below, taillights blinking. Angling sideways at the window to get a better view, I see two figures emerge and open the rear doors. This is the unit I have been waiting for. I am at the door to the apartment even before there is knocking, urgent and sharp, like the Gestapo in the night.
“
Darcy?
Are you in there?
Darcy DeGuzman!
Open the door.”
I unlock the door. “People are sleeping!”
Two shaggy hipsters stand in the hall. One is a white male with silver earrings and baggy India-print pants. The other is a gregarious African-American female whose long cornrows are woven with beads. Both wear heavy rubber boots. Their faces are sweaty and streaked with mud. The stench of hay and dead things is a sharp hit to the nose.
“Are you Darcy DeGuzman?”
“Who are you?”
They show their creds. FBI, Portland field office.
“We have your ducks.”
The male agent drags a plastic bin over the threshold. It contains four confused white ducks.
“I didn’t think it would be
ducks.
”
“Those were the orders.”
“Get them out of here. I can’t deal with this.”
“We just stole ’em,” says the female. “
No way
we’re taking ’em back. I’m not crawling through bird poop again in this lifetime.”
“Wait a minute. What’s wrong with
him
?”
One of the ducks is lying down in the bin.
“It’s sick.”
“Why’d you take a sick one?”
“What’s the difference? They’re all gonna die.” He points to green circles drawn around their necks. “That means they’re marked for slaughter.”
Okay, this is absurd.
“What am I supposed to do with a sick duck?”
The female yawns. “Call your supervisor.”
“That is incredibly unhelpful, ma’am.”
“Sorry we woke you up,” she snaps. “We enjoy doing the shit work for Los Angeles.”
And they’re sure to slam the door.
Three ducks are wandering around the apartment. The worst part is, it was my dumb idea to use rescue animals in order to get closer to Megan. I was thinking more along the line of puppies, but I know why Angelo authorized the poultry heist—to make it look like the work of dedicated radicals.
To get foie gras, a gourmet pâté, you force-feed the birds until their livers swell. French farmwives have been stuffing ducks and geese for hundreds of years, but it’s not so quaint when they’re kept in electrified metal cages with tubes down their throats. Activists have long been onto it as a rallying point. Foie gras is gruesome. It’s elitist. It’s what keeps people like Megan Tewksbury up at night.
I call her at Willamette Hazelnut Farm, using the number on the card. It is five o’clock in the morning. The apartment already smells like the monkey house at the zoo.
“Friends of mine broke into a poultry farm last night—”
“What friends?” Megan is on it. She must get these wake-up calls often.
“Freedom fighters, let’s just say. They had no place to take them, so they left them with me. What do I do with a bunch of ducks?”
“This is not an easy time,” Megan says warily. “Are you on a cell phone?”
“Yes.”
“We have to hang up.”
“Okay, but listen—here’s why I’m calling—one of the ducks is sick!”
“What’s it doing?”
“Lying down. I think it’s throwing up.”
“Are there whole regurgitated kernels?”
“Seems like.”
There are shifting sounds, as if she’s getting out of bed. The phone cuts out and then comes back.
“I’m very worried about this.” I can hear it in her voice. “We need to find an avian vet.”
I didn’t even know such people existed. “Where?”
“How soon can you get down here?”
Back in L.A., Donnato does not answer his cell. I leave a message that I am heading south with a carload of ducks.
T hose patches of green I saw from the airplane turn out to be fields of rye slashed by the interstate. They claim this is the “grass-seed capital of the world,” and I can feel the pollen stinging my eyes. For
“
Darcy?
Are you in there?
Darcy DeGuzman!
Open the door.”
I unlock the door. “People are sleeping!”
Two shaggy hipsters stand in the hall. One is a white male with silver earrings and baggy India-print pants. The other is a gregarious African-American female whose long cornrows are woven with beads. Both wear heavy rubber boots. Their faces are sweaty and streaked with mud. The stench of hay and dead things is a sharp hit to the nose.
“Are you Darcy DeGuzman?”
“Who are you?”
They show their creds. FBI, Portland field office.
“We have your ducks.”
The male agent drags a plastic bin over the threshold. It contains four confused white ducks.
“I didn’t think it would be
ducks.
”
“Those were the orders.”
“Get them out of here. I can’t deal with this.”
“We just stole ’em,” says the female. “
No way
we’re taking ’em back. I’m not crawling through bird poop again in this lifetime.”
“Wait a minute. What’s wrong with
him
?”
One of the ducks is lying down in the bin.
“It’s sick.”
“Why’d you take a sick one?”
“What’s the difference? They’re all gonna die.” He points to green circles drawn around their necks. “That means they’re marked for slaughter.”
Okay, this is absurd.
“What am I supposed to do with a sick duck?”
The female yawns. “Call your supervisor.”
“That is incredibly unhelpful, ma’am.”
“Sorry we woke you up,” she snaps. “We enjoy doing the shit work for Los Angeles.”
And they’re sure to slam the door.
Three ducks are wandering around the apartment. The worst part is, it was my dumb idea to use rescue animals in order to get closer to Megan. I was thinking more along the line of puppies, but I know why Angelo authorized the poultry heist—to make it look like the work of dedicated radicals.
To get foie gras, a gourmet pâté, you force-feed the birds until their livers swell. French farmwives have been stuffing ducks and geese for hundreds of years, but it’s not so quaint when they’re kept in electrified metal cages with tubes down their throats. Activists have long been onto it as a rallying point. Foie gras is gruesome. It’s elitist. It’s what keeps people like Megan Tewksbury up at night.
I call her at Willamette Hazelnut Farm, using the number on the card. It is five o’clock in the morning. The apartment already smells like the monkey house at the zoo.
“Friends of mine broke into a poultry farm last night—”
“What friends?” Megan is on it. She must get these wake-up calls often.
“Freedom fighters, let’s just say. They had no place to take them, so they left them with me. What do I do with a bunch of ducks?”
“This is not an easy time,” Megan says warily. “Are you on a cell phone?”
“Yes.”
“We have to hang up.”
“Okay, but listen—here’s why I’m calling—one of the ducks is sick!”
“What’s it doing?”
“Lying down. I think it’s throwing up.”
“Are there whole regurgitated kernels?”
“Seems like.”
There are shifting sounds, as if she’s getting out of bed. The phone cuts out and then comes back.
“I’m very worried about this.” I can hear it in her voice. “We need to find an avian vet.”
I didn’t even know such people existed. “Where?”
“How soon can you get down here?”
Back in L.A., Donnato does not answer his cell. I leave a message that I am heading south with a carload of ducks.
T hose patches of green I saw from the airplane turn out to be fields of rye slashed by the interstate. They claim this is the “grass-seed capital of the world,” and I can feel the pollen stinging my eyes. For
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