Weecho: First Shots

Chapter 12 - Swamp Rat

High above one of the scrubby deserted islands in Jamaica Bay, a falcon was riding the wind, catching the updrafts, New York skyline off in the distance, the bird looking like it owned the sky. 

Weecho watched it do a slow circle, then hold itself over the middle of the island, something in the long grass down there catching its attention. 

Weecho knew what it was, could see it himself – a pigeon crouched on a bed of reeds. 

He looked up and saw the falcon drawing a bead, tucking its wings, rocketing toward the target. 

He had the camera on rapid fire, click-click-click, following the falcon streaking down, killer blur, talons flashing, nailing the pigeon. 

Checked the LCD screen. 

Falcon, pigeon, burst of feathers. 

Not a bad first try. Weecho Wildlife. Nice ring, file for the future.

He watched the falcon swing around, spread its wings, and land on the dead pigeon. Started right away tearing feathers with its yellow beak from around the pigeon’s heart.

Then whoosh, the ground underneath erupted, reeds flying, a hand grabbing the falcon’s feet. Click-click. 

Another screen check. 

Reeds, falcon, hand gripping feet.    

Weecho stayed low in the patch of scrub oak he was using for cover and watched the gripper, Teddy Shongut, the old guy who had the run-in with Lynch and the snakes, come up out of the pit he’d dug for a blind. He looped a leather thong around one of the falcon’s legs, tightened it, glanced up at a big roar passing overhead – a jet on final into JFK, the plane lined up with the approach strobes blinking across the marsh. 

Weecho’s long lens showed Shongut looking even craggier than he did the other day, camos all the grubbier from mud in that pit. He was talking to the bird and smoothing its feathers, trying to calm it. Didn’t hear Weecho, covered by the jet noise, step out from the scrub trees and walk over behind him. 

“Morning.” 

Shongut spun around, gave a perfect pose with the falcon. Click.  

“That’s an expensive bird there,” Weecho said. 

“Who the hell’re you?” 

Weecho was wearing a cap and shades different from what Shongut had seen him in at Lynch’s. Not that Shongut was paying him much attention that day. 

“I bet a bird like that could get some serious fines.” 

“I bet it could get you seriously messed up.” 

They both knew that if Weecho wanted to run, Shongut couldn’t catch him. And the poacher wasn’t about to let go of that bird.  

To add insult, Weecho asked him to hold still while he took another picture. 

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The two of them sat at the edge of a thicket of sea pines overlooking the marsh, far enough away from the plank walkway that connected the islands of the Jamaica Bay Wildlife Refuge – the walkway Weecho took to get out here – so that anyone who might be out for a bird tour wouldn’t see them. The falcon was leashed by the leather thong to a driftwood log, the bird quiet now, a little leather hood fitted over its head. Juna had found out from one of the men at Petoria where it was that Shongut did most of his poaching. Weecho took it from there.    

He brushed a bit of sand off the camera, turned the back of it so Shongut could see the LCD screen. 

“These are pretty clear, if I do say so.” 

“You are one irritating little shit, you know that?”  

“I need you to do something for me.” 

“Screw off.” 

“I need for you to deliver a message.” 

“I need for you to get lost.” 

“I’ll pay.” 

He took out an envelope and tossed it on the ground between them. Hundred-dollar bills he’d asked Alexey to courier to him spilled out. 

“There’s two-thousand bucks there,” Weecho said. 

Shongut looked at the money. “What kind of message? 

“Your friend Lynch is having problems with a computer. I need him to get this.” He held up his techie friend Aramis’s card. “It’s somebody who can help him. But you don’t tell him it came from me.” 

“Who do I tell him? He knows I don’t know squat about computers.” 

“Tell him you asked around. Friend of a friend. You heard him cursing about the computer. You owe him after that screw-up with the other falcon, want to get yourself back on track. You were looking for a way and this came along.” 

Weecho could see him thinking – How does this pain in the ass know about that other falcon? Shongut not remembering anyone else who was there at the snake event. 

Weecho’s mother would sometimes tell him he was addicted to complications. Like he had this mental whatever you call it. He was starting to think maybe she was right. Why was he bothering with this burned-out old boozer? There had to be an easier way. For all he knew, Lynch had already solved his own problem.  

Shongut nodded at the camera. “What about those pictures?” 

“They’re my insurance. You deliver, nobody sees them.” 

He handed Shongut Aramis’s card. Knew he was leaving it in shaky hands.    

Shongut looked at the card, looked at Weecho. Reached over and picked up the money. 

A waft of wind against Weecho’s cheek made him turn and look out over the marsh. 

Watching him through a break in the reeds was Nina Galleon’s ghost.