Fever Dream - Douglas Preston [133]
“Yo Mike!” someone yelled, and there was some drunken clapping and whistling. Ventura took no notice. He was a well-known personage, former county sheriff, a man of means but never uppity. On the other hand, he’d always made a point not to mix too much with the crackers and rednecks, kept up a certain formality. They respected that.
He hooked his thumbs into his belt and gave a slow look around the place. Everyone was waiting. It wasn’t every day that Mike Ventura spoke to the people. Amazing how the place had quieted down. It gave him a certain satisfaction, a feeling that he had reached a point in his life of respect and accomplishment.
“We got a problem,” he said. He let that sink in for a few seconds, then went on. “A problem in the shape of two people. Environmentalists. They’re coming down here undercover to take a gander at this end of Black Brake. Looking to expand that wilderness area over the rest of Black Brake and the Lake End.”
He glared around at the crowd. There were murmurs, hisses, inarticulate shouts of disapproval. “The Lake End?” someone shouted, “the hell with that!”
“That’s right. No more bass fishing. No more hunting. Nothing. Just a wilderness area so those Wilderness Society sons of bitches can come down here with their kayaks looking at the birds.” He spat the words out.
A loud chorus of boos and catcalls, and Ventura held up his hand for silence. “First they took the logging. Then they took half the Brake. Now they’re talking about taking the rest, along with the lake. There won’t be nothing left. You remember last time, when we did things their way? We went to the hearings, we protested, we wrote letters? Remember all that? What happened?”
Another clamor of disapproval.
“That’s right. They bent us over and you know what!”
A roar. People were up off their stools. Ventura held up his hands again. “Now, listen up. They’re gonna be here tomorrow. Not sure when, but probably early. A tall, skinny fellow in a black suit—and a woman. They’re going into the swamp on a reconnaissance.”
“Reconnay-sance?” somebody echoed.
“A look-see. Real scientific-like. Just the two of them. But they’re coming undercover—those cowardly sons of bitches know they don’t dare show their real faces around here.”
This time there was an ugly silence.
“That’s right. I don’t know about you folks, but I’m done writing letters. I’m done going to hearings. I’m done listening to those Yankee peckerwoods tell me what to do with my own fish and timber and land.”
A sudden, fresh crescendo of shouts. They could see where he was going. Ventura dipped into his back pocket, pulled out a wad of money, and shook it. “I don’t never expect nobody to work for free.” He slapped the wad on a greasy table. “Here’s a down payment, and there’ll be more where that came from. Y’all know the saying: what sinks in the swamp never rises. I want y’all to solve this problem. Do it for yourselves. Because if you don’t, nobody else will, and you might as well kiss what’s left of Malfourche good-bye, sell your guns, give your houses away, pack your Chevys, and move in with the faggots in Boston and San Francisco. Is that what you want?”
A roar of disapproval, more people lurching to their feet. A table crashed to the floor.
“You be ready for those environmentalists, hear? You take care of them. Take care of them good. What sinks in the swamp never rises.” He glared around, then held up a hand, bowing his head. “Thank you, my friends, and good night.”
The place erupted in a fury, just as Ventura knew it would. He ignored it, striding to the door, banging through it, and walking out into the humid night onto the dock. He could hear the pandemonium inside, the angry voices, the cursing, the sound of the music coming back up. He knew that, by the time those two arrived, at least some of the boys would have sobered up enough to do what needed doing. Tiny would see to it.
He flipped open his cell phone and dialed. “Judson? I just solved our