Eye and Talon by K. W. Jeter

something more exotic, like a winter-plumage snow owl? Doesn't matter.' He turned and shouted over his shoulder to one of the other staff 'Francesco — c'mere a minute.'
    The other man approached, wiping his hands on an oil-stained rag. 'Nice shirt,' he said, indicating Iris's chest. Like the rest of the staff, he was wearing a modified Stetson knock-off and shiny neoprene bondage lederhosen that exposed his yellowish and scabby knees. 'I collect Autreys myself. Lariat motif, mainly.'
    'Lady wants an owl,' said the first counter guy. 'What's the line on that?'
    Francesco nodded slowly. 'Yeah ... we can do an owl.' His face was longer and sadder than the other staff's. 'It'd have to be a special order, though. We don't keep that kind of body frame in stock.' He pointed his thumb back toward the stall's interior. 'We do mainly the smaller columbidae and psittacidae — you know, pigeons and parrots. That's what people can afford around here. And maybe a couple of the bigger accipitridae — hawks — three or four times a year. For the collector's market. But we can swap around a lot of the basic structural elements on those. An owl, though ...' He shrugged. 'Different configuration; kinda stacked up vertical, you know what I mean?'
    'Right,' said Iris. 'But that's not what I'm talking about. I mean a real owl.'
    Both men stared at her in silence for a few seconds.
    'Lady . . .' The lead counter guy spoke up, shaking his head in disgust. 'If you walked into a Seven-Eleven and asked for a diamond necklace, you might get a diamond necklace — but it wouldn't be a real one.' He turned and waved his hand at the stall's stock. 'See these? See how they go chirp chirp, flap their wings and stuff? They're fakes. That's what we do .' He turned back to Iris. 'Did you think they were real?' He glanced over at his longer-faced colleague. 'Lady thinks we deal in real birds.'
    'I understand,' said Iris slowly, emphasizing each syllable, 'that you have, in fact, done so. On occasion. Dealt in real birds. True?'
    'Who told you that? One of those putzes out on the street? Tell me which one, point him out, and I'll kick his ass.' The counter guy crossed his arms and scowled. 'Real animals are restricted. Even birds. You can get into a lot of trouble dealing in 'em without a license.' One of his thin eyebrows raised. ' You got a license?'
    'I don't need one.' Her eyes had adjusted further to the gloom inside the stall; she could make out a few more birds tucked away into the corners and on top of a pile of packing crates. 'So nobody's come around lately, offering you a deal on a hot owl?'
    'Yeah, right. Who'd have one? Tell me that.'
    'You hear of any other dealer in the souk who's got one?' The counter guy turned surlier. 'How would I know?'
    Iris decided to take another tack. She reached into her jacket and pulled out the hard-copy photo she'd had the surresper print. 'Ever see this person?'
    The counter guy's gaze flicked down for only a second, to the photo of the cop named Deckard, then back up to Iris's face. 'You a cop?'
    'What makes you think that?'
    'Lady . . . that's what cops do . Pull out a picture and ask you if you've ever seen him. Jeez.'
    Iris left the photo sitting on the counter, so she could pull something else from inside her jacket.
    Both men nodded when they saw the gun in her hand. 'You're a cop, all right,' said the lead counter guy.
    She let the gun rest flat on its side, on her palm. She touched the cold black metal with the tip of her other forefinger. 'We could go downtown,' she said, 'to that nice, shiny new station where all the other cops hang out, and talk about this some more. And on the way, I could take you and this into an alley and beat the crap out of you. Or we can talk now. Your choice.'
    The counter guy picked up the photo and gazed at it. Iris replaced her gun in its shoulder holster and waited.
    'Hey, this is weird. You know what?' The counter guy lowered the photo and smiled at Iris. 'I do remember