Bloodless (Aloysius Pendergast #20)(50)
“I think we may have found the victim’s friend and drinking partner. I believe he is more terrified than he is drunk.”
Coldmoon held open the door while Pendergast eased the youth over to their table.
“Now hold on, all y’all,” said the waitress, glaring at Coldmoon. “We don’t serve drunks or hooligans here.”
“Ma’am,” Pendergast said, slipping his FBI badge out of his suit and flipping it open, “this is official business.”
She didn’t bat an eye. “In that case, the boy needs some coffee.” She swiped a mug from an adjacent table, filled it to the brim from the pot, and placed it before the kid. “He’ll need something in his stomach, too. How about some buttered toast?”
“Thank you.” Pendergast turned back to the new arrival. “You’re safe now. Have some coffee.”
The boy took the mug in both hands, trembling, and sipped, slopping it over the rim.
“Again.”
He took another sip, and another. The waitress brought over a plate of buttered toast.
“Excellent.”
The boy picked up a piece of toast and bit into it hungrily. The coffee and toast seemed to steady him: his eyes looked more focused now, Coldmoon thought; less glazed with shock and fear.
“And now, young man,” Pendergast said, “what is your name?”
He looked at Pendergast with frightened eyes. “Toby.”
“Toby…”
“Manning.”
“I am Special Agent Pendergast. And this is my partner, Special Agent Coldmoon. How do you do?”
Manning did not seem to be able to answer the question.
“He reminds me of Paul Revere’s ride,” the waitress said from behind the counter. “A little light in the belfry.”
Coldmoon gave her a none of your business glance. The waitress frowned and, curling her lip, offered him a moue in return.
“Toby,” Pendergast said, “do you know a fellow named Brock Custis?”
The eyes widened. “How—?”
“Mr. Custis, I regret to say, was found dead earlier this morning.”
“Oh my god…In the cemetery?”
Pendergast looked at him curiously. “No. Did something happen in the cemetery?”
“Um…” He seemed hesitant to talk.
Pendergast lowered his voice to a soothing, honeyed cadence. “You can tell me, Mr. Manning. What happened in the cemetery?”
“I don’t know.” He took another gulp of coffee and another, spilling some on the table. The waitress came over and wiped up the spill as she topped off the cup, then hovered in the background.
“How did you get from the cemetery to here?” Coldmoon asked.
“I ran, I guess. I don’t really remember.”
“I see,” said Pendergast. “Now, let us go back to the cemetery. Start at the beginning. How did you get in?”
“We climbed over the gate.”
“Why were you there?”
“Just…for kicks, you know. To go around at night, look at the tombs.”
“To see anything in particular?”
“I wanted to see the Bird Girl.”
“Ah. The famous Bird Girl. So the graveyard we’re speaking of is Bonaventure Cemetery. I suppose you hadn’t heard the Bird Girl was removed from that site twenty-five years ago?”
“No.”
“And then what happened?”
Manning stared at his half-eaten toast. “We got sort of lost.”
Pendergast’s voice grew still gentler. “And?”
“And then…I felt this weird thing, this sort of hot wind, behind me. Like something…I can’t explain…” His voice began to rise. “And Brock…I heard the bottle of booze shatter and Brock disappeared and…I don’t know, I just ran.”
“So you were drinking?” Coldmoon asked.
Hearing this, the feisty waitress rolled her eyes.
“Yeah.”
“Are you feeling better now?”
“Yeah…” He hesitated. “Am I in trouble?”
“Not yet. Finish your coffee, and then we’ll go.”
“Go where?”
“To the cemetery, where this incident occurred.”
Manning began to tremble. “Now?”
“Naturally.”
“No,” said Manning. “No way…Please…I won’t go…No way!”
Pendergast’s voice abruptly shed its friendly tone and took on an icy edge. “You will take us there right now. Or I can promise one thing: you will be in trouble, Mr. Manning.”
A moment later, Pendergast was out the door, the youth in tow. Coldmoon stood up, blinking in surprise at how quickly the impromptu questioning had ended. He began to follow them toward the door.
“Excuse me!”
He turned around to see the waitress staring at him. One hand was on her hip; the other was holding out a check.
“Oh.” Coldmoon looked at the total: $19.80. Mutely, he handed the woman a twenty, then turned and once again headed for the exit. This time, his hand got as far as the door handle before he remembered he hadn’t left any tip—except, that is, for twenty cents. But it was too late to salvage the situation: Pendergast was already halfway down the block, so Coldmoon slunk out of the café. But before the door closed behind him, the waitress got in the last word.