The Bird Saviors Read Online Free
straight.
    I don't need any queen to tell me what's what.
    Antiques Roadshow, repeats Crowfoot. They talk about provenance and whatnot.
    What's provenance?
Proof of where it came from.
I don't need proof. I got a head.
Right.
    He's well preserved is what he is. Like my grandmother. We had to dig her up for an inquest thing. To prove if my grandpa poisoned her or not. For the insurance, you know.
    And did he?
    Probably, but they couldn't prove it. Grandma looked pretty good, considering. Like she'd been dead only a month or two.
    I don't know about your dear departed. But I tell you it doesn't take a genius to figure that ain't Ketchum.
    Is too.
    You been had.
    Mosca considers the withered human head in his lap. The wispy black hair, ears like dried apple slices. A flake of yellow epidermis peels away from the edge of a sunken, gaping eye socket. Mosca picks at it, trying to neaten the skull. It's like trying to scrape the label off a mayonnaise jar. All he manages to do is to loosen a bigger hunk. He licks his finger and dabs at it.
    Damn, he says. I didn't mean to do that.
    George shakes his head and backs out of the driveway. You can probably hock it.
    You think?
    George shrugs. Hock shops value the odd. It might fit right in. I mean, it's a head all right. Even if I doubt it's Black Jack's.
    Mosca stares at the grimacing, leathery mug. People will pay good money for the head of Black Jack Ketchum. Man I won it from said it was worth a grand at least.
    Crowfoot shrugs. You might get something for it. I don't know about a grand. Maybe a hundred bucks.
    Shit. I get more than that. He's a famous outlaw.
    Ketchum was. This dude, he probably robbed a liquor store and forgot to grab a top- shelf bottle of tequila, the dumbshit. Crowfoot grins. That's if you ask me.
    Mosca says, Fuck it. He stuffs the head back into the bowling- ball bag, crams it between his feet on the floorboard. I'm going to make some money off this head if it's the last thing I do.
    That's just peachy, says Crowfoot. They drive taciturn and moody through the streets of Pueblo to the Department of Nuisance Animal Control office, where they check in and get their assignment for the day. Crows and cowbirds near a feedlot. Exterminate with all due diligence. The boss man Silas tells them to get started pronto.
    Halfway across town Mosca says, You hear about the fatso kidnappings?
    Crowfoot holds the steering wheel with one finger, his hand in his lap, staring at the landscape of pawnshops, strip clubs, and palm readers that clatters by the pickup's window like lemons and cherries on a slot machine. After a moment of silence he says, You want the truth? I bet Black Jack Ketchum's head is buried along with his name.
    They're kidnapping fat people and liposuctioning them skinny to sell the oil on the black market. That's what I heard.
    The sky looks darker the farther west they travel.
    What do you mean, "they"? asks Crowfoot.
    You know, says Mosca. The lipo gangs. The ones who sell it
on the black market to the illegals and migrants living in the boxcars down at the freight yards.
    Crowfoot squints at the storm clouds massed before them. Looks like we're about to be in the shit, Señor Fly.
    Jesus Christ. I don't need another day off, says Mosca. I need some work is what I need. By hook or crook.
    George is thinking he needs a better pair of boots. And a better job. He used to think this grunt work was a step up from hauling trash since part of the job was shooting things. Years ago maybe George would
    I don't need any queen to tell me what's what.
    Antiques Roadshow, repeats Crowfoot. They talk about provenance and whatnot.
    What's provenance?
Proof of where it came from.
I don't need proof. I got a head.
Right.
    He's well preserved is what he is. Like my grandmother. We had to dig her up for an inquest thing. To prove if my grandpa poisoned her or not. For the insurance, you know.
    And did he?
    Probably, but they couldn't prove it. Grandma looked pretty good, considering. Like she'd been dead only a month or two.
    I don't know about your dear departed. But I tell you it doesn't take a genius to figure that ain't Ketchum.
    Is too.
    You been had.
    Mosca considers the withered human head in his lap. The wispy black hair, ears like dried apple slices. A flake of yellow epidermis peels away from the edge of a sunken, gaping eye socket. Mosca picks at it, trying to neaten the skull. It's like trying to scrape the label off a mayonnaise jar. All he manages to do is to loosen a bigger hunk. He licks his finger and dabs at it.
    Damn, he says. I didn't mean to do that.
    George shakes his head and backs out of the driveway. You can probably hock it.
    You think?
    George shrugs. Hock shops value the odd. It might fit right in. I mean, it's a head all right. Even if I doubt it's Black Jack's.
    Mosca stares at the grimacing, leathery mug. People will pay good money for the head of Black Jack Ketchum. Man I won it from said it was worth a grand at least.
    Crowfoot shrugs. You might get something for it. I don't know about a grand. Maybe a hundred bucks.
    Shit. I get more than that. He's a famous outlaw.
    Ketchum was. This dude, he probably robbed a liquor store and forgot to grab a top- shelf bottle of tequila, the dumbshit. Crowfoot grins. That's if you ask me.
    Mosca says, Fuck it. He stuffs the head back into the bowling- ball bag, crams it between his feet on the floorboard. I'm going to make some money off this head if it's the last thing I do.
    That's just peachy, says Crowfoot. They drive taciturn and moody through the streets of Pueblo to the Department of Nuisance Animal Control office, where they check in and get their assignment for the day. Crows and cowbirds near a feedlot. Exterminate with all due diligence. The boss man Silas tells them to get started pronto.
    Halfway across town Mosca says, You hear about the fatso kidnappings?
    Crowfoot holds the steering wheel with one finger, his hand in his lap, staring at the landscape of pawnshops, strip clubs, and palm readers that clatters by the pickup's window like lemons and cherries on a slot machine. After a moment of silence he says, You want the truth? I bet Black Jack Ketchum's head is buried along with his name.
    They're kidnapping fat people and liposuctioning them skinny to sell the oil on the black market. That's what I heard.
    The sky looks darker the farther west they travel.
    What do you mean, "they"? asks Crowfoot.
    You know, says Mosca. The lipo gangs. The ones who sell it
on the black market to the illegals and migrants living in the boxcars down at the freight yards.
    Crowfoot squints at the storm clouds massed before them. Looks like we're about to be in the shit, Señor Fly.
    Jesus Christ. I don't need another day off, says Mosca. I need some work is what I need. By hook or crook.
    George is thinking he needs a better pair of boots. And a better job. He used to think this grunt work was a step up from hauling trash since part of the job was shooting things. Years ago maybe George would
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