Cemetery Dance

threatening phone calls or e — mails to you or him, anything like that?'

'I got something in the mail once, some charm or other. I threw it away. I don't know if it came from the Ville or not — although the package was postmarked from Upper Manhattan. Those people keep to themselves. A very,very strange group. Clannish and insular, to put it mildly. Been there forever, too, on that bit of ground.'

D'Agosta scuffed his foot on the cobbles, thinking of what else to ask. The man wasn't telling them much they didn't already know.

Pendergast suddenly spoke again. 'A lovely estate you have here, Mr. Esteban. Do you keep horses?'

'Absolutely not. I don't condone animal slavery.'

'Dogs?'

'Animals are meant to live in the wild, not be demeaned in the service of man.'

'Are you a vegetarian, Mr. Esteban?'

'Naturally.'

'Are you married? Children?'

'Divorced, no children. Now, look—'

'Why are you a vegetarian?'

'Killing animals for the gratification of our appetites is unethical. Not to mention bad for the planet, wasteful of energy, and morally atrocious while millions are starving. Like that disgusting car of yours — sorry, I don't mean to offend you, but there's no excuse for driving a car like that.' Esteban's lips pursed in disapproval, and for a moment his face reminded D'Agosta of one of the nuns who used to smack his hand with a ruler for talking in class. He wondered how Pendergast was going to take this, but the agent's face remained smoothly untroubled.

'There are quite a number of people in New York City who practice religions in which animals may be sacrificed,' the agent said. 'Why focus on the Ville?'

'It's the most egregious and longest — lived example. We have to start somewhere.'

'How many people belong to your organization?'

Esteban seemed embarrassed. 'Well, Rich is the man to give you the definitive number. I think we have a few hundred.'

'You've read the recent stories in the West Sider, Mr. Esteban?'

'I have.'

'What do you think?'

'I think that reporter is on to something. Like I said, those people are crazy. Voodoo, Obeah… I understand they're not even there legally, that they're squatters of some kind. The city should evict them.'

'Where would they go?'

Esteban gave a short laugh. 'They can go to hell for all I care.'

'So you think it's okay to torture humans in hell, but not animals on earth?'

The laugh died in Esteban's throat. He looked carefully at the agent. 'That's just an expression, Mister —'

'Pendergast.'

'Mr. Pendergast. Are we through here?'

'I don't think so.'

D'Agosta was surprised to hear the sudden edge in Pendergast's voice.

'Well, I am.'

'Do you believe in Vodou, Mr. Esteban?'

'Are you asking if I believe people practice voodoo, or do I believe that it actually works?'

'Both.'

'I believe those zealots up in the Ville practice voodoo. Do I think they're bringing people back from the dead? Who knows? I don't care. I just want them gone.'

'Who finances your organization?'

'It's not my organization. I'm just a member. We get a lot of small donations, but if the truth be told, I'm the major source of support.'

'Is it a 501(c)(3) tax — exempt organization?'

'Yes.'

'Where do you get your money?'

'I did well in the movie business — but frankly, I don't see how that's any of your business.' Esteban eased the ax off his shoulder. 'Your questions seem rambling and pointless, Mr. Pendergast, and I'm getting tired of answering them. So would you please climb back into your carbon monster and remove yourself from my property?'

'I would be delighted.' Pendergast half bowed and, with a faint smile on his face, climbed back into the Rolls, D'Agosta following.

* * *

As they were heading back into the city, D'Agosta shifted in his seat and scowled. 'What a self — righteous prig. I'll bet he sinks his teeth into a bloody steak when no one's around.'

Pendergast had been gazing out the window, absorbed in some private rumination. At this he turned. 'Why, Vincent, I do believe that is one of the most insightful comments I've heard you make today.' He pulled a thin Styrofoam tray from his suit pocket, removed the cover, and handed it to D'Agosta. Inside was a bloody absorbent pad, folded twice, along with a label affixed to a torn piece of plastic wrap. It smelled of rancid meat.

D'Agosta recoiled and handed it back quickly. 'What the hell's that?'

'I found it in the trash in the barn. According to this label, it once contained a crown roast of lamb, at twelve ninety — nine the pound.'

'No shit.'

'Excellent price for that cut. I was tempted to ask Mr. Esteban who his butcher was.' And Pendergast covered the tray, placed it on the leather seat between them, leaned back, and resumed his perusal of the passing scenery.

Chapter 32

Nora Kelly turned the corner of Fifth Avenue and headed down West 53rd Street with a feeling of dread. Ahead of her, brown and yellow leaves swirled past the entrance to the Museum of Modern Art. It was dusk, and in the sharpness of the air there was a portent of the coming winter. She had taken a circuitous route from the museum — first a crosstown bus through the park, then the subway — perversely hoping for a breakdown, a traffic jam, anything that would give her an excuse to avoid what lay ahead. But public transportation had been depressingly efficient.

And now here she was, mere steps from her destination.

Of their own accord, her feet slowed, then stopped. Reaching into her bag, she pulled out the cream — colored envelope, hand — addressed to WILLIAM SMITHBACK, JR., AND GUEST. Plucking out the card inside, she read it for perhaps the hundredth time.

You are cordially invited to the

One Hundred and Twenty Seventh Annual

Press Awards Ceremony

Gotham Press Club

25 West 53rd Street, New York City

October 15, 7:00 PM

She'd attended her share of these events — typical Manhattan affairs with lots of drinking, gossip, and the usual journalistic oneupmanship. She'd never learned to like them. And this one would be worse than normal: