The Triggerman Dance

by T. Jefferson Parker

  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.

  Valerie listens to her father, talks with Thurmond Messinge to her right and looks at John from across the table. He can fee her attention on him even when she's looking away, and it worries him that Vann Holt must sense the same thing. But it feels reassuring to know that he is not totally alone here. His eyes ar drawn directly to her. They are not willing to look past, through or around her. In the light of the candles above, she radiates restless, almost ungovernable energy.

  You can know her only to use her.

  Between his undeniable attention to Valerie, John still n
ote the face of every guest. Beside him is Mary Randell, a talkative woman in her early fifties with a wizened complexion, the high cheekbones of an Iroquois and a long mane of gray-black hair, Mary is happy to tell John about the interesting characters sitting around the table, spicing her resume of each with at least on tidbit of the personal. "And next to Laura is Mike O'Keefe, brilliant motivator but a terrible doubles partner. He can't handle pace to his backhand. And Adam Sexton? He brings in piles of money to the company. Cocky kid—the only one around who doesn't worship Vann like a god." She is the wife of Rich, whom John knows is part of the Liberty Ops team trying to draw the business of Juma Titisi.

  The Ugandan himself sits at the far end of the table, opposite Holt, expansive in his tux and Oxford English. John collects every nugget of information with some effort, because although his mind is keen and capacious, he's not sure what might be important to Joshua and what might be redundant. He doesn't want to miss a thing. He was told to gather so that Joshua could edit; horde so Josh could winnow. John has always been good at collecting facts—a reporter's first task—so before the evening is over he knows the name, face, occupation and at least one person; item about everyone in the room. Laura Messinger, for instance, has two children from a previous marriage, while Thurmom twenty years her senior, has none.

  The food is incomparably good. Elk and venison, pheasant and chukar, garden greens, basmati rice with slivered almond frijoles covered with the cilantro sauce, dill-sprinkled rolls, cold asparagus spears with vinaigrette. Holt is unabashedly proud of the dinner, most of which he either grew or shot. He says he killed the elk early last fall while the forage around Jackson Hole was still sweet, and you could taste the berries in the meat. An elk shot deeper into the season would taste of the sparse feed and the stress of winter.

  "Do you hunt Anza Valley a lot?" he asks John.

  "The last ten seasons, anyway."

  "Ever try that meadow out by Copper Saddle, where the old water tank is?"

  "There's a nice little covey in there."

  "So it's you picking over my quail! Funny we've never run into each other."

  "Big desert, Mr. Holt. I usually hunt early, then get out."

  "Those labradors take the heat okay?"

  "Well, they're not designed for it. They go through five gallons of water on a hot morning."

  "Why not hunt springers?"

  "Labradors have the kind of character I get along with."

  Valerie joined in then, with words of warning. "Dad, don't try to convert a dog man. It's more personal than religion or politics—you taught me that."

  Holt smiles, reaches out and touches his daughter's cheek. "What were you doing with that heroic German shepherd yesterday? And don't tell me you taught him how to flush quail."

  "Well, someone did, sir. He was on them all spring and summer, so I gave him a try opening day."

  "I'll be damned. He looked purebred."

  "I'd say."

  "Who'd let a thousand-dollar dog just wander off?"

  "People aren't always bright."

  Holt beholds John and sips his wine. "Poor boy."

  To conclude dinner Holt stands and offers a toast to the new Holt Men. It is brief and alludes to the fact that Holt considers Holt Men extensions of himself. He then offers a toast to John Menden, "a good shot and a good man and a good stroke of luck. An honorary Holt Man," he says to polite applause.

  "Hey Vann," yells Sexton, "Get him a little orange and black costume to wear!"

  Uncertain laughter follows.

  After dinner Holt offers John a tour of the Big House. Drinks in hand, they wander the first floor rooms—living, entertainment, den, guest and gun rooms—in which Holt does not seem particularly interested. Then they climb a wide wooden stairway with rough-hewn banisters and leather-capped railings, to the second floor. Here, Holt explains, are the bedroom suites—his wife's, his daughter's, his own and an extra. He hesitates for a moment and John awaits some further elucidation, but Holt merely crosses the tiled landing and continues up the stairs to the third story. Holt shows him the library, a colossal room lined with bookshelves and furnished with very old leather sofas and rawhide chairs. Mission-era trunks serve as tables. Two large French doors open to a balcony and observation deck. Behind a heavy oak door along one wall is Holt's office. He makes them fresh drinks, very strong, from a small bar that swings up from what John thought was a steamer trunk. John looks at the fireplace, a generous cavern overhung by an adobe-and-timber mantle, with nineteenth century wrought iron tools hung from stout dowels protruding from the hearth facade. He notes the smell of leather and fire, cigar smoke and the pages of old books. He thinks that this is the best smelling room he's ever been in.

  "I like this room a lot," he says.

  "My favorite. Here, let's get an overview."

  From the balcony they climb a flight of outdoor stairs to the platform of the observation deck. John can see the northern shore of the lake, the hillsides of Liberty Ridge, the ocean, the chaparral and a distant section of luminous freeway to the east, and the dark carpet of orange trees spreading north toward the heart of the county.

  "Try the telescope."

  John trains the instrument first on the lake, then on the back of the cottage in which he spent the night, then swings it west to reveal a silver Pacific.

  "Do you have strong eyes?" Holt asks.

  "I'm lucky that way. Why?"

  "Curious. Envious, maybe."

  "You've got a lot here to be envious of, Mr. Holt. I've never seen a place like this."

  "Have you seen the grounds, the groves?"

  "Just from a distance."

  "Maybe you'll get a closer look sometime."

  "What are all the buildings for?"

  "Executives. Staff for the house and grounds. Citrus workers live in the cottages down where the groves start, but you can't see those from here."

  "I didn't know you owned Liberty Operations."

  Holt nods.

  "Are you an investigator, then, a private policeman?"

  Holt chuckles. "Of sorts. What I really do is just make people feel safe."

  Ever make Rebecca Harris feel safe?

  "... I kind of fell into it. Everyone's afraid these days and they pay me to make it go away. I fell into a bucket of money, too. To be truthful, though, there was already plenty of that in the family."

  "Well, you've certainly prospered."

  "Liberty Ridge is a pearl of great price. Most things in life come with a price."

  John nods and lets the heavy telescope rest on its brass fulcrum.

  "How can I reward you for what you did?"

  "You already have."

  "I'd be grateful if you would let me buy you a new trailer."

  "Well, trailers aren't real expensive, you know. What I mean is, with a few weeks pay I'd have enough for a down payment, so it's not going to be a—"

  "—What did your last one cost?"

  "Just twenty-five hundred. It was almost twenty-years old, but they made them better back then. Some of them."

  "Consider it done, then, that your next trailer will be a gift from the Holt family. You will choose it and all the options, of course."

  "No, really . . . that doesn't seem right, sir."

  "What doesn't seem right? I don't understand you."

  John turns to face Holt now, an act of self-confidence and of self-revelation. Holt's eyes, behind the thick glasses, have an unfiltered, unrestrained voraciousness in them. They look insatiable and incapable of pity, simple organs of procurement. John believes that now is the time to—as Joshua put it—bait the hook. You'll sense the moment to show him what you keep inside, John.

  You'll sense the time to let him glimpse something in you that he possesses, too. When you do, give him a clear whiff of himself.

  "Mr. Holt, I just did what I thought was right. To be honest with you, it gave me a chance to be a little hero, which fulfills a nice daydream I've had since I was a boy. Every ma
n's fantasy, to rescue a king and his princess. I got to have a nice dinner and meet some good people. On a less noble note, it gave me a chance to put the fear of God into a bunch of bastards. Felt good. I've wondered a couple of times how it would have felt to just gut-shoot that turd and let him bleed to death beside my dog. Truth is, I'm afraid it would have felt a little too good. And I didn't want to face the paperwork."

  Holt is silent for a long moment. Then he laughs. "My, oh my, what lurks in the heart of Menden. I understand."

  "Do you?"

  "Of course. What thinking man wouldn't?"