T. Parker - The Triggerman Dance

By 9:30, Holt had his limit of ten quail. Valerie had nine an Lane Fargo had thirteen. They all hunted until almost eleven, giving Titisi and Randell a chance to knock a few down-which they did.

By 11:30 they had cleaned the birds, put them on ice, and loaded into the two Land Rovers for the drive into town. Holt was hungry now, and he could almost smell those burgers on the grill. Best in the desert, he thought.

"My treat at Olie's," he said, happy for the moment, glad to be thinking about nothing but birds and burgers and Valerie who sat in the passenger seat beside him, holding his hand on her lap.

Olie's is dark and cool and quiet when they walk in from the parking lot. It is a few minutes after noon and the last of the lunch rush-a young couple with a two-year old-comes through the swinging saloon door while Titisi holds it open. They young mother thanks him, but looks at him askance.

Holt takes a look at the long, picnic-style table near the jukebox, the same one he's used for the last thirty years. He is the kind of man who likes to do things the same way, time and time again, if that way works. But as he looks at the table-certainly no different than it was a year ago-a little voice begins to stir inside him. Vann Holt is also a man who listens to his voices. The voice says nothing, just a little infant-like whine, a protest or complaint of some minor nature.

"Let's sit over there," he says, motioning to a table on the other side of the room. "That looks good."

"We always sit here, Dad."

"Now we're sitting there, Valerie."

So they sit there. Holt takes a seat with his back to the wall, which is festooned with an ancient promotional beer sign that features an ersatz running waterfall with bears playing in it. Valerie sits to his left, and Lane Fargo to his right. Across from them are Titisi and Randell, and Holt is pleased to see they are now talking about the security consultants Titisi wants to employ in Kampala.

"Number of ways to go about it," says Randell, nodding.

"Competent, responsible men," says the Ugandan, somewhat obligingly, as he looks at Holt, then back to Randell. "The kind of men who can organize, train, lead. Men like you."

Holt hands out the plastic-covered menus, feigning disinterest in the business. Consultants, he thinks: young armed men willing to take risks for money, willing to kill for it. Mercenarie or the trainers of mercenaries-what was the difference?

Of course, Randell knows this, and Titisi knows he know it, but there is a certain latitude regarding definitions that must be offered at this stage. It is a courtesy. There is always the chance-very remote here, but possible just the same-that Titisi has been spun by the Federals, and his real mission is to offer Liberty Operations an opportunity to hang itself. Holt has had those opportunities before, and he is expert at keeping his company on the legitimate side of international law as it applies to security, investigations and military consultation. But gray areas do exist. Holt knows he can smell a rat from about ten miles away, though Titisi has thus far emitted a reassuring air of greed and menace, good indicators of honest intentions and trustworthiness. It always amazes Holt how cruel governments can be to their own people, in the name of helping them. On the other hand, Holt knows that Titisi can be thinking the same thing: that Vann Holt, ex-Federal, may have finally been manipulated into blowing the whistle on certain clients. It is little comfort to Titisi that he and his nation are the smallest of potatoes. At this stage, the Holy Trinity is vagueness, optimism, courtesy.

The burgers arrive and are great. Valerie, who does not like red meat, gets a grilled fish sandwich and a big salad loaded with thousand island. Lunch goes along perfectly.

Until, from outside, comes the rumble of motorcycle engines, the deep, throaty, unmistakable rasp of America's fine; the Harley-Davidson. Dust rises up in the sunlight beyond the swinging doors. The engines are gunned, then killed. To Holt it sounds like a half-dozen of them. When the doors blast open and the boots hit the wooden floor and the men barge into the quiet of Olie's Saloon, Holt sees that he is off by two. There are four men, two of them large, one skinny and tall, one simply gigantic. These are not the kind of people Vann Holt prefers as lunch guests. He looks briefly at them, then turns to his daughter and asks about Lewis and Clark.

The bikers are still taking a table when a voice carries through the disturbed atmosphere of the saloon.

"That one looks good enough to eat."

Holt ignores it, though his pulse has risen and he feels a coolness crawl across his scalp. Valerie glances at the men, then quickly back to her father. She's trying to explain how Lewis and-

"I said, hey cupcake, you look good enough to eat!”

It is impossible to ignore him now. Holt sees that it's the tall skinny one, sitting already, while his huge minions shuffle and bang around the table. Skinny has red hair, a darker red beard and a blue bandana wrapped around his head. His eyes are bulging and blue, and look ready to burst from their sockets. His arms are taut as wires, coming through the holes of the stained denim vest. They are covered with tattoos. He looks at Valerie with the dullest of smiles. His cohorts all look at Valerie, too.

She stares back at them. "Try it, and I'll blow your fucking lungs out," she says in a voice so cold it completely startles Holt.

All four of the bikers break into serious laughter, a guttural roar not unlike the sound of their machines.

Then Holt has to laugh too-does my little girl really talk like that? -and Titisi and Lane Fargo, and finally even dour Rich Randell are laughing along, though Fargo's hand slides inside his jacket to certify the readiness of whatever he is carrying in there.

After the laughter trails off, the sounds of the talking bikers fill the room and the incident appears to be forgotten, just another colorful little postcard in the lives of minor outlaws.

Holt's stomach relaxes some and he continues to eat. The pressure he feels in his head when angry, abates. He glances over at the bikers to find them deep in beer and roaring talk, blatantly insulting the waitress, arguing over what should go on the pizzas. With a little discipline and a little education, he thinks, those pigs might amount to something. Big. Strong. They might even make good Liberty Men someday. Perfect for Titisi. Maybe not so dumb as they act. Degeneration of the race, pure and simple.

Titisi finishes his second cheeseburger and focuses his attention on the double order of fries. He leans to Randell, whispers something, and they both chuckle knowingly. Lane Fargo, upright and attentive as always, has that glazed look that Holt recognizes: it means Fargo's attention is everywhere at once. Valerie has gone quiet. Holt understands that her heated little outburst embarrassed her, and now she's trying to regain composure. He knows from raising her from infancy that Valerie not a natural combatant, but rather thrives on harmony, accomplishment and love. Patrick was the same way. Yes, Carolyn clear-eyed, even temperament dominates Valerie over Holt's own reactive and heated disposition.

Suddenly the bikers stand and the giant yells back tow the kitchen: "Stuff your fuckin' pizza."

This brings another roar of moronic laughter from the rest of them, who bang through the flimsy wooden chairs and cram through the swinging doors back out into the parking lot. Skinny is last out, after tossing some bills on the table and looking Valerie again. In a gesture of purest vulgarity, he smiles at her, runs his wet red tongue over his sharp, widely spaced yell teeth, then sticks it straight out-it's astonishingly long-and wiggles the tip at her.