Кен Бруен - Galway Girl

“Meet Maeve.”

With my free hand, I threw a bag of meat at her face, it poured over her hair, face, and down onto her shoulders. She gasped, went

“What the fuck?”

I said,

“Not that it really counts but you’ll find there are forty-eight chunks of meat, like the number of wounds on my friend.”

I moved to the back of the field, said,

“Whatever you do, don’t run.”

Then I released the falcon.

Jericho ran.

It was silent for a moment as the falcon climbed high, then folded itself, zoomed down. I headed back toward the house, screams ringing out across an empty meadow.

Before I reached the house, I heard two blasts of the shotgun, knew Keefer had finished whatever was stirring after the falcon attack.

Keefer and I were sitting before a log fire, strong glasses of bourbon in our hands. He was wearing a faded T-shirt with the Grateful Dead logo. A faded date underneath identified it as the year of Altamont, when the Hell’s Angels killed a fan in front of the Stones’ stage. You’d have to know your Stones mythology to know how heavily Jerry Garcia and the Dead were involved in the logistics of the biker band being hired.

The Angels were given five hundred dollars to buy beer as the price of them providing security.

I asked,

“What about her...”

Paused,

“Remains?”

Keefer gave a sardonic smile, said,

“I’ll bury her with the others.”

A chill briefly flitted through the room, then Keefer asked,

“Want a spliff?”

I nodded and he asked,

“Music?”

I said,

“Got a version of ‘Galway Girl’?”

He smiled, asked,

“Does a falcon fly?”