The Night Falconer

by Andy Straka

  I’d done worse to pay the rent. From the information given, I didn’t believe the theory about the owl; but the sightings of what looked like a falconer, if credible, sounded intriguing. Some kind of nut case maybe, one who’d gotten a little training in how to handle a raptor, a licensed rehabber or falconer or someone who had worked with one.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll do it.”

  “Righteous … .” I could almost hear Darla beaming through the phone.

  “But you’ll need to throw in an extra set of plane tickets.”

  “What for?”

  “For Nicky. She’s a falconer herself and she may actually have a better feel for dealing with this type of situation than I do. It won’t increase the fee.”

  Darla cleared her throat. “I’ll check with Dr. Lonigan. I don’t think that will be any problem. But I also need to warn you about a couple of other things. First, in addition to being a physician, Dr. Lonigan has been a longtime animal rights activist.”

  “Oookay … You might have sprung that little ditty on me sooner.”

  “I know, I know. But listen, the other thing she wants me to tell you … you’re probably aware of the friction between some bird watchers and cat owners over cats running loose killing songbirds?”

  “Some. I suppose.”

  “Well, a group of birdwatchers up here in the city read about the story and Dr. Lonigan’s accusations in the paper. And they’ve apparently taken an interest in the matter, along with Lonigan’s animal rights group. There has already been a small protest, some picketing and counter-picketing, that sort of thing.”

  Oh, boy. “No going to sea in a pea-green boat then either, I suppose.”

  “Huh?”

  “Owl and the pussy cat,” I said.

  2

  “Say hi to Darla for me, but you better watch your step,” Jake Toronto said.

  He hovered over my kitchen table, poring through plans and sketches for a new barn he was planning to build at his place in the mountains. He’d been staying with me for a week or so, since returning from an overseas assignment, somewhere in the Middle East, that had left him gaunt and drained. He never talked much about what he called his “occasional government contract gigs” and I never pushed him to tell me more. Judging from the gear he’d packed with him, this particular trip appeared to have been even more stressful than usual. His first two days back in the states he’d barely uttered a word. Four hour daily workouts at the gym were gradually bringing him back to his old self, however.

  “I’ll do that,” I told him.

  “I thought you were planning to make the big approach to Marcia tonight.”

  “Still am.”

  “When it rains …” He rolled his eyes. “Don’t worry about the birds though. I’ll be here.”

  In addition to Torch, there was Mariah, the red-tailed hawk Nicole had trapped the winter before, and India, Toronto’s beautiful gyr-saker falcon we had babysat while he was out of the country.

  “I appreciate it,” I said.

  “Least I can do.”

  “What’s your take on Darla’s story?”

  “Pretty weird about the owl in the park. Someone ought to be after whoever’s fooling with it. My old gos took a cat once. Wasn’t pretty.”

  “The hawk get hurt?”

  “No. Blind luck.”

  “Ever hear of this character Watisi?”

  He shook his head.

  “Could put a new wrinkle on contract killing.”

  “Sure.” He chuckled to himself. “Like I said. Watch yourself.”

  * * * * *

  The idea of going back to New York City to chase around after somebody’s missing feline couldn’t have come at a more tenuous time for me.

  Lately, I’d taken to driving around the countryside to watch the summer sunsets, listening to country music on the radio and feeling sorry for myself. There is an art, I’d come to realize, in juxtaposing sweet mournful songs with the rhythms of one’s own life. I was approaching the big five-o and wondering just how much I had to show for it when it came to the most important relationships in my life.

  Nicole said she was beginning to worry about me. The pastor at the small Baptist church west of Charlottesville where I’d been attending services must have noticed it too. He had pulled me aside one Sunday morning, asked if there was anything he could do.

  Later that night, I waited in my truck on the street in front of Marcia D’Angelo’s house, rehearsing the lines in my head.

  “You’re back,” she might say.

  “I missed you,” I would reply. But somehow that sounded all wrong.

  Why I would choose this night and this occasion to try to resurrect what had almost eroded into painful apathy I couldn’t say. Marcia wasn’t the only woman to have ever meant something to me.

  On the other hand, there comes an age in almost every person’s life where you begin to appreciate the fragilely fleeting nature of genuine love, the point of new beginnings and the point of nearly no return.

  I suppose I had just about used up the last of my excuses with Marcia. Hurt was beginning to form where it shouldn’t have to be. A holiday weekend, and I was headed out of town on some new kind of craziness. It was time for me to push the envelope one way or the other.

  The tree limbs around University Circle hung motionless, their dark leaves rich with moisture in the humid air. The smell of fresh-cut grass and dew moss rose from the lawns and sidewalks, puddled shadows of rain faintly appearing on the street in the glow from the streetlights.

  Marcia’s lawn glistened in the hollow light like all the others. Only the otherworldly thump of rap music from a teenager’s stereo next door disturbed the broken space between houses.

  I was still sitting there trying to decide what to do when Marcia’s front door opened. She stepped out into the night with a mug of steaming liquid in her hand, her eyes on me. She was still clad in her summer gardening clothes—matching turquoise shorts and blouse with white trim. She came down the steps to the curb and I rolled down my window.

  “I thought if you’re going to sit out here in front of my house all night you might like some tea,” she said.

  “You go ahead and drink it.” I shook my head and smiled. “I’ll be up all night if I do.”

  “You know they say that can be one of the first signs of aging.”

  “Oh, they do, do they?”

  “How have you been, Frank?”

  “Getting by. And you?”

  “Getting by.”

  “What’s that mean, anyway, ‘getting by’?”

  “It means you’re depressed but you’re too proud to admit it.”

  “Oh, so that’s what you call it.”

  “You want to come in?”

  “Yes. I’d like that.”

  She took a sip from the mug. “Maybe I can find some a caffeine-free Pepsi in my refrigerator or something.”

  I rolled my window up, pushed open the door, and climbed out to join her on the sidewalk. We didn’t touch, quite.

  “You’ve lost a little weight,” she said.

  “Counting carbs.”

  “Good for you.”

  “I’m inconsistent, but you keep at it long enough, something happens.”

  “How’s Nicky?”

  “Keeping me on my toes, as always. She’s been bugging me for weeks to stop by and see you.”

  She nodded. “I bumped into her on the downtown mall last month. She tell you?”

  “She told me. I should’ve come over to see you then.”

  “Better late than never.”

  “I suppose. Are you seeing anybody?”

  She laughed. “You always get right to the bottom line, don’t you?”

  I shrugged. “Guess it’s in my nature.”

  “What were you thinking about while sitting out here in the truck for the past twenty minutes?”

  “How to tell you how much I missed you.”

  She smiled again. “Okay, come o
n. Let’s go inside and talk.”

  “Talk.”

  “Yeah. You know, it’s what two good friends do when they haven’t seen each other for awhile.”

  “Is that all we are now, Marcia—good friends?”

  “Why don’t we have a talk about that.”

  I followed her up the steps and into the house. The front hall smelled like ginger. We headed toward the kitchen where the aroma grew even stronger. Miles Davis was playing from the stereo in another room.

  “I’ve been baking all day,” she explained. “The PTA is having a summer rummage sale this weekend to raise money for the music department, and they’re planning to raffle off some pies and bags of cookies.”

  “Get thee behind me, Satan.”

  “Oh, don’t worry,” she laughed. “All the fattening product is sealed up and packed into containers for delivery tomorrow.” She set her mug on the counter, opened the refrigerator and leaned inside to have a look. “You know what? I’ve got a nice chilled bottle of wine in here. You want some? I might even join you.”

  “No beer?”

  She shook her head.

  “Wine it is then.”

  She pulled out a bottle from a local vineyard and handed it to me. “I’ll get the glasses. Still remember where the corkscrew is?”

  “Unless you’ve redecorated.”

  I found the screw tucked neatly beside some cooking utensils in one of her kitchen drawers and worked open the cork. The wine’s aroma was earthy and not too sweet. The Charlottesville region was beginning to gain something of a reputation for winemaking, from what I’d read, which would have pleased old Tom Jeff no doubt were he still holding forth from his mountaintop mansion Monticello. I’m no expert on wines, mind you, even the local vintages, but this one tasted okay. We sat down next to each other at the kitchen table and toasted ourselves.

  “Are you working much this summer?” she asked.

  “Some,” I said. “Nicky and I are flying up to New York City in the morning.”

  “Oh?”

  “Got a call from an old friend up there who used to be on the force. She works as a PI too and needs some help with a client, a doctor at Columbia.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “Her cat is missing.”

  “What?”

  “Her cat is missing and she thinks someone’s had it killed.”

  “Not your usual sort of case.”

  “Nope.” I filled her in on the details of the case.

  “Sounds like that story I was reading in a magazine last year when Paris Hilton was offering a $5,000 reward for her lost Chihuahua.”

  “There you go then.” I shrugged, took another sip of wine.

  “You do lead an interesting life sometimes.”

  The jazz playing in the other room ended. It was followed by a smooth R&B tune from an artist I didn’t recognize.

  Marcia took my hand. “Dance with me?”

  “You bet.”

  I’m not much of a dancer. Maybe it’s my big feet or maybe I’m just too self-conscious. But here in Marcia’s living room seemed safe enough. The mood was slow. The lights were off. We held each other close and swayed. I led. She followed. Simple, really.

  Her head was on my shoulder and I could feel the rise and fall of her hips in time with mine.

  “Frank,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “Is there hope for us?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve been thinking about you a lot.”

  “Been thinking about you too.”

  “Why does it all have to be so complicated?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “We love each other.”

  “Yes.”

  “What do we have to do about it?”

  “You could marry me, you know.”

  “I know. But it’s summertime, beach weather. I’m off from school.”

  “So?”

  “I don’t know if it’s the best time to be making commitments.”

  “I’m here. You’re here. I’m leaving in the morning. What more is there to commit to?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Yes. I know what you mean.”

  She slid her fingers around the back of my neck and kissed me. Lightly. Then she shuddered.

  “Frank,” she said.

  “I’m here.”

  “I think we should go to bed now.”

  “Really?”

  “I think we should go to bed and I think I should marry you in the morning.”

  “But I told you, I’m leaving first thing in the morning.”

  “As soon as you get back then.”

  “I thought you wanted a big church wedding.”

  “I know a pastor who will marry us. We don’t need a crowd.”

  “You’re serious,” I said.

  “Absolutely.”

  “What have we been waiting for?”

  “Time. Each other. I’ve been doing a lot of praying. I know it’s right now.” She kissed me softly once again.

  “Can you do something for me then?” I asked.

  “What?”

  I reached into my pocket, felt the smooth touch of white gold. “I bought this six months ago. Basically been too chicken to do anything with it until now. I don’t know why, but something made me slip it into my pocket on the way out the door tonight.”

  I pulled out the ring. Tears began streaming down her face.

  “It’s a holiday weekend,” she said. “Do you really have to leave?”

  “I’m sorry, yes.”

  She slipped the ring over her finger. The music went on as we kissed.

  “What time did you say your plane leaves in the morning?” she asked.

  3

  “Bad memories?”

  Nicole caught me staring out the window as our commuter flight began to bank on approach into LaGuardia. The sun had risen over Long Island and was angling its rays into the gray spires of midtown, which looked almost peaceful at this hour on a Saturday. Haze draped the Verazzano, the East River, and the rest of the city like steam settling over a cauldron. Marcia D’Angelo’s house back in Charlottesville was suddenly a distant memory.

  “A few. Some good ones too. How many times does this make it you’ve been to New York?”

  “Must be the fifth or sixth. After you and Mom broke up, back when she was married to the schmuck and had tons of money, she brought me up here a few times to see Broadway plays and go shopping.”

  “You miss it?”

  “Miss what?”

  “The money.”

  “Sometimes,” she admitted.

  “Yet here we are.”

  “Yup. Here we are.”

  Marcia and I had decided not to inform anyone else of our engagement. We’d tell Nicole, of course. And we’d tell Jake, who was still my best friend despite being my former partner and probable best man, and maybe a few other close friends a couple of days before the ceremony. Nicole, however, sensed something was up.

  “So how’d it go last night?”

  “How’d what go last night?”

  “You know what I mean … with Marcia.”

  “I thought things went rather well.”

  “Rather well? You don’t talk like that, Dad. What happened?”

  “We talked. We danced. It was a nice evening.”

  She rolled her eyes in mock exasperation. “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

  “Tell you what?”

  “Anything,” she said. “About what really happened.”

  “I thought I just told you.”

  “I need details, dad. Details … .”

  “Look, I don’t quiz you, even though I’m your father, about your romantic escapades, do I?”

  “Uggh!” She sucker punched me in the deltoid.

  “Hey, watch it. That’s my old pitching arm.”

  As if there’d ever been any doubt, my daughter had grown into a beautiful young woman. Petite, composed, possesse
d of an innate ability to read others’ emotions, like her mother once upon a time. She’d let her dark hair grow out some, but still kept it stylishly trimmed in a French twist. She was neatly decked out for the city in black jeans and a plain white tee.

  Why she chose to work with her Neanderthal of a dad was a mystery to me, but not one I chose to try to solve at the moment. The headphones pinched around her neck were plugged into a portable CD player. Anyone looking at her might have concluded she was listening to music, but in fact she was boning up on her Spanish. Four years and a B.S. in computer science had apparently only whetted her intellectual curiosity.

  “So you’re old buds with this PI who’s meeting us?” she asked.

  I’d told her most of the story already. “Yeah. I owe her.”

  “She a good detective?”

  “Far as I know. Streetwise. A pro.”

  “So like I’m learning from you, I can learn a lot by watching her then.”

  “I suppose. Where are you going with this?”

  “I just thought, well, since this seems like a pretty straightforward, low-risk kind of case, you maybe wouldn’t mind me doing some of the work on my own.”

  The engines flared as we touched down.

  “We’ll see,” I said. “New York’s not Virginia.”

  “A chance to relive your glory days,” she said with a mischievous smile.

  The flight was crowded with people traveling to New York for the fireworks and the holiday, so we had to wait our turn to deplane. Dragging our carry-ons, we entered the gate through a glass doorway. We climbed a set of stairs to the concourse and headed for the main terminal.

  At the security checkpoint, which wasn’t busy at the moment, a heavyset black woman in a dark green pantsuit leaned against a table, talking and laughing with the two baggage screeners. She turned to examine the line of people exiting the ramp. Her gaze settled quickly on Nicole and me.

  “There they finally are,” she said as we approached.

  “Hey Darla,” I said.

  “Get on over here and give this woman a hug, you big fool.” She held out a hand, bigger than most of the men I knew, shook mine with it and pulled me into an embrace. There was an easy frankness about her manner, and a world-weary look to her, a combination that commanded a certain respect.

  “And this must be Nicky. Last time I saw you, girl, you were barely up to your daddy’s knee.”