The Triggerman's Dance

by T. Jefferson Parker

  “Making a list of editors to call. I’m thinking I might not want to live out in that desert anymore.”

  “Be nice to have you closer. Help me with the dogs.”

  “That would be nice.”

  “You don’t have a crush on me, do you?”

  “No.”

  She tries to smile, but her smile is buried by the sudden redness of her face. “Lane says you do. And that you’re trustworthy as a rattlesnake. That’s what this revolver here is for—rattlers.”

  “Thought you were going to say for me.”

  “Naw. I couldn’t shoot the guy who saved my virginity. Not until I properly thanked him, anyway.”

  She pauses and looks at him with a half-grin on her face, the kind where the bottom teeth show just a little and give her a look of mischief. Then she blushes again, washing the smile away.

  “Just a little crush, maybe?”

  “Maybe.”

  She takes a deep breath. “I’m going for a walk. Wanna come?”

  “Sure.”

  They start out around the lake. The dogs thunder past them and crash into the water, fighting over a stick. Boomer has it and all the others appear to be tearing him to shreds to get it away. The sun is warm on John’s face and for a moment, the cold dead feeling inside him is in abeyance. When they reach the place where he had seen Vann, Carolyn and Pat Holt some twenty-three years ago, he tells her the story of Carlos and the cave and how her mother looked with Valerie inside.

  Valerie stops. “Right here?”

  “Yeah. About here is where they were. You were.”

  “I’m kind of moved by that.”

  “It’s just a story.”

  “No. It’s more. I think you’re somebody. Somebody who was sent here for a reason. Sent you then, and sends you now. God, maybe, or the devil.”

  Her unwitting accuracy corners John into silence. He nods. “She was wearing a white dress.”

  “Mom always wore white. Did you see the spring in the cave?”

  “I slept beside it.”

  “It’s still there, you know. I mean, I haven’t been to the cave in years, but the spring’s still there or the lake wouldn’t be. We should go see it sometimes. How about tomorrow afternoon? I’ll pack more food and we’ll call it a picnic. Sick of my cooking yet?”

  “That quail was world class.”

  “Settled, then.”

  They continue on for a while without talking. John feels the jitters leaving his nerves, replaced by the mild happiness of knowing one’s body is alive, of feeling it move, of being in the company of someone it is drawn to.

  He notes something shiny on the path before he even sees it. He feels his body draw up tight as he registers the shape, a shape familiar to the deep part of the human mind—a very large rattlesnake stretched out in the dirt ahead. Reflexively he reaches for Valerie but she has already stepped forward, holding her revolver with both hands, glancing quickly back at the dogs. The sound of the gun slams into John’s ears, the barrel jumps and the sand explodes red around the snake’s head. The serpent retracts into a tight coil, rattle buzzing off, then on, then off again. The dogs blunder toward it and John tries to grab Boomer’s collar.

  “Don’t worry, it’s out of commission,” says Valerie.

  “I’m not so sure.”

  “I am.”

  The springers try to converge but Valerie yells them off. John’s dogs obey her firm command to sit. Boomer eyes John with the pride of finding an item of such vast importance. Valerie touches the snake with her boot and it strikes, knocking its headless stump of a neck against her ankle. It rattles again. She slides her toe under it and flips in into the bushes. It twists white in the air, then vanishes out of sight, still buzzing.

  “I don’t like to do that,” she says. “But I lost two pups to rattlers. One died and the other one couldn’t move his legs, so we had to put him down. Rattlesnakes aren’t welcome on Liberty Ridge anymore.”

  John looks at her and sees a darkness of mood has pushed the softness from her face. It is a wholly new countenance, one that speaks of regretful obligation, of acts finished only to the soul’s remorse. She looks more like her father than herself.

  “Well, nice shot,” he says.

  “Pretty easy, if you graduate from the Liberty Ops pistol school at the age of seventeen.”

  “Top of the class?”

  “Yes. Dogs are family to me. And I’ll do anything to protect family.”

  Back at the cottage, John showered and dressed for dinner. He fed the dogs and had a cigarette on the porch. Just before he left he saw the message indicator on the computer screen and keyed into his mailbox with nervous fingers:

  THIRD DRAWER DOWN. RIGHT OF REFRIGERATOR, BIG HOUSE. LIKE YOUR CARROTS, SWEETIE? COULDN’T FIND THEM ANYWHERE. SEND THEM TO THE FOOD TASTERS?

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Holt looked more like a man after a Caribbean cruise than one who had just logged several thousand air miles for the purpose, as he put it to John, of “killing rattlesnakes and putting out fires.” He was tanned, trim, expansive. He was sitting with Fargo and Adam Sexton on the porch off the Big House kitchen when John joined them. It was shady under the slat redwood canopy that faced the expanse of lawn and trees. Beyond the lawn John could see the distant haze of the slough and the bright silver plate of the Pacific. The evening breeze was cool and clean and smelled of ocean and sage.

  Holt finished a story about Fargo’s duel with the Ugandan turista, a story told at the expense of Fargo, who looked pale and miserable as he reclined on a chaise lounge in the shade. Fargo glanced back at Holt after the punchline—something about Fargo’s bottled water and Holt having eaten everything native he could get his hands on—and cast his boss a doleful look. The look wandered to John, where it turned both bored and hostile. John looked at Adam Sexton, who sipped his drink and shrugged.

  “Glad I missed it,” he said. “I hate foreign countries. I like right here where I am. Domestic accounts—I’m made for it.”

  “You wouldn’t last a day on the dark continent,” said Fargo.

  “Roughly, my point,” said Sexton. He favored John with a conspiratorial look. “Also my point that ninety percent of the Liberty Ops profit is generated by me, right here in Southern Cal.

  So go get sick on an international scale, Fargo. I’ll stay here and make dough.”

  Holt chuckled. “Don’t squabble, kids. Let’s all just admit it’s a good feeling to carry home several hundred grand for a few days’ work.” He studied John over his tumbler of Scotch and ice. “Does that kind of money interest you?”

  “Depends what I’d do for it, Mr. Holt.”

  “What’s the most you ever made in a week?”

  “Fifteen hundred.”

  “And what did you do for that?”

  “Wrote some pieces for the Journal. And did a freelance job for Western Outdoor News.”

  “Forty hours’ worth?”

  “Forty-five, I’d guess. Plus the morning of bass fishing for the News article. I wrote off the gas and lures.”

  Sexton chortled. “That’s big money.”

  Holt shot him a glance. “After taxes that left you what, nine hundred and change?”

  “I’d say.”

  Holt drank from the tumbler, the long slow sip of a man who has all the time in the world. “Here’s the thing about money, John. A man needs to work. It’s what keeps his feet on the ground. Work opens the soul to the idea of heaven. The harder a man works the stronger he gets. I think some of the best moments of my life have been work. I spent eight years tracking down the men who bombed Odeh. You remember, the Arab activist? Those years flew by. Seemed to last about five minutes. By the time I got close to them, I was just getting warmed up. I could have followed those murderous bastards for decades. Never would have gotten tired.”

  “Then the Jews let ’em go,” said Fargo.

  “They were detained by Israeli Mossad, but not charged,” corre
cted Holt. “Been watched ever since.”

  “Some justice for blowing an Arab to bits.”

  “No shit,” added Sexton.

  Holt waved his hand. “Beside the point. Outside my purview. I completed my work. Now, the whole point is this, if you’re going to work anyway—because it builds the soul—why not get a lot of money for it? You spend the same hours. Burn the same energy. Stay up the same nights. Sacrifice. So why not go for more return? Simple arithmetic.”

  “Well, the arithmetic is simple, Mr. Holt, but finding work that pays a few hundred grand a week isn’t.”

  Holt shrugged and grinned. “Got to work your way up to that kind of thing. How does two thousand a week sound? That’s over a hundred a year.”

  “It sounds like triple what I’m making now.”

  “Would that appeal to you?”

  “For what I’m doing at the Anza Valley News? Sure.”

  “No, for something different than what you’re doing at the paper. For something more . . . actual. More tactile. More . . . hands on.”

  “That could be embalming. No thanks.”

  “Embalming,” echoed Fargo from his lounge.

  Sexton laughed and crossed his ankles: loafers, no socks.

  “Embalming,” said Holt. “No. No embalming required.”

  Fargo sat up. “He’s not exactly quick on the uptake, boss. Why not ask him what happened to Snakey?”

  Holt twirled the ice and liquid. “See Snakey while we were gone, John?”

  “No.”

  “Not even once?”

  “Not once. I didn’t know he was here.”

  “See Val?”

  “We spent a lot of time together.”

  “Oh, good. Doing what?”

  “Talking. Eating. Working the dogs. We rowed out to the island and had a picnic.”

  “Killed at least one snake,” said Fargo. “That’s what Val said.”

  “Couple hours ago.”

  “But you never saw Snakey?”

  “No, Mr. Holt. What happened to him?”

  “He disappeared.”

  John nodded, looked down at his Scotch. “Well, maybe he found something that pays a few hundred grand a week.”

  “Real fuckin’ funny,” said Fargo.

  But Holt and Sexton were both grinning. Holt turned to look back at Fargo, then returned his amused gray eyes to John. “Lane isn’t—”

  “—I heard a couple of gunshots yesterday morning. Maybe John shot him and dumped him in the lake.”

  With this, Valerie Holt sat down on a lawn chair next to her father. She held a tall glass half full of something clear that edged toward the lip of the glass before she righted it. The most graceful klutz I’ve seen, John thought.

  Fargo, about to speak, let his mouth hang open and stared at John.

  Valerie swung around to look at Fargo, her honey blond hair lifting out, then bouncing against the skin of her back. “A joke, Lane. Tee-hee. You look cadaverous. Hi, Sexy.”

  “Hello, your highness,” said Sexton.

  “What time were the shots, Val?” Fargo asked.

  “I just told you it was a joke, Lane. That means I didn’t hear any shots. I didn’t see Snakey either, thank God. Dad, give Lane a raise and see if it improves his sense of humor. Or make him work for Adam a few weeks.”

  “You’re spicy this evening, daughter.”

  “Sugar and spice, Daddy-o.”

  “Mainly spice. Tabasco, maybe.”

  “Hello, John,” she said, turning to face him. She was scrubbed clean as a new coin, her skin aglow, hair shining, trailing a scent that was dark and unambiguous and slid into John’s head like an opiate. She was wearing jeans and a green silk blouse.

  “Hello, Valerie,” he said.

  “What am I interrupting?”

  “We’re talking about the pleasures of money.”

  “Dad, you’re not showing off again, are you?”

  “Just running a little test.”

  “Of what?”

  “John’s monetary IQ.”

  “Well into triple digits, I’d bet.”

  “I was seeing if a hundred thousand a year might tempt him.”

  “Into what, Pops?”

  “Same thing he asked.”

  She looked at John and smiled. “Watch out. He’ll have you signed on for some boring security work before you know it. I can’t see you wearing a black shirt with Liberty Operations written over the pocket, Mr. Menden.”

  Holt sat back with a contained smile, and a glance for John, then his daughter. “We’ll resume that conversation after we visit Little Saigon tonight. After you see what we can do. Ah—my bride has arrived!”

  Through the opened sliding door rolled Carolyn, in her wheelchair, guided by Joni, the night nurse. She was dressed in a baby blue flannel blouse with a high Victorian neck, her legs covered by a blue cotton blanket. Her face and hair were done carefully. They vibrated as her chair wheels passed over the flagstone of the patio. Then her face offered up a big smile when she saw her husband, who was standing now and moving toward her as Joni withdrew to the house.

  John watched them embrace. Carolyn’s arms were outstretched, wrapping around Holt’s neck. Holt leaned down and gathered her close. They kissed each other on the cheeks several times, then once on the lips. They looked to him like mother and son. When Carolyn sat back she arranged her hair with both hands, still smiling at her husband.

  “You look wonderful tonight, honey,” he said.

  “I feel like a million dollars. Oh, Janice!”

  “Momma!” Valerie swept over and kissed her mother. “Two million at least, Mom. I love that new blouse.”

  Fargo had lined up behind Valerie, his posture and expression purely obligatory. With his back to Holt, he stared frankly at Valerie’s butt as she bent over her mother, then looked at John. When it was his turn he offered his hand and told Carolyn she lived in a family of skinflints, hiking up her looks to a cool billion.

  “She’s not being auctioned,” said Valerie.

  “I call them as I see them,” said Fargo.

  “Smack your way into the family,” said Sexton.

  “Patrick! My Patrick!”

  Carolyn grabbed her wheels and thrust the chair forward, nearly spilling off the first level of the patio before John caught one tire with his foot. He smiled down uneasily, then glanced at Holt. Holt nodded.

  “Hello, Carolyn.”

  “I got your letter.”

  “That’s good.” He looked at Holt again, who held his stare, then at Valerie, who looked away.

  “Did you win last week?”

  “No game, actually. Had the week off.”

  “It seems like ages since I’ve seen you. How long has it been, Pat?”

  Sexton’s jaw dropped.

  John looked over to Holt, who interceded.

  “You saw him last week, Honey.”

  “We went shopping, didn’t we?”

  “That was it,” said Holt, a sudden exhaustion behind his voice. “Val, arrange your mum here. I’m going to make a fresh round of drinks. John, come with me.”

  Carolyn smiled at John as he walked past her. “He’s calling you John, now?”

  “Everybody is, Carolyn.”

  “Kiss your Mumsey?”

  He leaned over and kissed her smartly on the cheek.

  Holt took his arm as they headed inside to the bar. Holt motioned Joni to join the party on the patio. When she had gone, Holt said, “I’m sorry about this, but play along. By dinnertime she’ll think you’re Robert Goulet or Sandy Koufax, or a kid named Deke. It doesn’t fucking matter what you do.”

  But after the dinner was over, Carolyn was still calling him Patrick, still bringing up an assortment of memories that, John gathered, were not altogether fabricated. She and Pat at the beach. She and Pat working on multiplication. She and Pat driving to Tijuana one day to see a bullfight, from which young Patrick had stormed out, sickened. He nodded along, a hollow smile p
lastered to his face, his own memories zig-zagging back and forth from Rebecca to Snakey to Valerie to Joshua Weinstein. With each sip of Scotch the fragments seemed to weld closer together, threatening to become one solid, unpassable gallstone of memory. He looked at Holt and Fargo, smile locked in place, wishing he could just stand up now, beat each to a bloody pulp and call in the cavalry. I didn’t hire on to become a crazy lady’s dead son, he thought. Poor girl.

  “Excuse me,” he said, then got up and went into the kitchen. He found a tall glass, pulled out the third drawer right of the fridge with his toe and peered down into it as he held the glass under the ice dispenser. On top of the neatly folded kitchen towels was a video cassette in a plastic case. He glanced outside. Only Valerie was looking in his direction, all other attention was drawn to Carolyn. With the glass still pressed to the noisy ice dispenser, John bent down, whisked the cassette into the pocket of his coat and stood again, nudging shut the drawer. Valerie had turned away. He filled the glass with water and carried it back outside.

  After the dessert was served, Carolyn motioned Joni over, then whispered in her ear. Joni looked at her askance, but obeyed Carolyn’s dismissing wave. The nurse went upstairs and returned with a cane.

  The conversation ended and a silence crept over the dinner table.

  “I feel just great tonight,” Carolyn announced. “Seeing Patrick makes me feel young again.”

  “Don’t get carried away, hon,” said Holt.

  “A few small steps for womankind,” said Carolyn.

  “May I help?” he asked, pushing back his chair.

  “You may stay right where you are. I’ll walk these four steps to Patrick on my own. Patrick, rise.”

  “Mrs. Holt,” said Fargo, “you haven’t walked in six months. Remember last time?”

  “Put a lid on it, Lane,” snapped Valerie.

  Carolyn smiled. “Patrick, rise.”

  John stood.

  Holt cast a warning glance at Joni, who nodded and moved up close to the wheelchair. The nurse removed the blanket from Carolyn’s lap, locked each tire in place, then knelt down and set Carolyn’s apparently lifeless shoes on the pavers. Carolyn scrunched forward on the seat, then set the four rubber-tipped legs of the quad cane down on the patio in front of her. She cleared her throat. Valerie quietly moved behind her.