Carl nodded a little. “’Kay.” And then he was breathing evenly again, and Michael had to laugh. He’d obviously not recovered from his trip overseas yet.
Michael grabbed some of the steaks he’d gotten from Phyllis—they were a little past the expiration date but not spoiled yet—and hoped the roadkill in the refrigerator wasn’t too bad. The bird had to eat 20 percent of its body weight in food almost daily, and it helped him remember the bird was wild if said food wasn’t all carved up and only the meat remained. Falcons had digestive systems almost as tough as a vulture’s—they ate bones, skin, the whole shebang.
When he got around to the back of the hangar, he found Hodges out there already, dropping the still floppy jackrabbit through the hole in the top of the mews to land at the falcon’s feet. The bird was on it in a heartbeat, ripping, crunching, basically devouring, and Michael thought, not for the first time, it was a good thing his sensibilities had been hardened by hunting with his brothers when he was a kid or he wouldn’t have been a good bet to raise birds. You couldn’t be too squeamish when you were taking out rabbits and squirrels with a crossbow to get your own dinner.
“Man, that’s gross,” Hodges said with the visceral appreciation of a teenager working a part-time job. Craig Hodges was tall, rangy, and Black, with a handsome narrow face and velvet-brown eyes. Michael had gotten the feeling the kid may have had a crush on him, which, as far as Michael was concerned, didn’t make no goddamned sense, and so he’d been kind but firm about maintaining boundaries. The father in him wanted to tell the kid to stay far away from bad men like Carmichael Carmody.
“It is,” Michael agreed, watching the bird pull out a nice elastic entrail and snap it in two. He admired the practicality of birds, and brother, could he appreciate the falcon’s cold-eyed hatred of being cooped up. “He seems to like the roadkill better than stuff that’s been precut. How’d you know to do that?”
“My folks took us camping two years ago,” Hodges said. “The place had a nature conservancy center that specialized in birds. Me and my brother visited every damned day, heard all the presentations, even got to let the birds land on our fists and take off again. I got lots of books to read after that. You want to borrow them?”
Michael thought about the meeting with the Salinger crew that morning. “Yeah,” he said, thinking research couldn’t hurt. “Did you know falconry used to be considered the sport of kings?”
“Yup.” Hodges grinned. “Does that make you King Carmody and me King Hodges?”
Michael snorted. “Makes me a varlet or a valet or a butler or something. You’re going to college, right?” All the Salingers were college educated, as far as he knew, and it depressed him. He’d read a lot in prison and had kept up the habit since, but he was only now beginning to understand why his ex had been so depressed about not getting to go away to school. He was starting to see that unlike birds, who could only stare at the wire of their cage and hate, humans had the ability to escape into a wider world by imagination alone.
Hodges stopped grinning. “Next year.” His depression over this was obvious and palpable.
“You are a lucky bastard,” Michael told him. “Your parents had to work hard to save up that money. The day I realized I had enough money to save for my kids’ college was the happiest in my life.”
“Not the day they were born?” Hodges asked.
“That too. But being happy because my wife did a great thing with a little bit of baby juice is one thing. Providing for my kids—that’s a lot harder. Your parents provided the best future they possibly could for you. Don’t take that for granted.”
Hodges grunted. “You’re not too old to go to school, you know.”
Michael shrugged. “Was never any good at it. But I could fix cars. The fact that you thought to get all the books on birds? I didn’t think about that. You’re going to be rich and famous and powerful someday. Be careful what you do with it. Use your powers for good.”
Hodges gave him an odd look. “You mean, like feeding dead things to birds?”
It was Michael’s turn to grin. “Yeah, but when you’re smart and shit, you can use the word ‘ornithologist.’”
Hodges laughed outright. “Who’s asleep in your apartment, anyway?”
“A friend,” Michael told him. “One of the people the Salingers work with.”
Another laugh. “Do those people know any straight men?”
That made Michael giggle like a little kid himself, although he tried to hold it back. Finally, when he could talk, he said, “Let’s say I’m glad this one’s not.”
“Ooh….” Hodges was teasing him, but Michael also detected some sugared-over hurt in the sound.
“You know, I’m ten years older than you,” Michael said gently. “And I’m not a good catch. Go have a crush on someone not quite so beat-up, ’kay?”
Hodges grunted. “You mean you don’t want to be the older man who seduces me?” he asked, and Michael could tell he had a whole scenario built up.
“No,” Michael said. “But it’s sweet that you think that would be fun. Kid, I’ve got kids of my own. Go find someone you can go to the movies with and hold hands with. Go away to college. Get a boyfriend.”
“So you can go get it on with that businessman in there?” Hodges sulked.
Michael turned away from the bird, who was literally down to feet and ears at this point. “Craig,” he said, his voice husky and hurting. “I… I’ve needed someone like that guy my entire life, but I didn’t know how to look. The first time I saw him, looking super serious in his business suit and his glossy shoes, I thought, ‘He wouldn’t ever play at hearts. I need a guy like that.’ You haven’t been beaten up in the heart department yet. Find out what you need. I’m definitely not that guy.”
Hodges grunted. “You, uh, still want those books on birds?”
“Yeah,” Michael said, smiling. “That would be great. I think there’s a lot more about birds than meets the eye.” For one thing, they knew how to get what they wanted. For another, they knew how to fly.
“Michael?”
“Yeah?”
“You should be the guy somebody needs. I may be young, but I know that.”
Michael thought about it and squared his shoulders a little. “You know, you’re damned smart for a young guy.”
Hodges grinned, and they watched the falcon finish off the feet.
Yuck.
THE NEXT afternoon he was sitting right behind home plate at Wrigley Field, accepting armloads of merchandise from Molly, who had made a run down to the vendors with Leon di Rossi’s daughter, Esme. Esme was a fourteen-year-old coltish girl with a thick braid of wild black hair and limpid brown eyes who spoke English with a brazen Italian accent but seemed more than happy to be in Chicago instead of Corfu for her holiday with her father.
“Corfu is lovely, you understand,” she’d told Molly as Michael had driven them all into town. “But there is nothing to do! There is sun and there is beach and there is beach and there is sun, and there is shopping—but is nothing. Is all done. Chicago? Is not all done, no?”