ten to three. Keefer pointed to a field, said,
“Three on the button, Taylor enters the field.”
Jericho got out, took a long blade from her tote, slipped it up her sleeve. Stapleton made to move but Keefer suddenly turned, a sawed-off magically in his hands, said,
“Sit tight, boy.”
Jericho stared for a moment, then said,
“Okay, that’s cool. I won’t be long.”
Keefer said to Stapleton,
“You have a choice. Follow her into the field...”
He let the weight of that settle, then,
“Or...”
He pointed with the gun barrel.
“You can take the high road, down that way, to town.”
My back was turned to Jericho as she came into the field and I let her get to within a knife blade, then turned, said,
“Meet Maeve.”
With my free hand, I threw a bag of meat at her face, it poured over her hair, face, and down onto her shoulders. She gasped, went
“What the fuck?”
I said,
“Not that it really counts but you’ll find there are forty-eight chunks of meat, like the number of wounds on my friend.”
I moved to the back of the field, said,
“Whatever you do, don’t run.”
Then I released the falcon.
Jericho ran.
It was silent for a moment as the falcon climbed high, then folded itself, zoomed down. I headed back toward the house, screams ringing out across an empty meadow.
Before I reached the house, I heard two blasts of the shotgun, knew Keefer had finished whatever was stirring after the falcon attack.
Keefer and I were sitting before a log fire, strong glasses of bourbon in our hands. He was wearing a faded T-shirt with the Grateful Dead logo. A faded date underneath identified it as the year of Altamont, when the Hell’s Angels killed a fan in front of the Stones’ stage. You’d have to know your Stones mythology to know how heavily Jerry Garcia and the Dead were involved in the logistics of the biker band being hired.
The Angels were given five hundred dollars to buy beer as the price of them providing security.
I asked,
“What about her...”
Paused,
“Remains?”
Keefer gave a sardonic smile, said,
“I’ll bury her with the others.”
A chill briefly flitted through the room, then Keefer asked,
“Want a spliff?”
I nodded and he asked,
“Music?”
I said,
“Got a version of ‘Galway Girl’?”
He smiled, asked,
“Does a falcon fly?”