Quackshot cocked his head at the old man's approach, leering incredulously at him behind the bird mask. 

"Two things, wait, no, three things," Quackshot chirped up quickly. "One, the only Hemingway I know died centuries ago and was a writer. I assume you mean the dead body with the red hair. Two, I tried to save that man from dying when Ronnie brought him into the bar, but he looked like a member of the Rats who apparently died weeks ago. And three, do you really think we would lie to you now when you can so easily kill us?"

His feathers felt ruffled as he sulked, still leering at the new arrival behind his mask. A lot of questions were circulating in his head and his panic was shifting into anger. He and his friends had done nothing wrong and yet here they were, sitting as prisoners with an old man wanting information from them and telling them to take his charge with them to the Garden District like a group of Gutter-dwellers taking care of some rich kid wouldn't look super obvious in the same district as all the other rich people.