At this, the advancing front faltered, slowed.
" To the Ville!"
In a surprise move, Esteban turned and embraced Plock, then turned to face the crowd again, holding up his hands. " No!My friends, your bravery touches me deeply — deeply! But I beg you: do not proceed!" He suddenly dropped his voice, speaking privately to Plock. "Rich, I need your help. This is premature — you know it is."
Plock looked at Esteban, frowning. Seeing this apparent disagreement between the leaders, the front line of marchers began to falter.
"Thank you for your big hearts!" Esteban cried out again to the crowd. "Thank you! But please — listen to me. There is a time and place for everything. Rich and I agree: now is notthe time and place to confront the Ville! Do you understand? We've made our point, we've demonstrated our resolve. We've shown the public face of our just anger! We've shamed the bureaucrats and put the politicians on notice! We've done what we came to do! But no violence. Please, no violence!"
Plock remained silent, his face darkening.
"We came to stop the killings, not to talk!" shouted a voice.
"And we aregoing to stop these killings!" Esteban said. "I ask you, what will confrontation accomplish? Don't kid yourselves, those people will meet us with violent resistance. They might be armed. Are you prepared? There are so few of us! My friends, the time is soon coming when these animal torturers will be evicted, these murderers of lambs and calves — not to mention journalists — will be scattered to the four winds! But not now — not yet!"
He paused. The sudden, listening silence was remarkable.
"My fellow creatures," Esteban continued, "you have demonstrated the courage of your convictions. Now we will turn around and march back to our gathering point. There we will talk, we will make speeches, and we will show the entire city what is happening here! We will bring justice — even to those who show none themselves!"
The crowd seemed to be waiting for Plock to affirm Esteban. At long last, Plock raised his hands in a slow, almost unwilling gesture. "Our point is made!" he said. "Let us go back — for now!"
The press crowded forward, the evening news cameras running, boomed mikes swinging about, but Esteban waved them off. D'Agosta watched amazed as — at Esteban's urging — the mob reversed direction, flowing back up the road, slowly subsiding into the same peaceable group as before, some even picking up signs that had been discarded along the way during their blitzkrieg toward the Ville. The transformation was shocking, almost awe inspiring. D'Agosta looked on with astonishment. Esteban had fired up the crowd and put it in motion — and then, at the last possible moment, he had thrown cold water on it.
"What's with this guy, Esteban?" he asked. "You think he chickened out at the last minute, got cold feet?"
"No," murmured Pendergast, his eyes fixed on Esteban's retreating back. "It is very curious," he said, almost to himself, "that our friend eats meat. Lamb, in point of fact."
Chapter 46
When D'Agosta showed up at Marty Wartek's office, the nervous little bureaucrat took one look at his angry demeanor and rolled out the red carpet: took his coat, escorted him to the sofa, fetched him a cup of tepid coffee.
Then he retreated behind his desk. "What can I do for you, Lieutenant?" he asked in his high, thin voice. "Are you comfortable?"
Actually, D'Agosta wasn't especially comfortable. He'd felt increasingly lousy since breakfast — flushed, achy — and wondered if he wasn't coming down with the flu or something. He tried not to think about how poorly Bertin was supposedly doing, or how the animal control officer, Pulchinski, had left work early the day before, complaining of chills and weakness. Their complaints weren't related to Charrière and his magic tricks… they couldn't be. But he wasn't here to talk about comfort.
"You know what happened at the march yesterday afternoon, right?"
"I read the papers."
In fact, D'Agosta spied copies of the News, Post,and West Sideron the deputy associate director's desk, poorly concealed beneath folders of official — looking paperwork. Clearly, the man had kept up on what was happening at the Ville.
"I was there. We came thisclose to a riot. And we're not talking a bunch of left — wing agitators, Mr. Wartek. These are regular law — abiding citizens."
"I had a call from the mayor's office," Wartek said, his voice even higher. "He, too, expressed his concern — in no uncertain terms — about the inflammatory situation in Inwood Hill Park."
D'Agosta felt slightly mollified. It seemed Wartek was finally getting with the program — or at least getting the message. The man's mouth was pursed more tightly than ever, and his razor — burned wattles quivered faintly. He looked exactly like someone who'd just been administered a Grade A reaming — out. "Well? What are you going to do about it?"
The administrator gave a small, bird — like nod and removed a piece of paper from his desk. "We've consulted with our lawyers, looked into past precedents, and discussed this issue at the highest levels of the housing authority. And we've determined that the right of adverse possession does not apply in this case, where the greater public good might be compromised. Our position is, ah, bolstered by the fact that the city is on record as having objected to this occupation of public land as far back as a hundred forty years ago."
D'Agosta relaxed deeper into the sofa. It seemed the call from the mayor had finally lit a fire. "I'm glad to hear it."
"There are no clear records as to exactly when that occupation began. As best we can tell, it was shortly before the outbreak of the Civil War. That would put the city's initial objection well within the legal window."
"No problems, then? They're going to be evicted?" The man's legal circumlocutions had a slippery feel to them.
"Absolutely. And I haven't even mentioned to you our legal fall — back position: even if they had gained some sort of rights to the property, we could still acquire it by eminent domain. The commonweal must take priority over individual needs."
"The what?"
"Commonweal. The common good of the community."
"So what's the timetable?"
"Timetable?"
"Yeah. When are they out?" Wartek shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "We've agreed to put the matter before our lawyers to draw up the legal case for eviction, on an expedited schedule."
"Which is?"
"With the legal preparation and research, then a trial, followed by an appeal — I can only assume these people will appeal — I would think we could have this case concluded within, perhaps, three years' time."
There was a long silence in the room. "Three years?"
"Maybe two if we fast — track it." Wartek smiled nervously.
D'Agosta rose. It was unbelievable. A joke. "Mr. Wartek, we don't have three weeks."
The little man shrugged. "Due process is due process. As I told the mayor, keeping the public order is the function of the police, not the housing authority. Taking away someone's home in New York City is a difficult and expensive legal process. As it should be."
D'Agosta could feel the anger throbbing in his temples, his muscles tensing. He made an effort to control his breathing. He was going to say You haven't heard the end of this,then decided against it — no point in making threats. Instead, he simply turned and walked out.