"I'm afraid it's not obvious at all," said Pendergast.
"What do you mean?"
"I'm puzzled why they didn't come for you first."
Esteban gave him a hostile stare. "How so?"
"You've been the instigator from the beginning. If it were me, I'd have killed you right away."
"Are you trying to be a wise guy?"
"By no means. Just pointing out the obvious."
"Then allow me to point out the obvious — that you've got a bunch of murderous squatters up there in Inwood, and that neither the city nor the cops are doing anything about it. Well, they're going to be sorry they came after me.Come this afternoon, we're going to raise such a stink that you'll have no choice but to take action." He rose.
"You'll need to read and sign the statement," said D'Agosta.
With an irritated exhalation of breath, Esteban waited while the statement was being printed, read through it fast, scribbled a signature. He stepped to the door, then turned and pointed a finger at them. It was trembling with outrage and anger. "Today, everything changes. I'm sick and tired of this inaction, and so are a lot of other New Yorkers."
Pendergast smiled, touching a finger to his forehead. "Neosporin, once a day. Works wonders."
Chapter 45
D'Agosta and Pendergaststood on the corner of 214th Street and Seaman Avenue, watching the progress of the march. D'Agosta was surprised at the minuscule turnout — he estimated a hundred people, maybe less. Harry Chislett, the deputy chief for this district, had shown up and then, when he saw the size of the crowd, had left. It was proving an orderly affair, sedate, placid, almost somnolent. No angry shouting, no pressing against the police barricades, no rocks or bottles flying out of nowhere.
"Looks like an ad for the L.L. Bean catalog," said D'Agosta, squinting through the sunlight of the crisp fall day.
Pendergast was leaning against a lamppost, arms folded. "L.L. Bean? I'm not familiar with that brand."
The marchers flowed around the corner at West 214th Street, heading toward Inwood Hill Park, waving placards and chanting in unison. Leading the fray was Alexander Esteban, bandage still on his forehead, along with another man.
"Who's the guy holding hands with Esteban?" D'Agosta asked.
"Richard Plock," Pendergast replied. "Executive director of Humans for Other Animals."
D'Agosta looked curiously at the man. Plock was young, no more than thirty, soft, white, and overweight. He walked with determination, his short legs earnestly pumping, toes pointed outward, his plump arms swinging, the hands flapping at the apex of each swing, his face set with determination. Even in a short — sleeved shirt in the chill fall air, he was sweating. Where Esteban had charisma, Plock seemed to have none. And yet there was an aura about him of solemn belief that impressed D'Agosta: here was clearly a man with an unshakable faith in the rightness of his cause.
Behind the two leaders came a line of people holding up a huge banner:
Evict the Ville!
Everyone seemed to have his own agenda. There were many signs accusing the Ville of murdering Smithback and Kidd. Beyond that, the protesters were all over the map: vegetarians, the anti — fur and anti — drug — testing crowd, religious extremists protesting voodoo and zombiis, even a scattering of anti — war protesters, meat is murder, read one sign; friend not food, fur is dead, animal torture is not spiritual. Some held up blown — up photographs of Smithback and Kidd, side by side, with the caption murdered underneath.
D'Agosta looked away from the blurry photographs. It was getting on toward one pm. His stomach growled. "Not much happening here."
Pendergast did not reply, his silvery eyes scanning the crowd.
"Lunch?"
"I suggest we wait."
"Nothing's going to happen — these people don't want to wrinkle their button — down pinpoint oxfords."
Pendergast gazed at the passing crowd. "I would prefer to remain here at least until the speechifying is over."
Pendergast never seems to eat,thought D'Agosta. In fact, he couldn't remember a single time when they had shared a meal outside of the Riverside Drive mansion. Why did he even bother to ask?
"Let's follow the crowd to Indian Road," said Pendergast.
This isn't a crowd,D'Agosta thought. It's a damn Sunday gathering.He followed Pendergast down the sidewalk, feeling disgruntled. The "crowd" was beginning to gather in the field at the edge of the baseball diamonds, along the road to the Ville. So far, all according to permit. The police hung back, watching, the riot gear, pepper spray, and batons already stowed back inside the vans. Of the two dozen squad cars originally dispatched, more than half had already left the scene to return to their normal patrols.
As the group milled about, chanting and waving their placards, Plock climbed onto the baseball bleachers. Esteban stepped up and positioned himself behind him, hands folded respectfully across his chest, listening.
"Friends and other animals!" Plock cried. "Welcome!" He used no megaphone, but his strident, high — pitched voice carried all too well.
A hush fell on the crowd, the ragged chanting dying away. This crowd of yuppies and Upper West Siders, D'Agosta thought, was no more likely to riot than the ladies at a Colonial Dames tea. What he really needed right now was a cup of coffee and a bacon cheese — burger.
"My name is Rich Plock, executive director of the organization Humans for Other Animals. It is my honor and privilege to present to you our organization's chief spokesman. Please give a warm welcome to Alexander Esteban!"
This seemed to rouse the crowd somewhat, and as Esteban stepped to the top of the bleachers the clapping and chanting intensified. Esteban smiled, looking this way and that over the small crowd, letting the noise continue for a minute or two. At last, he put out his hands for quiet.
"My friends," he said, his deep rich voice the polar opposite of Plock's, "instead of giving a speech, I want to try something different. Call it a cognitive exercise, if you will."
There was a shuffling of the crowd, a ripple of feeling that they were here to protest, not listen to a lecture.
D'Agosta smirked. " Cognitive exercise.Look out, here comes the riot."
"I want all of you, every one of you, to close your eyes. Take yourself out of your human body for a moment."
A silence.
"And put yourself into the body of a little lamb."
More shuffling.
"You were born in the spring on a farm in upstate New York — green fields, sun, fresh grass. For the first weeks of life, you're with your mother, you're free, you're snuggled in the protective embrace of your flock. Every day you gambol about the fields, following your mother and siblings, and every night you're led back to the safe enclosure of the barn. You're happy, because you are living the life God meant you to live. That is the very definition of happiness. There is no fear. No terror. No pain. You don't even know that such things exist."
"Then one day a diesel truck arrives — huge, noisy, foreign. You are roughly separated from your mother. It is a terrifying, almost inconceivable, experience. You're driven with prods into the back of the truck. The door slams. Inside, it stinks of dung and fear. It is dark. The truck lurches off with a roar. Can you try — try with me now — to imagine the terror that helpless, tiny animal feels?"
Esteban paused, looking around. The crowd had gone silent.