“Well,” Angie insisted.

“My name’s Hacker,” he said, taking another tentative step or two into the bar. “Dennis Hacker, the Bird Man. Remember? You wrote and asked if you could come see my parrots.”

Dennis Hacker had come to Angie’s attention when his name appeared in the Bisbee Bee in conjunction with a homicide case. A dynamite explosion had destroyed a cabin in the Chiricahua Mountains near Pinery Canyon. Hacker, a witness to the exploit, was reported to be a naturalist on an Audubon Society-funded mission to reintroduce parrots into the southeastern Arizona mountains. Living in captivity, the parrots had somehow forgotten a few of the more important survival basics, including the vital ability to break open pinecones. Hacker had of himself in the role of teacher and patiently instructed his pupils in pinecone-opening techniques before setting them free in the wilderness.

Intrigued by this information and excited by her own fledgling interest in birding, Angie had written a note to Hacker, sent in care of the Audubon Society, asking if it would be possible for her to drive up to the Chiricahuas and try to catch glimpse of his birds. The letter had been sent with high hopes, but after weeks and months passed with no answer, she had pretty much forgotten about it.

“Hey, Angie,” Archie offered gallantly. “If this guy is botherin’ you, just let us know. Me and Willy may be old, but the two of us can handle him if you need us to.”

Ignoring him, Angie stared at Dennis Backer. “That was ages ago,” she said. “When I didn’t hear back from you, I thought you didn’t like having visitors or maybe-”

“Sorry about that,” Hacker interrupted. “I was gone for a while. Several months. My grandmother was taken ill. I had to fly back home. Fortunately, they were able to find a biology grad student from the U. of A. in Tucson to take care of my birds while I was gone.”

“I hope she’s all right, then,” Angie returned.

“Grandmum?” Hacker nodded. “She’s out of hospital now, but she’s in her eighties. She isn’t going to last forever.”

Not knowing quite what to say next, Angie fell back into her role as barmaid. “Can I get you something?” she asked. “To drink, I mean?”

“You wouldn’t happen to have any coffee, would you?”

A hoot of laughter from the far end of the bar caused Angie to send a second stifling glare in Archie and Willy’s direction. “Sure,” she said. “But it’s not very fresh. It’s early though, so if you don’t mind waiting, I’ll brew another pot.”

Turning back to him after starting the coffee, Angie was puzzled. “How did you know I worked here?”

Hacker reached into his hip pocket and pulled out a thick leather wallet. From that he extracted a much-folded piece of paper that Angie recognized as her own letter.

“It says so right here,” the Bird Man said. “That you work in a place called the Blue Moon, that you’re interested in birds, and that on one of your days off you’d like to come see my parrots. I’d be happy to show them to you. If you still want to, that is.”

The outside door opened again. A gang of middle-aged motorcycle enthusiasts tramped into the room. These weren’t trendy yuppies out for a lark, hut hard-core, tooth-missing, tattoo-wearing tough guys-women included. For the next few minutes Angie was busy passing out pitchers of beer and margaritas. It wasn’t until after the coffee finished brewing that she was able to return to Dennis Hacker.

“Are parrots the only kind of bird you’re interested in?” he asked, as she set a stout china mug in front of him.

“Oh, no. I like all kinds of birds. Why?”

“Hummingbirds?”

“I love hummingbirds.”

“The problem is, I’m not in the Chiricahuas right now. I’m In the process of setting up camp over in the Peloncillos, farther east. Parrots should be able to make it there, too, eventually. But while I was looking around last week, I found a meadow in Skeleton Canyon, just off Starvation Canyon, where thewhole place is teeming with hummingbirds-Anna’s mostly, but other kinds, too. I thought, if you wanted to, I could pick you up on your next day off and we could hike up there so I could show them to you.”

The mere mention of birds sent Angie Kellogg’s carefully honed wariness flying right out the window. “Anna’s?” she responded, her blue eyes sparkling. “Really?”

Hacker nodded. “Hundreds of them,” he said. “When’s your next day off?”

“Sunday,” Angie answered. “I get off at two Sunday morning and don’t have to be back until Monday at noon.”

“What say I pick you up right about then?” Hacker asked.

“At two?” Angie asked, flustered.

Hacker nodded. “In order to see them at their best, we need to be in place no later than five-thirty or six in the morning. Skeleton Canyon is a good two-hour drive from here, and it’ll take another hour or so to hike up to the meadow.”

Angie hesitated, but only for a moment. “Sure,” she said. “What should I wear?”

“Jeans. Hiking boots. Long-sleeved shirt.”

“Hey, Angie,” Willy Haskins called. “How does a man get some service around here?”

Shaking her head in annoyance, Angie started down the bar. By then some of the bikers’ pitchers were empty. During the next few minutes, as she poured more beer and mixed more margaritas, she began having second thoughts. After all, this guy was a perfect stranger. It sounded as though the place they were going was somewhere out in the boondocks. The sensible thing would be to not go at all or else to not go with Hacker unless someone else went along as a chaperone-like Joanna Brady, for instance. But by the time Angie had a spare minute to tell him so, Dennis Hacker was gone. On the bar under his empty cup, Angie found six bucks-one for the coffee and a five-dollar tip.

Instead of making Angie feel better, the out-of-proportion tip only made things worse. She had spent too many years of her life in a world where money always required something in return.

She picked up the five and examined it for a moment, as if expecting to be able to read something of Dennis Hacker’s motivation in the forbidding look on Abraham Lincoln’s face. Finally, making up her mind, she folded up the crisp, new bill and stuffed it into her shirt pocket. She would call Joanna first thing in the morning, she decided, although Angie Kellogg’s idea of morning was everyone else’s afternoon. If Joanna Brady couldn’t go along on this little adventure, neither would Angie Kellogg.

Stopping on the sidewalk outside the Blue Moon, Dennis Hacker paused long enough to wipe his glasses on his shirttail and to lake a deep breath. He had carried the letter around with him for months, intrigued by the idea that there was a woman somewhere who sounded like she was almost as interested in birds as he was. What he hadn’t anticipated was how beautiful she would be. Blond, blue-eyed, and beauty pageant beautiful. Movie star-type beautiful. And yet she had agreed to go with him on Sunday morning. Incredible. Unbelievable.

“Where’d you get this funny-looking outfit?”

Dennis Hacker turned around to see that the two old men from inside the bar had followed him out onto the sidewalk mid were staring at his four-wheel-drive Hummer. They seemed harmless enough. “The dealer’s up in Scottsdale,” he told them.

One clapped the other on the shoulder. “Like hell,” he said. “I’ll bet you stole it right out from under the MPs’ noses out there at Fort Huachuca.”

Hacker was still too overcome by wonder to be offended. “Think whatever you like,” he said. Then, replacing his glasses, he climbed into the Hummer. Dennis Hacker had come down to replenish his supplies. On several other occasions, hr had arrived intending to stop by the Blue Moon and introduce himself. Each time, he had lost his nerve at the last minute and hadn’t gone inside. This time he had surprised himself.