The Triggerman Dance (31 page)

"He was always after the quail around the trailer. It was easy to see he was birdy. Opening day, I wanted to give him a try, that's all."

"How'd he do?"

"Well."

"How many birds you get?"

"The limit. Ten."

"Why weren't they in your truck at Olie's?"

"I'd gone back home to drop them off."

"So you could shoot ten more."

"Right."

"Kind of a scofflaw for such an upstanding citizen, aren't you?"

"I figure there's guys out there who don't get any birds at all. It works out."

"You could have had fifty birds back in the trailer and we'll never know, since it burned down."

"I had ten."

"Maybe you didn't have any. Maybe you weren't hunting that day at all. You can't really prove it, can you?"

John straightened in his chair and glanced back again al Snakey and Partch.

"You know, Fargo, if you want to get direct answers here, you can ask direct questions. I've got no idea what you suspect me of. But we could save a lot of small talk and popped eardrums if you'd just come out with it. I hardly talked to Rebecca Harris I took in a stray dog. I got ten quail opening day, helped Mr. Holt out of a bad situation. What in hell do you want?"

Fargo considered.

"I just want to like you, John."

Fargo laughed then, his rodentine teeth flashing behind the thick broom of mustache. "How come you quit your job with the
Journal?
You took a pay cut of sixty percent to move out of Laguna Beach and into a trailer. That makes no sense to me. Make sense to me, John. Let me like you."

John turned to look at the big boys, then back to Fargo.

When Fargo leans on you, it means that Holt has things to hide. When Fargo leans on you, it might mean Holt has something in mind. But just remember, you are innocent. You have your limits. You are ready, willing and able to simply walk.

"I've had enough," he said.

"Enough of what?" Fargo looked genuinely puzzled.

"Enough of you. I'm going to go back to the cottage, write Mr. Holt a thank you note, get in my truck with my dogs, and drive off. I don't need you, Fargo. I don't need the headbangers sitting behind me. I sure don't need Vann Holt."

"Awww. Have I hurt your feelings? Need mommy?" The smile again, all the latent cruelty showing through.

"Let's go outside and fight."

"You're getting kind of personal now."

John stood, wavered a little, then felt two heavy hands on his shoulders, pressing him back into the chair.

"I'm just trying to do my job, John. Anyone who spends time around Mr. Holt has to be cleared. I'm in the process of clearing you. Lighten up. It's a nice day out. You and Mr. Holt can talk. You can make your mysterious little eyes at Valerie again. The world is good. So just stay the fuck put and give me reasons for Mr. Holt to keep you on Liberty Ridge."

"I don't want to stay on Liberty Ridge."

"What you want isn't up to you. It's up to Mr. Holt. Besides, the keys to your truck are in my safe, along with your wallet, pistol, shotgun ammunition, knife and telephone pager. You can't walk far—there's a gate house on the road with my men in it, and a charged fence around the perimeter of the land."

"Why?"

"Liberty Ridge is kind of a cross between Club Med and Tombstone, Arizona. You check your guns with the Sheriff and you don't need any money because all the fun is free. It's for security. Liberty Ridge
is
security. The name Liberty Operations
means
security. And I'm not about to risk it on some clown driving around with a truckful of guns, now am I?"

"So, why did you quit the
Journal
job?"

"I was burned out and sick of people."

"Run out of story ideas?"

"Just about."

"Why didn't you rent out the Laguna house?"

"I thought I might go back someday."

"Not avoiding memories there, were you? Memories of a love gone bad? Or maybe a love gone dead, like Ms. Harris?"

He imagined the tall gray blank wall again, curved and surrounding him, the inside of the deep well where nothing ever happened between him and Rebecca.

"Will you please tell me why I'm supposed to have been in love with her?"

"Ever meet Joshua Weinstein?"

John's pulse jumped and he felt his scalp tighten. Joshua had figured very long odds that Holt had linked Rebecca to himself, using the Bureau's influence with the
Journal
to keep his name out of the paper. "No. I never met Joshua Weinstein."

"Heard of him?"

"No."

"Lying to me, Johnny boy?"

"Just the truth for you, Fargo."

"He was Rebecca's fiance."

"It's beginning to sound to me like
you
were the one in love with her."

Fargo smiled. "Impossible, John. I never even met her. I didn't spend eight hours a day in an office just down a hallway from her. I never was very cute, John-Boy, in that gay kind of way you are. Ever suck dick?"

"Not your business."

"I'm just curious."

"No."

"Ever want to?"

John stood up again, and again a heavy hand pushed him back into the chair.

"Anyway," Fargo continued, "Weinstein's a feebie—Orange County office."

"I never met any of the feebies. I wrote about fishing and hiking."

"Oh, that's right," said Fargo. "That's right. That clears up a lot of things. Know something? The waitress at Olie's said Weinstein looked familiar. I showed her a picture."

"Then maybe he was a regular."

"She said she was pretty sure she saw you talking with him one afternoon. Him and a woman."

"I've talked with plenty of people in there. Joshua Weinstein is definitely not one of them."

"If you'd never met him how would you know?"

"People have things called names."

"Maybe he used someone else's?"

"Why?"

"She couldn't swear, the waitress at Olie's, that is, if it was the guy in the picture or not."

"That's because she never saw me with him."

"Coincidence, I guess. Speaking of pictures, I like this one."

Fargo picked a sheet out of his file and set it, facing John, on the desktop. It was a blown-up version of the photograph taken by the
Journal
photographer in the parking lot: Rebecca by the planter in the rain, with the five newspaper employees approaching in varying attitudes of horror. John was in the center, stepping toward her as if all things could be remedied. The rain spills off his fedora and his leather duster is blown by the wind. He looked at the picture but he saw only the gray wall of The Lie.

"That's you there, isn't it?"

"Yeah."

"Look pretty rattled."

"You would have been, too."

"How'd you get there so fast?"

"I was heading for my car. End of the work day."

"You two have a little rendezvous set up that evening?"

John said nothing for a moment. He just looked at Fargo and thought how satisfying it would be to slam a shotgun butt into his face.

"You're boring me," said John.

"What about Susan Baum? Know her?"

"Not well. Didn't have the hots for her, either, Fargo. She's more your type."

Fargo leaned back and offered his rotting smile. "Keep in touch with her, Baum?"

"No."

"Like her?"

John hesitated. "Not really."

"Too political? Too liberal? Too pushy and self-centered?"

"We finally agree."

"Ever argue with her at work?"

"Nobody at the
Journal
argued with Susan Baum."

"She must have hated your outdoor articles."

"In fact, she did."

"You two never had a big blowout, then one of those reconciliation’s where you're both so happy you suddenly love each other forever? You know—fight on the playground Monday, best friends Tuesday?"

"We weren't on a playground."

"Haven't kept in touch with her since you left?"

"I don't keep in touch with any of the
Journal
people."

"Well, why not? You worked with some of them for almost three years."

John was silent for a moment. He turned around to look at Snakey and Partch. He could see himself mixing it up with Fargo, but not with either of these two. He wondered if they'd graduated
cum laude
from the Liberty Ops martial arts program.