Aaron Elkins - Little Tiny Teeth

“Thank you,” Scofield said sourly. “Four thousand, then. We certainly wouldn’t want to exaggerate the butterfly population. In any case, that’s enough blather from me. Let’s go on to something else.” This was not a man who appreciated being interrupted, Gideon saw. Throw off his timing and the show was over. Glowering, he looked down at his pipe and plucked an offending shred of tobacco from the bowl. When he raised his face a moment later he was back in his twinkly, avuncular mode – an instantaneous, apparently effortless switch.

“Not everyone here knows everyone else,” he said pleasantly. “In fact, there isn’t anyone here who knows every one else – so I guess we’d better introduce ourselves before we go any further. My name is Arden Scofield, I’m an ethnobotanist, and I’m lucky enough to teach at the University of Iowa and at a wonderful little college called the Universidad Nacional Agraria de la Selva down here in Peru, in a little town called Tingo Maria. Which is enough about me.”

He sat down and reinserted the pipe between his teeth. “Tim, you take it from there,” he said to the tall young man sitting with him, the one with the beaky nose.

Tim started, as if he’d just come out of a trance, which was probably not that far from the truth. “I’m, uh, Tim Loeffler,” he said, almost knocking over his drink when he unfolded what seemed like more arms and legs than he strictly needed. “I’m a student of Professor Scofield’s at UI, and I’m here hoping to learn more about, uh, the ethnobotanical practices and, um, resources of the Amazonian Basin, and, uh-” At a subtly impatient jiggle of the lighter that Scofield was using to relight his pipe, Tim skidded to an abrupt halt. “And, um, I guess that’s about it.”

“Thank you, Tim,” Scofield said around the bit of his pipe. He clicked the lighter closed, turned to his left, and tipped his head benignly at the woman with the Laura Petrie hairdo. “Maggie?”

She stopped jiggling her foot, uncrossed her jeans-clad legs, and turned to face Gideon’s table, the table of strangers. “My name’s Maggie Gray-”

“Oh, I forgot,” Tim blurted. “I should have said – I’m also a student of Maggie’s – of Professor Gray’s.”

“-and, as Tim indicates, I also teach in the ethnobotany program at the University of Iowa.” She paused. “At the moment, anyway. My primary interests are in the area of ethnopharmacology with a concentration on anaesthetics, hypnotics, and opiates.” She had an unusual, not unattractive manner of speaking, biting and humorously ironic, as if everything she said was half taunting – self-taunting as much as anything else. The set of her face, with its wide, sardonic mouth, and with one eyebrow slightly raised – much practiced, Gideon suspected – added to the general impression of barbed, above-it-all skepticism.

“Mel?” said Scofield.

Beside Maggie, the fourth person at the table, the big guy with the bull neck, now smiled affably. “Hi all, I’m Mel Pulaski and I’m not a botanist, I’m a writer, so in a way I’m kind of just along for the ride-”

“Wait a minute,” Phil said. “I know you. Didn’t you used to play for the Dallas Cowboys?”

“Minnesota,” Mel said, pleased. “You got a good memory.”

“Running back, right?”

“Linebacker. But that was a few years and a few pounds back. I’m a freelance writer now. I’m writing up an article on the cruise for EcoAdventure Travel. I also worked with Dr. Scofield on his latest book-”

“Indeed you did, and we’ll come to that in just a few minutes, Mel,” Scofield said, talking over him. “But there at that table are four gentlemen whom I haven’t met.” He leaned forward, smiling at Osterhout and radiating cordiality. “I think I can guess, however, who that particular gentleman, our butterfly expert, is.”

“Well, I’m Duayne Osterhout. Yes, I’m an entomologist, an ethno entomologist, I suppose I should say in this august company, and I’m with the Department of Agriculture.” He was still on his first pisco sour, but obviously he wasn’t much used to drinking, because it had gone to his head. He was speaking a little too carefully, almost visibly preforming the words before trying them out. “In other words, I’m a bug man.”

“Dr. Osterhout is being unduly modest,” Scofield said. “He is not just any bug man, he is one of the world’s leading bug men, and an internationally recognized authority on the order Blattaria.”

Visibly pleased, Osterhout simpered and waved a dismissive hand. “Oh now, really, I don’t know that I’d say…”

“What’s Blattaria?” John whispered to Gideon.

“Cockroaches.”

John inconspicuously shifted his chair a few inches further away from Osterhout.

“Surely this isn’t your first trip to the Amazon, Dr. Osterhout?” Scofield asked. “I imagine your studies must have taken you here many times.”

“Not really. I can assure you that if it’s cockroaches one is interested in, one has no trouble studying them in the Washington, DC, area, so as a matter of fact, yes, it is my first visit. You see, my work at Agriculture has been so time-consuming, and then my wife was never in favor of my going, but since she left…” He clamped his mouth shut. Apparently it had struck him that the potent drink had made him a little too forthcoming. “Well, anyway, here I am.”

“And we’re delighted to have you as part of our merry band,” Scofield said smoothly. “I’m sure we’ll have a lot to learn from you. I should add, by the way, that I had the great pleasure of having Dr. Osterhout’s charming daughter Beth as a member of last year’s expedition in the Huallaga Valley. That lovely young woman is someone you can really be proud of, Dr. Osterhout; she’ll be a real credit to the field. If I can ever be of help to her, I hope she’ll feel free to call on me.”

These generous if overdone remarks of Scofield’s obviously called for an appreciative response from Osterhout, but they were met instead with a searing, squint-eyed look of what Gideon took to be pure malignity. Somebody else who has some kind of a grudge against Scofield? he thought. Osterhout’s ferocious glower lasted but a second, however, before lapsing back into mildly intoxicated passivity. “Thank you, sir,” he said tightly, through a barely opened mouth.

If Scofield was disturbed, he didn’t show it. He moved his glance to Phil. “Sir?”

Phil offered a casual salute to all. “Hiya. I’m Phil Boyajian. I guess I’m just along for the ride too. I’m with On the Cheap, and I’m reviewing the Adelita for possible inclusion in our Amazon guidebook.”

“Happy to have you with us, Phil,” Scofield said. “I hope you’ll feel free to join our little excursions whenever you like.” He pointed the bit of his pipe at Gideon. “Sir.”

“My name is Gideon Oliver. I’m a prof too, at the University of Washington, but I’m afraid the last time I studied botany was in high school. I’m here to help Phil out, basically, but I’m looking forward to learning a little about what all of you do too, if you’ll let me.”

Scofield was looking keenly at him, his clear blue eyes narrowed. He placed the bit of the pipe against his temple. “Am I wrong, or do we have yet another celebrity among us? Would you be a physical anthropologist, Dr. Oliver?”

“Well, yes-”

“Hey, right, the Bone Detective!” Mel Pulaski exclaimed, jabbing a thick finger at him.

“ Skeleton Detective,” John corrected helpfully.

“Yeah, right, Skeleton Detective. I knew you looked familiar. You were on the Discovery Channel or the Learning Channel or something, just a few weeks ago. All about – what was it – identifying people from their skulls, I think, or figuring out how old they were, or something like that. That was you, wasn’t it?”