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Published:

May 8, 2024

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Meigs "Bugsy" Fullman was an old-fashioned gangster, and he was running scared. Why isn't important.

 

My client wanted some heavy crates Bugsy had stolen. I'd tracked the cargo via shipping manifest and found the missing mobster too. He was holed up in an East Side warehouse along with the loot. I'd been waiting two days on the opposite rooftop for him to stick his head out.

 

Suddenly there he was, shirttail untucked, throwing open his garage door. I was already calling my client when he peeled out and down Second Avenue.

 

Then the strangest thing happened: A flock of tiny birds dove in and swarmed him through the open convertible top. I watched, fascinated, as he batted half a dozen away. He slammed on his brakes, jumped out, and fled down the nearest subway entrance, birds in hot pursuit.

 

It wasn't the weirdest thing I've ever seen, but it was up there.

 

Once my phone call ended, I rushed down to take a quick look before the cops arrived. I gave the car a once-over, then turned to walk away.

 

There was an injured bird fluttering on the pavement, a barn swallow. Oncoming traffic had failed to hit the poor thing, but it was only a matter of time. Seized by sudden impulse, I knelt, picked it up, and deposited it on the curb behind the car where it would be slightly safer.

 

When I straightened, I found myself being regarded by a dozen other swallows, perched on a construction staging. Startled, I stepped backward into the path of a yellow cab, which screeched to a stop inches from my right ankle.

 

When I looked again, the flock was flying away. I followed, God knows why. I thought at first they were taking refuge in a pocket park, but instead they flew up to a curious structure atop an apartment building.

 

It took half an hour to find a way up. They'd gone in through the narrow horizontal windows of a wooden shack. I used the door.

 

It was my day to see weird things. There were thousands of birds inside, perched in ranks on wooden tiers designed for the purpose. Along one wall was a bank of monitors, each showing a different perspective. Most were of a moving car.

 

Watching these was an odd figure dressed in an old-fashioned silk tailcoat and oversized bowler cap. Underneath he wore heavy boots and farmer's overalls. It was the strangest getup since Wan Hu's rocket chair, but it suited him.

 

He spoke continuously, evidently to himself. "Yes, the car, the car, follow the car, mm-hmm," he said.

 

Then without turning his head or changing tone he addressed me in a long rambling monologue. "I saw you on the street, yes I did, tending one of my fallen birds. What do you want? Are you friend or foe? I don't know you. Friend to Meigs Pullman the mobster, perhaps. Well? What have you to say? Hmm?"

 

If I kept waiting for him to pause I'd never get a word in. "I'm no friend to Bugsy. I'm a private eye on a case, and I happened to cross paths with your swallows. My job is unraveling mysteries, and these birds qualify."

 

"Mmm, yes, they do behave strangely, for normal birds at least. They are my friends. I devised this equipment to help me speak with them, and they to me. They do me favors from time to time, and I take care of them too, yes I do."

 

He went on in this vein for a while, occasionally addressing the birds and then me. He was obviously mad, but just as clearly had a connection with them. His hands twitched across a control board, lighting briefly to adjust this dial then flip that switch, all seemingly at random.

 

I stepped closer to watch the events playing out fuzzily on the monitors. Pictured was a sedan on the lower level of a bridge. Clearly visible on the driver's face were the recognizably bugged-out eyes that gave the fleeing mobster his name.

 

A stream of swallows flew under the vehicle, attacking fuel lines and brake hoses. I pictured what could happen, an exploding car inside that enclosed structure, and was aghast at the thought.

 

"What are you doing?! Dozens of people — innocent people! — could die!"

 

"Yes, around the tire, careful of the tire, yes. Dangerous, tires. People will die, yes, sad but it is unavoidable. Meigs Fullman threatened me, yes he did, threatened my work and my swallows too, mocked my swallow-tail coat he did. He made it clear that one of us must die, and I choose that it not be me. Self defense, they call it. Is that a crime? Is it, I ask you? Against the fuel line, yes, the fuel line you must—"

 

He stopped talking when I cannoned into him, knocking him away from the control board. We hit the floor together. At the impact, every bird in the building took off all at once. Wings and feathers were everywhere, beating at me, and I crouched into the tiniest space I could, hands clasped over the top of my head.

 

Gradually the cacophony quieted, and the last of the birds flew away. I looked at the fallen bird man, laying unmoving on the floor. His hat had come free, and with it a large assembly of electronics that had been plugged straight through the skin of his head. I checked his pulse; he was alive, at least.

 

I turned to the monitors. Most had gone dark, but one showed a plume of fire, a burning car inside the bridge. I'd acted too late, and a man had died — not a good man, but a man nonetheless. I could only hope no innocents were hurt.

 

On my way back to the office, I paused at a payphone to call an ambulance for the swallow man. Never did hear how it turned out, but I still get nervous around flocks of birds.

Copyright 2024 - SFS Publishing LLC

The Swallow's Tail Caper

P.I. Jack Valentine discovers that birds are real

J. Millard Simpson

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