The cottonwood trees alongside the swank hotel swayed in the light breeze, their leaves catching the sunlight on their shiny surfaces giving the appearance of a shimmering silver-green apparition. The Chollo River, not far distant, moved lazily through the canyons of the high mesas on its way to its rendezvous with the mighty Colorado. The westering sun slipped behind the rim of the mountains to the west, and on its heels the full moon rose from its slumber beneath the earth’s covers to the east. The night sky was electric, the air of palpable anticipation.

A shadowy figure stood in a darkened room and looked out through the slats of the blinds of the window. His eyes watched the road coming from the north for a black sedan. His accomplice was late, and Thomas Sapp Sucker was highly impatient – he had little regard for anyone being late for anything. James Wood Pecker would hear about this, you could be sure. Then again, J.P. Cock would be with him, and there was no faulting J.P. – he was the boss, and you don’t cross the boss.

Sly Booby feathered his wings as he dropped out of a cloudless sky, settling on the edge of a mesa overlooking a segment of the Colorado River east of Lake Mead. “We’re getting closer,” he said softly to the others, “but it’s getting dark and we’ll need to rest here overnight.” “I don’t like this, being so far from the lake,” said Pellie Kahn, slight irritation in her voice.

“I’m telling you, this plan isn’t going to work!”

Sly closed his eyes slightly and answered, “The lake is just beyond that mesa, love – we’ll be back before you know it – try to relax.”

Pellie shrugged her shoulders and sniffed, “You should talk, Sly. You’re not the picture of calm, either, so don’t talk to me about relaxing!”

Plymouth Rock, Rocky to his friends, shook his head, and clucked his tongue. “Look, this is a tough assignment, so hang with it, you two.” Rocky turned to the others and asked, “So, where’s Perry Grinn? Wasn’t he supposed to meet us by now?”

“Yeah,” said Pellie, “but you know how Falcon is with time – he’ll be lucky if he gets here by sundown.” Pellie smiled self-righteously to herself.

“Yo, Ms. ‘I’m there always on time’ – when were you made keeper of the timepiece?” mocked Sly with mock indignation. “Last I remember, you weren’t so prompt when we left the lake last night.”

“Yeah, well who said we had to leave the lake?” she shot back, not taking kindly to his well-timed rebuttal. “We could be waiting at the river’s inlet at the eastern end of the lake, and we’d save ourselves all this hassle,” she harrumphed.

“No, I don’t think so,” muttered Sly half to himself.

“Psst,” hissed Thomas Sapp Sucker in the darkened parking lot.

Out of the darkness across the way he heard a “Pssst,” in return. “Salem,” Sapp whispered aloud. “Oregon,” came a reply. “No, dammit,” Sapp whined. “Now, get it right!” A pause. “Salem,” he hissed again.

“Oh, yeah! Massachusetts,” whispered a disembodied voice somewhere in the darkness. “But, you know, Oregon is easier to say – Massachusetts has too many letters!” whispered the voice…

“Dammit,” hissed Sapp, cutting the distant voice off in mid-sentence. “Stop talking so much! We’re supposed to be doing this in secret!” he groaned, rolling his eyes. “Come over here!” he whispered.

“Over where?” came a reply. “And do you want both of us?” asked the voice in the darkness.

“Oh, am I going to wring your neck,” Sapp threatened. “Of course, both of you!” hissed Sapp in exasperation.

Out of the darkness came James Wood Pecker and J.P. Cock, the latter the leader of the infamous Pecker Gang, who left a trail of birds horribly pecked to death in the Chicago area in the early 90s. Like the legendary Hells Eagles motorcycle gang, the Pecker Gang had a strict code and pecking order within its rank and flies. But even the lowliest of Peckers was a threat to the safety of law-abiding birds, and none could be taken for granite, the latter a reference to the tombstones on graves of stool pigeons.

“Why you bein’ like that?” snapped an angry J.P. Cock, a half-smoked cigar held cockily in his beak. “We’ve been travelin’ all day, and comin’ to this God-forsaken hole in the ground ain’t no picnic, see?” he continued.

“I’m sorry, boss,” said Sapp, “It’s just that I’ve been here since noon, and it’s one hot sonovafinch, if you know what I mean.”

“I don’t know whatcha mean, but you keep a civil tongue in your beak, or I’ll cut it out, see?” and J.P. Cock smiled in that way that sent a shudder down Sapp’s back.

“Hey, you been here since noon, huh?” asked Woody curiously.

“Where’s the happenin’ place?” “There ain’t no happenin’ place, stoolie,” Sapp threw back at him.

“Hey, why you callin’ me stoolie?” whined Woody, his feelings hurt. “I didn’t squeal to them cops about nuthin’!”

“Yeah, says you!” snapped Sapp angrily, “Why’d they roust me outta my nest, then, if you didn’t squeal on me?”

“Now cut that shit, you two!” squawked J.P. Cock, irritation underscoring his warning.

Sapp went silent, for he knew that irritation would explode into a flock of trouble for him if he continued. “You got it, boss,” he said weakly.

Pellie slipped past the sleeping forms of the others, and walked softly out to the edge of the mesa and sat on a weathered log looking out over the canyon. She could hear the sound of the river below – its rushing current bound for Lake Mead to the west – soothing, amidst the stars above and the new crescent moon off the eastern horizon.

“A dime for your thoughts,” came a voice from behind her.

“Oh, hi – come sit beside me,” she cooed.

“Couldn’t sleep?” asked Sly.

“Naw, it’s not that,” she said wistfully, “I just love the night – there are so many stars up there, it takes your breath away” – her voice a whisper, as though a loud word would shatter the tranquility of the land and the night. “Do you hear that?” she queried.

A pause – silence. “What?” he asked.

“The silence,” she murmured.

“Yeah – I hear it,” he said quietly, drifting into a place he’d not visited since he was in grad school dating one Goldie Finch.

“So, what about you?” queried Pellie.

“Nah, it’s nothing – just enjoying the night air, pleasant company, and the mysteries of the night sky.”

“Whoa – I didn’t know you had such a sensitive side, Sly,” said Pellie, very impressed.

“Yeah, well, you know – a guy of the 90s, so what can I tell you.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Tell me,” said Sly, “how did a sweet bird like you get to a place like this?” he asked.

“You know, the usual,” Pellie answered – “went to UCLA, earned a Ph.D. in oceanography, got a job with Gull Cousteau on this research vessel out of San Diego, and decided one day I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life out at sea – in more ways than one.”

“I’m impressed, ‘Doc’ Kahn,” said Sly impressed. “You didn’t answer my question, though – how did you end up working for Treasury?”

Pellie leaned over and hugged her knees, and let out a long deep sigh. “My dad was killed in a shipping accident,” said Pellie.

“Hey, I’m sorry,” returned Sly apologetically. “Look, Pellie – if you don’t want to talk about this, it’s okay,” he said quietly.

Pellie sat quietly for awhile. “That’s okay,” and she was quiet again. “When the Exxon Valdez went aground and all that black shit hit the waters of Prince William Sound, he got caught in the film slick – that’s a shitty way to go, Sly. It got into his lungs, and he couldn’t breathe. The oils messed with his natural oils, and his natural ability to swim was compromised, and he went under. I was an intern with Treasury at the time, and decided I’d just stay.”

The two sat in silence – the silence of the night their blanket until dawn.

“Sapp,” said J.P. Cock, “you tell me what’s goin’ on – all of it!”

Sapp leaned against the little bar in the corner of the room, and started a tale of intrigue: “There’s this bird-brained joker from Boston – I think he’s a Raven or a Crow goin’ by the name of Boston Blackie. And this guy’s a PI.” Sapp paused, ruing the fact he’d not prepared his thoughts, and now had to think on the fly. “Well,” he said aloud, “this Boston Blackie guy, he’s pretty smart, see – and he’s in tight with the local cops. Well, he gets wind of our gang, and he thinks he’s goin’ to put a few Peckers away for good, so he comes to Chicago and helps out the local PD in solvin’ a bunch of capers, and a lot’ov our guys end up goin’ up the river.”

J.P. Cock’s eyes closed slightly, a frown wrinkling his eyebrow feathers. “Keep goin’,” he said.

“The cops were all over us, like a feather comforter,” Sapp continued. “And this Boston Blackie was, I mean, all over the place. I put a contract out on this bird, but the dodos I sent to take him out ended up extinct, kaput, if you know what I mean. They got sent up the river to the state sanctuary in Joliet.” Sapp sighed, fear beginning to tinge his voice.

“I don’t wanna hear no excuses!” roared J.P. Cock. “You handle this, or youse is gonna end up on a spit, understand?” he added.

“Hey, you got it, boss,” said Sapp lamely. “Come on, Woody, we got work to do.”

Pellie and Sly woke Rocky as the sun crested the eastern horizon. “Come on, slacker,” teased Sly as Rocky stumbled to the catch basin near the rim to wash his face. “You’re late, buddy,” he shouted after Rocky.

“We should already be on the wing for the North Rim. Now we’re going to be late, and Perry Grinn will have the last laugh on us!”

“Yeah, yeah!” mumbled Rocky back. “Guess we’re up too late to catch the worm,” he smiled.

“Funny, joker,” Sly threw back at him; “fuun-ny!”

After breakfast the two made pretty good time with the aid of the jet stream along the Rocky Mountain flyway. The weather was clear, but Sly could see heavy storm clouds to the east.

As they approached the greater Kaibab plateau, Pellie saw a circling of vultures near the North Rim, and wondered if their landing might be delayed due to weather over the airport.

Rocky, following along below in his Jeep Eagle, radioed Pellie that the airport was socked in, and all birds were in holding patterns until the weather cleared. “Maybe you can land at this private strip just north of the Canyon,” he added, “It’s still clear.”

Sly could see the lights of the private strip through the gathering clouds, and radioed Pellie to head for the tiny field. Shortly the two landed without any difficulties, and were met by Rocky in the parking lot.

“Damn, you must fly that thing!” whistled Pellie, as she strode up to Rocky’s flashy red Jeep.

“Nah, I keep it under 160, easy,” he replied with a wink. “Listen up – we’re late. We need to contact Perry Grinn at the North Rim airport,” said Sly, urgency in his voice. “Okay, everyone – hop in. The airport is just twelve miles down that road, and I can get us there in just under 4 minutes!” said Rocky with a smile.

Pellie jumped in the passenger seat, and Sly climbed into the back seat. “Hold onto your hats, everyone!” said Rocky as he gunned the motor, tires screaming, leaving two dark streaks on the parking lot of the little airport.

J.P. Cock glared at the two men. “Youse fouled it up, you two!” The two stared down at their feet. “Okay, you get this Boston Blackie and bring him to me, see – and then we talk the talk with this jerk, and he either gives up his vendetta or we end his vendetta, see,” he whispered through his beak.

Woody and Sapp left the room, and went downstairs to the bar, where they ordered vodkas on the rocks.

“Having a good time, boys?” asked a smooth voice from behind them. Woody spun around, and came up looking straight into the steel-grey eyes of Perry Grinn Falcon.

Sapp spilled his drink, and nervously dabbed at his breast-front with a napkin from the bar.

“Youse is a long way from Chicago, Falcon,” sneered Woody through his beak, as Sapp slipped behind him nervously biting his tongue.

“Nah, it’s just a short hop by commercial flight,” replied Falcon with a slight chuckle. “But, you two – now that’s another thing,” Falcon continued.

Sapp began to whine behind Woody. “I hear that J.P. Cock isn’t doing so good in the Windy City,” said Falcon with a wide grin. “And, by the way, I’ve got a personal package for him – you tell him that I have a warrant for his arrest, and I’d like to deliver it in person,” concluded Falcon, his eyes steady and holding those of the two nervous birds.

Just then, up stepped a large dark figure, and Woody’s eyes widened as Boston Blackie peered over the shoulder of Perry Grinn.

“Well, hello Woody,” said Blackie wryly. “How’s the family?” Woody’s eyes narrowed, as he stepped back slightly. “Oh, yeah – the warrant’s for income tax evasion, Woody,” said Blackie. “You be sure and tell J.P. that!” he said, a wide grin spreading across his beak.

“You T-Birds ain’t got a thing on J.P. Cock,” stammered Woody uneasily, perspiration beginning to flow down his neck.

“Woody – now you listen,” said Falcon in a friendly tone, “You’re going to take us to J.P. and we’re going to take care of business, and then we’ll all take a nice trip back to Chicago, all right?”

Woody began to mumble to himself as they exited the coffee shop and approached the elevators to the upper floors. Sapp began to whimper.

By mid-day, the T-Birds from the western regional offices of the Treasury Department had taken J.P. Cock and his two hench-hens, Thomas Sapp Sucker and James Wood Pecker, into custody, and transported them back to Chicago for trial on 39 counts of income tax evasion.