Fever Dream - Douglas Preston [135]
“Good day, gentlemen,” said Pendergast, in his most honeyed, upper-class New Orleans accent, giving them a slight bow.
Silence. Hayward’s apprehension increased. This seemed like the worst possible way to go about getting information. The hostility was so thick you could cut it with a knife.
“My associate and I are here for a little sightseeing. We are birders.”
“Birders,” said a man. He turned and said it again to the group. “Birders.”
The crowd laughed.
Hayward winced. This was going to be a total loss. She saw movement out of the corner of her eye and glanced over. Another group of people was filing silently out of a barn-like building on creosote pilings adjacent to the docks. A hand-painted sign identified it as TINY’S BAIT ’N’ BAR.
An enormously fat man was the last to exit. His bullet-shaped head was shaved and he wore a tank top stretched to the limit by a huge belly, his arms hanging down like smoked hams, and—thanks to the sun—about the same color. He muscled through the crowd and came striding down the dock, clearly the authority figure of the group, pulling to a halt in front of Pendergast.
“To whom do I have the pleasure?” Pendergast asked.
“Name’s Tiny,” he said, looking Pendergast and Hayward up and down with piss-hole eyes. He didn’t offer his hand.
Tiny, thought Hayward. It figures.
“My name is Pendergast, and this is my associate Hayward. Now, Tiny, as I was saying to these gentlemen here, we wish to go birding. We’re looking for the rare Botolph’s Red-bellied Fisher to round out our life lists. We understand it can be found deep in the swamp.”
“That so?”
“And we were hoping to speak to someone who knows the swamp and might be able to advise us.”
Tiny stepped forward, leaned over, and deposited a stream of tobacco juice at Pendergast’s feet, so close that some of it splattered on Pendergast’s wingtips.
“Oh, dear, I believe you’ve soiled my shoes,” said Pendergast.
Hayward wanted to cringe. Any idiot could see they’d already lost the crowd, that they would get nothing of value from them. And now there might be a confrontation.
“Looks that way,” drawled Tiny.
“Perhaps you, Mr. Tiny, can help us?”
“Nope,” came the response. He leaned over, puckered his thick lips, and deposited another stream of tobacco, this time directly on Pendergast’s shoes.
“I believe you did that on purpose,” Pendergast said, his voice high and cracking in ineffectual protest.
“You believe right.”
“Well,” he said, turning to Hayward, “I get the distinct feeling we’re not wanted here. I think we should take our business elsewhere.” To her utter astonishment, he hurried off down the street toward the Rolls, and she had to jog to catch up. Raucous laughter echoed behind him.
“You’re going to walk off like that?” she asked.
Pendergast paused at the car. Someone had keyed a message in the paint of the hood: FUCK ENVIROS. He got in the car with an enigmatic smile.
Hayward opened the driver’s-side door but didn’t get in. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? We haven’t even begun to get the information we need!”
“On the contrary, they were most eloquent.”
“They vandalized your car, spat on your shoes!”
“Get in,” he said firmly.
She slid in. Pendergast turned and screeched off in a cloud of dust, and they started out of town.
“That’s it? We’re running?”
“My dear Captain, have you ever known me to run?”
She shut up. Soon the Rolls slowed and, to her surprise, swung into the driveway of the church they had passed earlier. Pendergast parked in front of the house beside the church and stepped out. Wiping his shoe on the grass, he glided onto the porch and rang the bell. A man soon opened the door. He was tall and rail-thin, with heavy features, a white beard, and no mustache. He reminded Hayward a bit of Abraham Lincoln.
“Pastor Gregg?” said Pendergast, seizing his hand. “I’m Al Pendergast, pastor of the Hemhoibshun Parish Southern Baptist Church. Delighted to make your acquaintance!” He shook the bewildered minister’s hand with great enthusiasm.