The Falconer's Tale by Gordon Kent Page B

forward.
    Piat sensed the intensity of her interest but misplaced itas revulsion. “It’s just cosmetic, Irene. Like a costume. Likemakeup.” She wore a little. Not much, but enough to suggestthat she had a human interest in her own looks.
    She made a gesture of dismissal with her teacup. “Whatchanges?”
    Piat felt a ray of hope—just a single ray, but as bright asthe rare Scottish sun. She was bargaining—her body languageand intensity said she was bargaining.
    â€œClothes. Haircut. Table manners. Social interaction. Travel.”
    She looked at him over her mug of tea. “And me?”
    Piat smiled blandly. “What do you want me to say? I suspectyou’re already pretty good at wearing a string of pearls andchatting with debs. Right?”
    She leaned back, put her feet up on the old trunk that didduty as a coffee table. Her soles were dirty. “I shit that lifeout of me with the last meat I ate,” she said in a matter-offactvoice.
    Irene used words like shit to shock. It had been one ofPiat’s first clues to who she was, or might be—that she hadgrown up with people who didn’t say shit every third word.Rich people. People with culture .
    â€œI need Hackbutt. I need his expertise with these birds. Iknow he can do this. And Irene—it’ll help him. He can helpchange the world, and he can spend the rest of his lifeknowing that he did it.”
    She nodded, but she didn’t look very impressed.
    â€œYou and the birds—together—have made a more confident,more rounded man than I knew in Southeast. So lethim do this. It won’t hurt him—far from it.” Piat tried tohold her eye as he made his little speech, but she glancedaway and then back. She’d looked at her photographs, heknew. She had as much as said, What’s in this for me?
    â€œAnd I’ll pay both of you, handsomely. I know that you guysdon’t run on money, but it’s what I have. Give it to charity ifyou want.” Most people liked to pretend they didn’t wantmoney. He suspected that Irene would pretend pretty hard.
    He was wrong.
    She swiveled to face him, plunked her bare feet down onthe stone floor. “How much money?” she asked directly.
    â€œFifty thousand dollars,” Piat said.
    â€œWe’ll need more than that. I’ll need more than that. Youpay for my installation—materials, transportation, insurance, chai . The works.”
    Piat shook his head, apparently reluctant. “I’m sorry, Irene.I can’t make open-ended financial commitments. I can offeryou a lump sum—I can set a payment schedule. I can’t justsay I’ll pay for every expensive hotel you book in Paris—orwherever you get your show.”
    Irene leaned forward over the table, her breasts visiblealmost to the nipple under her dress, her well-defined armmuscles in high relief. She’s tense . “Fifty thousand each , then.”Her voice was low, a little raspy. “I love the irony—the military-industrial complex paying for my installation. I mighthave to add some new pieces.” But the tension remained,and only when it was too late did he realize that she was,perhaps unconsciously, trying to set her price too high. Shewanted him to say no. She wanted—what? She wanted not to have to follow through with her “art .”
    But by the time he’d understood, the moment was past.He hadn’t flinched at the amount. He’d kept his tone businesslike.“Five thousand each when Hackbutt agrees. Tenthousand each when Hackbutt completes the cosmetic partto my satisfaction. The balance when we’re done. Either way,success or failure—but not until we’re done.”
    She looked at the photographs and then at the front door,as if she were looking for an escape, and said, “You have tenthousand dollars on you ?” she babbled. “This is all happeningtoo fast—my God, we just met