Rating: PG Archive: Sure, go ahead, give me credit though.
Summary: Pendergast does a favour for the Director.
A/N: If you recognize it, then you know it ain't mine. I'm just playin'.
FBI Special Agent Pendergast reclined in the back seat of his '59 Rolls, as it wound its way through Friday morning traffic. Normally, he would sit up front and debate all manner of sports with his longtime trusted driver, Proctor (whose first name he had yet to discover), but this morning found the Special Agent in a somewhat pensive mood, leaving him with little desire for idle chit-chat.
Gradually, the grimy city fell away from his view, and the Rolls eagerly ate up the road on the way to the more residential neighbourhoods. It was a beautiful late October morning, and the sight of the reds and yellows of the trees fleeting past soothed his soul. He found that he was beginning to relax, remarkable feat in itself, considering his assignment. In his long and varied career, few assignments had rendered him as anxious as the upcoming one.
In short, he was scared shitless.
Not that public speaking had ever intimidated him; no, not by a long shot. In university, he had facilitated a number of well-attended lectures to fellow students. Aloysius Pendergast was not one to be shy. Quiet and reserved, yes. But never shy.
As the Rolls rounded a bend and pulled into a crowded parking lot, he wondered, not for the first time, what he had been thinking.
"A special favour," the Director of the New York Office had said. "Come on, Pendergast. I've helped you out more than a few times. Time for you to scratch my back, as they say."
Aloysius had been unable to say no.
"Just a little thing," the Director had said. "My daughter, Cady…she's a reporter for her high school paper, and it's also career week at the school. Just give her a quick little interview for the paper, and give a quick speech and answer a few questions. Nothing to it."
Nothing to it, my porcelain-white derrierre, Aloysius grumbled to himself as he slid smoothly from the back seat of the Rolls. I can just hear it now. Hey, Mister, can we see your badge? Can we see your gun? Did you ever shoot anyone? Have you ever been abducted by aliens? Do you work with Mulder and Scully? With a long-suffering sigh, he pulled the box containing FBI career information brochures from the back seat, and resignedly made his way into the building. This entire chore was one best reserved for rookies, or for those unlucky enough to end up on someone's…um…"feces list". He wasn't on the Director's list, was he? Perhaps that little incident on his way back from Kansas…no. He doubted it. It had just been bad timing, walking into a convenience store in the middle of a holdup. It hadn't been his fault that the perp had tripped, blowing his own head apart with his gun as he fell. All Pendergast had done was pull his weapon and yell, "Freeze! FBI!" and the young man had panicked, running for the door. Regrettable, to be sure…until Pendergast had discovered the bodies of two innocent customers that the young man had shot.
He paused, and took a deep breath, to calm the familiar old rage building within him. Always, the innocent suffered. It was discouraging. He took another breath, and another, until his anger subsided. What was done was done, and there was no going back. All he could do was keep going on, do as much good as he could. After a moment, he resumed walking.
At the door, a young lady with purple hair and a pierced nose waited for him, pen and notepad in hand. For a moment, he was reminded of Corrie Swanson, a young woman whom he had befriended just a few months ago, whom he had become extremely fond of. This young lady, however, had an open, friendly, smiling countenance, and a cheerful, bubbly greeting. Corrie would never deign to be "bubbly". At least, he hoped not. He rather liked her prickly personality.
"Hi, Mr. Pendergast?" The young lady held out her hand, covered with multiple bracelets and rings of various designs. Her manicured nails were long and dark red. "I'm Cady…thank you so much for coming!"
Pendergast adjusted the box so that he could shake the proferred hand, and smiled thinly. "Hello, Cady. Is there someplace that I might deposit these materials?"
"Oh, sure! Come on, I'll take you to the gym, to the FBI table. After the Hog Farmers' Association presentation, you're next."
Stoic, he followed her up two flights of stairs and down a long hallway. They turned a corner, and Pendergast made a small sound of dismay. There appeared to be over a thousand teenagers in the large gymnasium, more or less paying attention to an elderly man onstage at a podium, delivering a speech in a monotone, more or less. At Pendergast's entrance, heads turned and speculative gazes lingered on him. Already he was wishing that this was over with. Up on stage, the man finished his speech, to sparse applause. There were no questions from the gathered students, and the representative thanked the young crowd, adding that they were welcome to drop by the Hog Farmers table for more information.
A young man took the box of brochures from Special Agent Pendergast, and Cady whispered something in a well-dressed man's ear. He made his way up the stage, smiling at the assembled students, and spoke with easy confidence into the school's microphone.
"Thank you, Mr. Mackie, from the Hog Farmers Association. A round of applause, please." The man, whom Pendergast assumed to be the school principal, beamed at his students. "And now…please welcome Mr. Special Agent Pendergast, from the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Mr. Pendergast," the man said as Pendergast stepped onstage. "Welcome to Career Day."
"Thank you." Pendergast shook the man's hand, and turned to face his audience.
Mon dieu, he thought, looking out at the array of fascinated gazes. Well. As my dear acquaintance William Smithback would say, here goes nothing. As he began to speak of the FBI and possible careers, he was also reminded of a bit of verse from a more famous scribe. …full of sound and fury, signifying nothing…
Fifteen minutes later, Pendergast wound up his well-delivered, if he said so himself, speech. "…and for those who qualify, a career in the Federal Bureau of Investigation can be a rewarding, fascinating endeavour. For more information, please visit the information table for our recruiting brochure. Thank you for your time. Are there any questions?"
At least a hundred hands shot into the air; with a small sigh, Pendergast was reminded of yet another quotation, this one from a song that he had heard playing in Corrie's car. …hey, ho…let's go…hey, ho…let's go… "Yes," he said, pointing to a young lady in the front row wearing an outrageously low-cut top. The day I let Constance wear such a thing in public, he thought, grimly.
"Hi," she said, smiling up at him. "Are you from the South? I like the way you talk."
"New Orleans," he said, gritting his teeth. "Next?"
A boy with an impossibly-freckled countenance looked at him eagerly. "Can we see your gun?"
Lips tightly compressed, Pendergast pulled away one side of his jacket to allow the children a glimpse of his Les Baer. Admiring whistles and murmurs rippled through the crowd.
"Mr. Pendergast, did you ever shoot anyone?"
"Unfortunately, yes. Next?"
"Do you have a badge?"
Wordlessly, he pulled his wallet out and flashed his badge. More murmurs.
"Yes, Miss?" He inclined his head towards a tall young woman with long braids.
"So, like…have you ever been abducted by aliens?"
He gave her a hard, cold smile. "No."
"Is there a real Mulder and Scully?" A small voice from the side of the auditorium.
"Not that I am aware of. Next?"
"Are you related to Andy Warhol?"
Pendergast did not even answer that question. With a positively Snape-like snarl, he pointed at the next raised arm.
"Yes?"
"Are you the guy that does the autopsies? You know, you're sorta dressed like one of those guys that works in a funeral home."
"What a ridiculous question. Next."
"So, like, does the job pay good?"
"That depends. Next."
A tall student smirked knowingly at him. "So, hey, is the job good for, you know, impressing the ladies?"
Pendergast just stared at him.
"All right!" The principal climbed onto the stage, and took the microphone from the unresisting agent. "That's enough questions for now. Next up, please welcome Ms. Keirstead, from the Opticians' Association."
He escorted the stunned agent from the stage, speaking rapidly to him as they made their way across the gymnasium.
"That was terrific, thank you, what a lot of interest! If you'll come with me to the cafeteria, Cady's waiting to interview you for the school newspaper. Again, thank you, Mr. Pendergast. That was terrific."
"You…uh…are welcome." Pendergast tried to get his bearings. Impress the ladies?!
The principal -- Pendergast still didn't know his name -- left him standing at the door of the cafeteria, to wait for Cady. Within moments, she arrived, a gaggle of young ladies in tow.
"Hi, Mr. Pendgergast. Let's go inside."
He nodded, and followed her in. They all sat at one table, and he looked at her entourage curiously.
"Shall we begin?"
He nodded, still staring at the young women who all stared back in a manner that his Great-Aunt Cornelia would have referred to as "moon-eyed."
"First question: Are you married?"
Pendergast closed his eyes in resignation, as the group erupted in furtive giggles. Director, he thought, I am going to get you for this. If it should be the last thing that I ever do, I am going to get you for this.