Shadowplays

by W. D. Gagliani

  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 - dinner time.”

  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 money-maker, 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 pitbull 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 pitbulls, 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 bullpen. ‘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-blonde 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 shimm
ers 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 blonde 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.

  I step in and Graken hops onto my outstretched arm. The place erupts in wild applause - the hicks ain’t ever seen such a show. Even the wetback takes his hat off to me, while holdin’ with his other hand the bag of skin that once was his proud possession.

  We wait our turn again, while the number of matches reduces the participants down to fifty, and then we go again, this time against a golden rooster whose spiky behavior tells me it’s just been hopped up on a coke and vitamin cocktail. Graken prances around this one, duckin’ in for a peck or a slash, slowly reducin’ this one to a bleedin’ mass of moving chicken flesh. The golden don’t give, though, and finally Graken blurs himself and slashes with his feather-blades until he’s choppin’ the bird to bits and swallowin’ chunks of raw chicken flesh. The crowd’s nuts again, and I think Jerry’s doing real well with the side bets - and we got nothin’ to worry about on the way to the purse. It’s been about three and a half hours, and there’s about a dozen birds left.

  I feel Graken humming on my lap, almost like a machine. He lives for these nights, and I gotta say, I like the money just fine myself. Guess we both get somethin’ outta this, and Jerry too.

  Next few matches go by fast and furious, with half the birds showin’ their exhaustion by layin’ down. They end up in the loser’s barrel, lumps of bloody meat ready for boilin’ and fryin’. The winners get to go to the cock doctor, who stitches ‘em up and pumps ‘em full of painkillers so their owners can still put ‘em out to stud. The ultimate reward for a winner.

  But Graken don’t need no doctor, cause he’s just shreddin’ the competition - making Chicken McNuggets out of ‘em, truth be told. He’s on the verge of grabbin’ the championship, and guys in the gallery are cheerin’ him like a feathered Lancelot and small fortunes’re bein’ made - some pessimists figurin’ he’s gotta lose sometime, but he ain’t about to.

  He’s hummin’ on my lap like a battery that’s charged to the max, waitin’ for his turn to zip in there and show some poor dumb bird the truth about livin’ and dyin’.

  About four in the mornin’ it’s just down to Graken and this steroid-monster rooster with a wicked curved scythe fastened to the back of his left leg. I been watchin’ this bird disembowel most competitors with that powerful leg-slash of his, and when he and Graken square off, man, there’s a hush falls on the place - even the most crazed fans wouldn’t make a sound now, not with so much cash money at stake in purse and side bets.

  They circle each other like bull and bullfighter, measurin’ and takin’ stock, then each fakes once and pulls back. Somebody in the crowd hisses, like they’re takin’ too long already, and I swear Graken turns to the hisser, raises a wing and salutes ‘im. Then he lunges in and becomes a blur, wings blazin’ like blades through the air and blood squirtin’ from the pumped-up rooster like a gusher oil-well. The enemy rooster’s faster’n he looks, though, and pulls back enough to get outta range for a second - just before drawin’ Graken off-balance and duckin’ in for a vicious bite-and-stab combo that leaves Graken stunned.

  I’m in the corner and I can’t look - ain’t never seen Graken take a hit before. My pulse is poundin’ to burst outta my neck and an itch-like worry creeps up my back.

  But I oughta relax.

  Graken fakes to the left then blurs again and later I hear people swearin’ they saw him attackin’ from the right while others are sayin’ from the left, and it looks like both are right. Blood and feathers rain down on me and the other handler and on the first rows while Graken demolishes this thing that was a bird leavin’ behind not even enough to sling into that overflowin’ bucket o’ death. By the time Graken’s done with the claws, the beak, and the wings, the rooster’s nothin’ but a lumpy stain in the middle of the pit.

  Graken struts back to my side and hops onto my arm lookin’ mighty pleased with hisself.

  The crowd goes wild, and Jerry and me make good our escape in the commotion - angry handlers and bettors ain’t a new thing in this line o’work, and why give’em a chance to ruin a perfectly good night?

  “My God,” Jerry’s shoutin’ a few minutes later, when we’re climbin’ in the Volvo with Graken. “I think we made forty grand tonight!”

  “That’s right, partner,” I says as I squeal us outta there before any of the pissed-off cockers can round up a car. They can be meaner’n shit and less honorable than gut-wounded scorpions.

  “They always get this rowdy?”

  I’m laughin’ my ass off. “Wherever Graken fights we ain’t generally welcome back.”

  “Well, damn,” he says.

  I got to admit, I agree. I check the mirror, but this time the road’s all clear behind us.

  In the back of the dark Volvo, I can hear Graken watchin’ his tv.

  *

  So we hit a buncha dinky derbies right after that, keepin’ a low profile and playin’ some of the other cocks so not too many folks’d see Graken doin’ his thing. We pay off some creditors - Jerry owes everybody from here to Shitsville - and before you know it it’s bad times again.

  “I think we’ve got to find a big derby,” Jerry says one night after a shitload of bad Chink take-out. “We’re running low on cash, and there’s no sense to it with this natural winner.”

  He starts raisin’ his voice a little when I pay him no mind.

  That’s when Jerry first notices that Graken’s been lookin’ at us, watching us with them crystal slit-eyes of his. See, his eyes don’t really look like chicken-eyes at all, more like those on a bug - like with tiny little angles, making ‘em look like diamonds in the light. So he’s been watching us fight probly more than we noticed. Now he turns away from the tv screen completely and struts toward us, like he means business.

  You’d think this would look funny, two men being approached by a struttin’ rooster-thing. But I can assure you, we both seen those metal feathers of his slice-and-dice a number of critters, and we neither of us want to get slit up by that walkin’ Gillette display. So we step back and immediately feel this solid wall behind us. Jerry nudges me - hard! - with a bony elbow, and I take that to mean I should be smooth-talkin’ the homicidal bird thing we hung our fortunes on.

  “Hey, Graken,” I croak out, “we’re okay, man! Just havin’ us a discussion, see?” I grab Jerry’s hand and pump it a few times, buddy-like. The bird looks me straight in the eye and makes a couple of them Graken sounds. His metal feathers flutter like knife blades bein’ sharpened. Then he just stands there, and so do we.

  “I think he’s sending us a message,” says Jerry-boy.

  “Yeah, he don’t like us fightin’. He wants to do the fightin’. We better find some action pretty quick.”

  “As soon as he moves.”

  “Got that right.”

  An hour, that bird keeps us there. Not movin’, his eyes shinin’ like diamonds in sunlight. Then he just turns around and heads back to his tv, making soft little Graken nois
es like he’s mutterin’ at us.

  Jerry and I head for the car. Before I can swing the door shut, Graken is through it. He’s goin’ with us, I guess. I look at Jerry. There ain’t much we can do if Graken wants action, and I figure he can help us find it. I swing the back of the Volvo open, but the bird ain’t havin’ none of the cage. He shimmers and next thing we know he’s in the back seat. Like the cage don’t even exist.

  “Where to?” Jerry asks, turnin’ the key.

  “Shit, just drive around. Try the warehouse district. Not gonna be any action in the fuckin’ suburbs, d’ya think?” As Jerry gets the car rolling, I’m thinkin’ about the Glock I got stashed in the glove box, and wondering how many of the Teflon slugs it might take to blow a hole in Graken. Saving one for Jerry-boy just for bein’ a dork.

  Behind us, Graken is shimmerin’ from side window to side window, like a retriever ready to hunt. This is a new one on me. I’m measurin’ the distance to the glove box, when suddenly Jerry pulls off this road that cuts through the middle of an industrial park. These buildings are newer than the warehouse district. I figure he’s just an idiot.

  “The fuck you doin’?” Then I notice that Graken’s acting like a pointer, for Christ’s sake, aimin’ right at a fenced-in lot behind a two-story red-brick. “You’re both nuts.”

  “No, look,” Jerry says, pointin’ at whatever the bird’s lookin’ at.

  I stick my head forward so’s I can look past Jerry’s noodle and then I see ‘em. Three of them low-rider pick-ups, painted hot pink and purple just like hookers’ lips - sure sign that some wetbacks are cockin’ tonight. Before I can say anything at all, Jerry’s pullin’ the Volvo through a gate and headin’ for the door. Why the hell not? When we stop, Graken’s sitting in his carrying cage, and I swear he’s almost smilin’ - there’s a weird kinda uptilt to his razor beak, and his eyes are sparkling even more than before. I swear he’s humming when I half-cover the cage as usual and carry him to the side door, where a tall Latino with a cell phone and a bulge in his coat looks us over, makes a six-word call, and waves us in. Just down the hall there’s a table with a guy and a cashbox and a black guy standin’ guard. The sign says $50, but the guy says “Seventy-five,” and who the fuck are we to argue? Must be a special for Caucasians tonight.