Starbird

by W. D. Gagliani

  OTHER TITLES BY W.D. GAGLIANI

  Wolf’s Trap

  Wolf’s Gambit

  Wolf’s Bluff

  Wolf’s Edge

  Savage Nights

  Shadowplays

  Mysteries & Mayhem (with David Benton)

  STARBIRD

  W.D. GAGLIANI

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2014 W. D. Gagliani

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by StoryFront, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and StoryFront are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  eISBN: 9781477872741

  Cover design by Inkd

  CONTENTS

  STARBIRD

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  STARBIRD

  “I remember like it was yest’day the day I hooked up with Graken,” I say to the hick sittin’ next to me at the scraped-up excuse for a bar they call the Come-On Inn, “and I’d be sure glad to tell you about it if you’d set there a spell and mebbe spot me a shot or three of whatever you’re drinkin’.”

  The fella had been there, in the front row. I recollected his old snap-brim hat cocked low over his eyes, like he didn’t wanna be seen. He was still wearing the hat, but had pushed it back a ways over his skull so’s you could see a short patch of limp blond hair hanging over his forehead. And you could see his eyes lookin’ at me like they was measuring me for a casket—all thin and slitty. Then he nodded, sudden-like, and waved the barkeep over, who’d been givin’ me the eye hisself ever since I come in.

  They all respected me in the pit, all right, but here—here I was trash.

  “I’ll have another, and one like it for this gentleman,” he says to the ex-boxer with the apron. The boxer smirks like he’s not so sure about the gentleman part, as it applies to me, but nods and pours two, takin’ some cash from the hick’s pile.

  “Thank you kindly,” I says, mindin’ my manners. It ain’t often I get a mark so quickly on the first try, so I work ’im as careful as I can. The shot’s good goin’ down, but I gulp half and save the rest for sippin’. “Din’t I see you at the pit day ’fore yest’day?”

  I figure, go for the throat.

  He turns away for a second, like’s he’s all embarrassed by what I’m sayin’, ’cept what I’m sayin’ is the truth—he was there, and he knows it. So were a hundred other dinks, but I ain’t got time to dick around with this game. I got pressures and I got commitments.

  I got Graken to feed, and I need a new stake. The prize we took two days ago is gone-Daddy-gone, and there’s a derby on just three hours away, if only some mark would put up the five hundred bucks entry. Why do I think this dude’s the one? Just call it a gut feeling—he’s wearin’ a crap-hat, but his shoes scream dollar bills and the suit’s gotta be silk. He signals apron-boy for a couple more, and I note that includin’ me in this round means I got a hook into him. He’s interested, sure as shit. I feel relief floodin’ inside my gut. Graken’s gonna eat, and I’m gonna have some more time to think on what problems I got.

  Sometimes, that’s just the best a man can line up.

  “Name’s Nate Culpepper,” I says while the shots’re bein’ poured. I stick out my hand.

  The hick takes my hand and crushes it. “Philby. Gerald Philby.”

  “Well, Jerry, it’s nice meetin’ after sharin’ the joys and excitement of the pit.” I give ’im the wet noodle—you never know when it’s gonna come in handy to be underestimated.

  “Not so loud, okay?” Philby looks around again and downs his shot. His hand just might be shakin’. What does this guy think—that I’m a cop, settin’ up a sting?

  “Nothin’ to worry about here, Jer,” I says. “Everybody here’s been to the pit at least once. Some—well, they can’t take the blood, know what I mean? Others, though, others are meaner’n shit and willin’ to spend money to make money.”

  I look at him through my own slits.

  “Which kind are you?”

  “Look, I bought you a drink,” he says. “Glad to meet you. But I’d really rather be alone.”

  “You saw my bird there in the pit,” I whisper so’s not to let the dinks around us in on my pitch. “You know it’s a winner. I’ve lost track o’ the number of matches he’s won. I’m jus’ lookin’ for somebody to partner up with me for this derby later on, and maybe for the World Series goin’ on next week in this little place jus’ outside Kansas City.”

  Some kind of a weird look flits over his eyes. Like he’s puzzled, wonderin’ why him, and then the look turns to good ole greed, and the corners of his mouth crinkle up a bit, like maybe we ain’t jus’ whistlin’ Dixie here after all.

  “How much do you need?” His voice is quiet and controlled, but I’ve seen enough like ’im to feel the blood rushin’ through his veins.

  “Five bills,” I says. “I’m a gah-ran-teed winner, and the derby pays twenty-five grand for first prize. Even second’s a good win—fifty bills.”

  “Winnings split how?”

  “Th’ middle, after upkeep. I put up the bird, so if we lose your stash, I lose my livin’.”

  “You’ve got other birds,” he says, wavin’ for another drink.

  I wait for the pourin’ to be done, then drink with my new partner. It’s always this easy.

  “Used to. Only got Graken now,” I says softly. “Only need the one. You wanna meet ’im?”

  He nods, and we’re outta there, me feelin’ apron-boy’s eyes on my back.

  “You were going to tell me about how—”

  “Me and Graken got together, yeah.” I guide him to my heap out in the lot, an old Volvo wagon with a cage setup in the back and jus’ enough room for my suitcase and a coupla things. The dented trailer with big U-Haul letters fadin’ on the side is hanging on in the shadows. “Still gonna, Jerry. Still gonna. You still gonna stake me for this next derby?”

  He bobs his head but keeps his mouth shut.

  I see ’im starin’ into the darkness in the back of the car, strainin’ to make out the bird that would be his ticket out. Outta what, how the fuck did I know? But marks like him, they’re always lookin’ for a way outta somethin’, and they always need guys like me. And my Graken.

  The bird’s watchin’ somethin’ on the little color TV I got plugged into the lighter. He likes doin’ that—sittin’ in front of it like a kid, beak almost touchin’ the screen.

  “Pull back a little,” I says. But I’m too late.

  Just as Jerry’s cranin’ his neck to peek into the car, Graken shoots up to the window in that zoom-bang way he’s got—like he’s not even there at all, and suddenly the air starts to kinda shimmer, and then he’s sittin’ right at the glass starin’ at ya and kinda tremblin’ and twitchin’. And you’re rubbin’ your eyes and wonderin’ how much you had to drink, ’cause no way could he just appear like that.

  ’Cept he can, and he does. And that’s why he’s a winner.

  Jerry’s still shakin’ from the shock—like he almost jumped outta his skin and dropped his heart out his ass—when I go on tellin’ him the story I was gonna start while in the bar. He was gonna listen real good, Jerry was. I could tell. And Graken was gonna watch us the whole time.

  I wait for him to start breathin’ regular again.

  “Use to be I had a whole stable of birds,” I say. He’s starin’ at me, but I ignore him. “One day I just get done
feedin’ ’em their vitamins and I’m about to do some trainin’ with spurs, and they start squawkin’ like their tail feathers’re on fire. I look up, and here’s this scrawny thing walkin’ into my compound. It’s red and gold and kinda shimmery, almost like it’s made out of metal. I ain’t never seen one of this breed before, but that don’t mean much—it’s got feathers and a crest, and it squawks at me like one of my birds. I figure it’s either an offspring I ain’t seen that got outta the compound, or else it belongs to a neighbor who’s been cockin’ longer than I been.”

  By now Jerry and Graken are starin’ at each other, and I feel mighty glad there’s thick glass between the two. You can never figure what Graken’ll do, and we need Jerry right now, for tonight’s derby, but maybe Graken don’t sense that yet. It’s so late by now that I’m crossin’ my fingers on the stake Jerry’s givin’ us. It’s too damn late to find another mark now.

  Then the bird zips back to the TV screen, and he’s suddenly interested in some gory show where guys are gettin’ killed by thugs with guns. His feathers start rufflin’, and I know it’s time for a quick one.

  I hold up my hand in Jerry’s face. “Back in a sec—dinnertime.”

  He’s not complainin’. Hell, looks like he can barely breathe.

  The old U-Haul’s packed with little cages. I swing the door open, and there’s a commotion of squawks and fluttering. I reach in and grab a chicken from one of the cages and drag it flappin’ back to the Volvo. I toss the bird in the back and grab on to Jerry’s sleeve.

  “You don’t wanna miss this, my friend.”

  Before Jerry can even answer me, Graken’s pulled away from the TV and homed in on the stupid bird I threw in. He circles around the dazed chicken without makin’ a sound, once, twice, then he starts this shimmerin’ thing he does with his feathers and zooms in—disappears, more like—and the chicken starts to squawk even louder, and all you can see is blood and feathers flyin’, and the chicken kinda starts to disappear, too.

  Jerry’s jaw drops—it’s what everybody does when they see Graken feedin’.

  It’s about over for the chicken, which is now lookin’ like a livin’ skeleton ’cause so much of it’s been ripped right off the bone, and Graken’s comin’ back into sight almost like he’s beamin’ back from wherever he was. He lets out this loud noise, like a victory yell—from which he gets his name, I might add. Then he heads back to the TV screen, leavin’ behind the carcass, which I reach in and pull out. I try not to get much blood on my clothes.

  I turn back to the money man again. “So, as I was sayin’, that day I find an empty cage to put it in, ’cept it won’t go into a cage. It follows me around until I stop in front of the cage where I keep my best fighter, the one I call Terminator. This bird is almost twice the weight of the average cock, okay, and he’s laid out four dozen opponents. He’s a freakin’ death-dealer, see what I mean? I stand there, and sure enough, they connect. Them two birds look at each other, and I can almost smell the blood—so I say, sure, give the new guy a chance. I put a spur on Terminator’s left leg, but this new bird won’t let me touch ’im. He keeps avoidin’ me and walking around my legs, his eyes always on Terminator. When I step outta the way, the two go at it, and I figure that’s it for the new guy. I mean, no spur and no experience, he’s gonna last three fuckin’ seconds. Then Graken just kinda starts shimmerin’—like you just saw—and it’s like he’s choppin’ up Terminator alive, spur or no spur. He circles my bird and almost disappears, ’cept I can just barely see that sharp beak of his goin’ in for these jabs, and there’s blood flyin’ all right, but it’s all Terminator’s, who’s tryin’ to get the fuck outta there but can’t, ’cause Graken’s just too fast. Fact is, it’s Terminator that just don’t stand a chance. Then this weird bird-thing struts over the corpse o’ my best bird and crows, if you can call it that, lettin’ every bird in the menagerie know that he’s in charge now.”

  I look at Jerry, who’s starin’ at me. Gotta be careful not to lose ’im.

  “That was Graken’s first fight, two years ago. He ain’t even come close to losin’ one yet. He’s a moneymaker, and you’re gonna be happy you signed on with us.”

  “Man, what kind of bird is he?” You can still see the awe in his face, in his eyes.

  “Don’t know,” says I. “Don’t know where he comes from, either, but he sure is hungry. Whatever he is, he’s so hungry he can’t lose. I give ’im the name Graken on account of the sound he makes after tearin’ some other poor bird to bits—kinda like one of them outsize blackbirds you see off the side o’ the freeway, waitin’ for roadkill.”

  So we sign the deal right there, in the parkin’ lot next to the Volvo, where Graken’s watchin’ TV, calm as you please. After two years, I know that he knows we got us a sponsor, another in a long line. Regular food ahead.

  Believe you me, I’m pretty damn happy myself.

  It’s derby time.

  We go in the side door, like the man says. There’s a guard here with a radio and a pit bull on a chain. It’s a shut-down warehouse, dark on the outside and not much lit-up inside, ’cept in the middle of the big room, where they set up eight tiers of risers in a square. The center’s a pit about five foot deep, square, and ’bout the size of a boxing ring. Fact is, there’s a fake floor ready to go over the pit, and a couple boxers are workin’ out with bags and weights so they’ll be nice and sweaty should a raid happen to bust up the proceedin’s. The main door’s monitored by more thugs with pit bulls, and the promoter’s had wall panels put up so’s cops bustin’ in would hafta follow the path, and it’s a maze leadin’ nowhere. By the time cops get to the action, we got an amateur bout goin’, and the birds’re tucked away where you can’t hear ’em. Side door’s the same, only the panels lead back to the door less’n you know which one to push on.

  There’s guys here from all over the south, couple from the north, and a buncha wetbacks from Mexico and Cuba. More wetbacks from Arizona, and a bunch from just around the corner in East Texas. There’s even a coupla chinks from Singapore, where cockin’s big business and totally legit. ’Course, we got guys from all five legit states, too, like New Mexico and Louisiana. Plus, there’s about a hundred of us owners, all lookin’ for a big score. Purse is big, for these parts—twenty-five grand. What with door take and entry fees per bird, promoter’s ridin’ pretty here. Not to mention food sales—I can smell fried chicken, grease, and stale beer from where I’m sittin’ in the bull pen. ’Fore the night’s over, there’ll be plenty more fried chicken—losers make a mighty fine vitam-enriched meal, know what I mean? Jerry’s out in the audience, placin’ side bets, happy knowin’ we got such a bloodthirsty bird. Or whatever it is.

  The noise is gettin’ worse, and the fumes from where they’re parkin’ cars indoors is gettin’ to be more than the vents can handle. I’m sittin’, watchin’ the fights while Graken stands just in front of me—no cage for him. I catch other owners lookin’ at ’im funny—he’s not quite the right colors, and his feathers look pretty sharp. It’s shimmerin’ again, just enough so’s it looks like a trick of the lightin’, but I know better, and none o’ these hicks stands a chance.

  Money’s changin’ hands fast, with cockers bettin’ on Cowboy Hat and Baseball Cap, or Red Jacket versus Leather Coat—it’s easier to tell handlers apart than their birds. Guys carry their birds into the pit and fasten the razor spur in back of the bird’s left leg, where the fifth toe’s been cut to the nub for just this purpose. They fake at each other three times to get the birds riled up, then throw ’em in to fight it out. Like as not, blood flows as th’ razor spurs cut through feather and skin until one o’ the birds is either dead or mighty shy-like. That one’s the loser, and a little ole neck-pull makes ’im somebody’s dinner.

  Justice is swift in the cockpit, my friend, and most matches last just under a minute—though some drag on up to two or three.

  Then it’s our turn, and I walk Graken out into the pit. He’s in my arms, shimmerin’ like
a metal sculpture—I can hear some dude in the front row bettin’ that it ain’t a real cock. I put ’im down—not quite sure why he lets me do this, but I guess he’s learned what the expected behavior is—and pretend to fasten a spur to the back of his left leg. Actually I can feel his feathers sharpenin’ like knife blades under my fingers, turnin’ like no feathers I ever seen can turn. Careful not to get myself cut open, I cradle Graken again and make the required three moves to rile our adversary, an all-blond Zamboanga White with a straight spur them wetbacks prefer. I barely look at the handler, a mestizo with a white straw hat, and then our birds are fightin’.

  I feel Jerry’s eyes focused on my back for a second, then I crouch outta the way and let Graken do his thing.

  He dances ’round the Zamboanga like a rope-a-dopin’ boxer, and the crowd roars its approval—this is fine entertainment! The Z tries to peck at Graken once, but Graken shimmers and almost disappears, suddenly comin’ in from the right like he’s always been there. The Z’s so confused, it stands there while Graken demolishes one of its wings with a flutter of metallic feathers. Now the blond cock’s speckled with dark red and Graken seems to smell his victory, ’cause he shimmers some more and his wings zip Blondie’s legs and back, bitin’ deep into the bird’s skin. The Z keels over all at once, clearly admittin’ defeat—not that this nobility would be rewarded with anythin’ but a hot grease bath—but Graken ain’t willin’ to let go so easily. Oh no, he leans right in and buries his beak into the other bird’s head, pecking out the eyes in a blur of blood and pus, and then he sticks his head into the Z’s face and tears out strips of flesh until he’s consuming the bird alive, his wings holdin’ down the flappin’ loser.

  All this takes at most a half minute, and the crowd’s on its feet. Clappin’ and hootin’ and money’s flowin’ like a green tide.

  By the time the mestizo rushes in to rescue his bird, there’s nothin’ left but chunks of twitchin’ meat and feathers. Not even enough for a meal.