The Triggerman Dance (24 page)

"Well," she asked, glancing up from the breeze-bent menu "Did I pass my physical?"

"Sorry. Yes."

"You're forgiven. You are a writer, after all."

"Always studying."

"Like what you see?"

He looked down at his own menu, shrugging. "The chicken sandwich sounds good."

She laughed. "You big oaf. That's what you are—a big sweet oaf. An accidental hero. A mystery man with a quick gun and long coat and a shy streak. What am I?"

He looked at her, summoning distance. "A beautiful young woman with a whole life in front of her."

"Not just a girl with a brain the size of a table grape and way more money than she needs?"

"Naw."

"Good, because you'll be sitting next to me tonight at the grad dinner. It's going to be quite the affair, and you have to b there because you are a guest of honor."

"Grad dinner?"

"Dad gives a bash for his new Holt Men every six month when they finish training."

"He calls them Holt Men?"

"That's what they are," she said cheerfully. "They're just glorified security guards, even though Dad educates the hell out of them. But you're the guest everyone's dying to meet."

"Hmmm."

"Hmmm nothing. It's a perfect time to wear your new suit.'

"Okay, mom."

Valerie smiled then, a wide-mouthed, honest, forthright smile. It was just a little more open on one side, which revealed some back teeth and gave it a shade of mischief. She looked down at her menu again, with an odd expression of satisfaction on her face. The wind blew a strand of golden brown hair over her round girlish forehead and she caught it without looking up then fingered it back behind her ear.

John felt an odd shifting inside, and a very slight, very clear ringing in his ears.

He spent the rest of the afternoon writing his account of the incident at Olie's Saloon for the
Anza Valley News.
He used the computer on the dining room table. It ran a brief fifty-five lines. John concentrated on dispelling rumors: the woman was not raped or even hurt; his trailer was the only one burned out; he had in fact shot only once, giving the woman's assailant a minor flesh wound that made her escape possible. He refused to give any names because they had asked him not to. He hoped the whole incident would be forgotten soon and that the citizens of Anza Valley would not worry about a vengeful motorcycle gang overrunning their town. He asked anyone with information about the bikers to call the Sheriff's substation in Indio. He also admitted that the single worst thing about the whole affair was the loss of Rusty—the day's true hero. That evening he walked along the lake with his dogs. He stopped to look at the marina and boathouse, the lovely Hatteras,
Carolyn,
docked there, the little covey of Boston Whalers tarped against the sun. He could see the beach on the island in the center of the lake and the dark oaks and conifers beyond. On the far shore he made out a row of small cabanas and scaffolding of what looked like a sporting clays tower. He thought back twenty-odd years to the summer days he and his friends would sneak past the "No Trespassing" signs, hike to the lake and spend the day swimming, fishing, hiking and looking for animals. They had outlegged the sheriffs more than once. He had even spent the night in the cave on the island, for which he was thoroughly thrashed by his father upon returning home late the next afternoon. John was struck that the place was more beautiful now than then—the foliage thicker and the trees more mature and the water level of the lake higher—no doubt due to Vann Holt's attentions. A flock of mallards veed out across the blue water in no hurry whatsoever, a chevron of ripples widening behind them He wished Rebecca could have seen this. He thought about the dream he'd had early that morning, the way she had seemed so present and actual. And tonight, he thought, I'll be having dinner with the man who blew her heart out of her chest.

The foyer of the big house is as brightly lit as a movie set when John walks in, led by a ravishingly beautiful brunette who ha introduced herself as Laura Messinger. John has already recognized her. She takes him by the arm, saying she always wanted to touch a hero. She leads him into the expansive kitchen, at the far end of which is a bar. A waiter approaches and she dismisses him. She asks John his pleasure and gives the bow-tied barman the order. He can smell venison and elk on the stove-top grill, and wild, cilantro-based aroma coming from four huge saucepans.

"Are you a friend of Mr. Holt?" he asks.

"His attorney and techno-weenie, actually. A friend, toe Cheers."

She hands him the scotch-and-soda and raises her own cocktail glass very sightly, not touching his, then brings it to her thick bright red lips. Her eyes are an astonishing blue that John decide can only be realized by colored lenses. Her breasts are large and tastefully displayed. She could be thirty, but John knows from Weinstein that she is forty-two.

Laura and husband Thurmond are the high-end foreign team for Liberty Operations. You need a hundred capable men to settle unrest on the diamond coast in Namibia? Talk to Laura. Need some small arms know-how in Sierra Leone? Thurmon can help. He's a lapsed Northrup veep who never got his peace dividend and she was third in her law class at Harvard. They aren't salaried—nobody at the Ops is salaried except for Lane Fargo. Last year their take was a little over four-hundred thousand, counting bonuses.

With her arm again on John's, Laura Messinger leads him into the living room. "Oyez, oyez," she calls in a mellifluous voice, "John Menden. "Heads turn: two dozen of them, men in dinner jackets an women in dresses, tanned healthy faces, mostly middle-aged bi some old and some young, expressions of polite assessment, mild approval, curiosity. The newly minted Holt Men stand out conspicuously, clustered together a little nervously near the fireplace. They are late twenties to late thirties, fit, alert and dressed alike in black slacks and white dinner jackets. They have the bearing of West Point cadets. John regards the guests with his native taciturnity, feeling embarrassed and underdressed. He scans the room quickly for Valerie, resting his glance occasionally on a still-beholding guest. They are clapping.

"Don't embarrass the poor boy too much," says Laura, smiling at John. "We don't want to spoil his appetite."

Then she takes John to the first little group of people, releases his arm and is gone. He can feel the warm spot where her hand was, cooling through the fabric of his linen coat.

"Hey, I've missed your articles in the
Journal,"
says the first man to shake his hand.

John recognizes him from one of Joshua's endless briefings—Adam Sexton—young, ambitious, married into one of the county's largest landholding families and currently Vice President of Domestic Development for Liberty Operations.

"Thanks. Nice to be back in the county. "
Sexton brings in the genuine dollars for Liberty Ops. Domestic takes in triple what foreign does, prosaic as the work might sound. Home security. Plant Security. Store security. Personal security. Private Investigations. Sexton married straight into the Orange County movers and shakers, waved a vague Manhattan pedigree in front of them, convinced them he was one up on them. Easy to do to Californians, of course. His timing was perfect. When crime started grabbing the headlines a few years back, everybody was worried. Everybody was scared. Nobody could remember it being this bad. Afraid to leave the mansion. Who do we trust? Who do we hire? The cops can't help us. Who can really blast away on our behalf when the gook home invaders from Little Saigon show up, or the gangbangers from Santa Ana come scaling our gated-community walls? Sexton was ready with his sophistication-and-a-touch-of-streetsmarts routine, New York style. Thanks to him they all prefer to use Holt Men—excuse me, Liberty Men now. It's as much a status symbol to have Liberty Ops patrolling your bay front house in Newport as it is to drive the right car or wear the right clothes. Even more so. You own more than just a home or a private plane—you own a man. A Liberty Man. There was a joke going around last year Question: Why is a Holt Man better than a dildo? Answer:
dildo can't show itself to the door. You know you've entered a profitable vernacular when rich women joke about the penis size of your employees. Well, thank Sexton for the entree.span>

"Are you back to stay, John?" Sexton asked.

"No. I've got work down in Anza Valley."

"People down there can actually read?"

"They light their caves with candles."

"Candles. That's rich. Hey,
plenty
of work here in the county, if you're interested. All kinds of it."

"Thanks. I like my job."

The dining room basks in the burnished candlelight of an immense, circular candelabra. The table seems to stretch into infinity. Waiters come and go, glancing occasionally at Laura Messinger, who directs them with the silent nodding of her head. Vann Holt has stolen in—exactly when, John has no idea—and now presides at the head of the table. He has not acknowledged his guest of honor. John sees that his host looks alert, fit and leonine, with his thick gray hair, stout neck and shoulders and a easy physical grace. Holt is also conspicuously underdressed in black suit with a black polo shirt buttoned to the top. But John senses that Holt is the kind of man who can make everyone else in a room feel pretentiously overstated. Finally, Holt looks his way and stares at him for a moment without expression. Then he lifts his wine glass, nods rather formally, and offers a robust smile. From behind Holt, Lane Fargo stares his way with a look of focused aggression. His widow's peak and mustache are some how absurd above his tight white dinner jacket. He is drinking glass of beer.

Holt seats himself and the others follow. John has a seat of honor on Holt's left. They are just settling in when Holt pushed back his chair and stands, brushing up his coat-sleeve to look a his watch. Then he bellows in a voice that threatens to rattle the crystal, "
Valerie Anne Holt—you are holding up my dinner party—again!"

By the unanimous chuckles John understands that this i something of a ritual. Heads turn, and John looks to see Valerie Anne Holt coming up the broad hallway toward the dining room. Her hair is up and she is wearing a black knit dress with a high neck and that holds her snugly under the chin. There are no sleeves on it and her brown arms sway easily as she walks. The dress ends well above her knees. Her shoes are heeled and black and she makes walking in them appear easy and natural. She claps across the tiled floor and enters the room to a chorus of Hello Valerie; Evening, dear; Worth the wait, young lady; Nice of you to join us;
etc.
Lane Fargo sustains a piercing whistle that continues for a beat after the general welcome has died down.

"Oh, Lane, put a lid on it," she says, which brings another round of laughter from the guests.

Beaming, Valerie walks the length of the table and kisses her father on both cheeks. Then, helped by a new Holt Man who has popped up to assist her, she settles into the chair on her father's right, across from John. She looks around the table, holding each face for a brief moment. Then, smiling and apparently finished, she sits back and turns her full attention to John.

His ears ring again and he feels uncomfortable, as if the entire world is staring at him.

"Nice suit, Mr. Menden," she says. "It goes perfectly with your blush. "For John, dinner goes by in a pleasant haze. He drinks two cocktails and three glasses of wine. The conversation around him is animated and light. Holt regales him with stories of his Boone &c Crockett trophies, most notably a "Grand Slam" sheep hunt during which he nearly froze to death somewhere in Tibet. In fact, one of his guides had been buried in an avalanche. But John hears nothing of the braggart in Holt, none of the macho posturing associated with the rich eccentrics who aspire to the Boone &c Crockett "Book" and spend scores of thousands of dollars to acquire that status. John had written about these men in the
Journal,
finding them fascinating, driven almost beyond comprehension, and eerily dispassionate about taking life for sport. Even for a bird hunter such as himself, it was hard to understand their ardor for such grueling, far-flung expeditions. The articles had brought a cascade of protesting letters from his readers, who chose to believe that merely reporting on these people was endorsing them. But Holt's narratives are self-effacing, almost scientifically objective. He does not use the euphemisms of the contemporary "hunter/conservationist" such as "harvest" or "collect." When Vann Holt tells of killing an animals he uses the verb
kill
, pronouncing it with slightly less volume than the rest of the sentence, in a kind of reverential hush.