T. Parker - The Triggerman Dance

Watching through the binoculars while the sweat ran down his back, hearing the soundtrack projected wonderfully by John's transmitter, Weinstein had been anguished at how slowly the whole thing seemed to take place. But later when he checked the time it was almost exactly as they'd planned: one minute and thirty-three seconds from the bikers' surprise encore to their final departure. Josh had taken a deep breath as he watched the war party roar away, and noticed the high-pitched, anxious smell of his own body.

Weinstein could only hope that Mickey-the giant-and Sam would make it to John's trailer undelayed, open the propane valves and toss in the flare without interference from Tim, the groundskeeper at the High Desert Rod and Gun Club. If necessary, Mickey would engage the groundskeeper. But twenty minutes after he'd set the fire, Mickey called on the cellular phone-stashed in the toolbox of his Harley-to say that all had gone well. He reported that Tim had looked on from a few hundred yards away as the two bikers did their biker thing on John Menden's helpless domicile. The four men and three bikes had zoomed up the lowered ramp and into the back of a "State-to- State" moving trailer waiting at a turnout on Highway 371, which is where Mickey had placed the call.

Of course, the best laid plans didn't amount to much without luck, and luck was what Weinstein had been praying for ever since Norton had green-lighted him after lunch that afternoon in Santa Ana. They could lead Wayfarer to water, but they couldn't make him drink. And all John could do was save the day, be polite and a little recalcitrant, and use his native likeability to sway Wayfarer toward meaningful gestures. Josh had told John to "aw-shucks the sonofabitch to death."

An invitation to stay at the Lake Riverside Estates home would be the best they could reasonably hope for. If Holt went even this far, however, there was at least a small chance that John's generous refusal ("They'd find me here pretty easy, Mr. Holt-then we'd both be out of a home.") could lead to the ultimate goal: Liberty Ridge. It was the kind of common sense pessimism that would appeal to Vann Holt.

The backup plan, if Holt offered John no sanctuary whatsoever, was to let John appeal directly to Wayfarer-at some point-for work, shelter, perhaps a little start-up loan to get a new trailer. Burning down the trailer was John's idea, and Weinstein was impressed by his informant's sense of follow-through. Weinstein also saw that John was profoundly moved by the thought of losing the trailer, nasty little piece of aluminum that it was.

Things were out of Joshua's hands now, and luck was what he needed. He had always been a lucky man, except with Rebecca Harris, and, by extension, John Menden. Guiding the van from the feed and tack parking lot after the pickup and Land Rovers had caravanned away, Josh Weinstein could not deny the faint nausea he felt at so brazenly tempting the Fates.

But one hour later, after John's mock chase of his tormentors through the Anza Valley desert, Josh's nausea was banished by pure elation. Josh parked the van two houses away from Holt's Riverside Estates home, assuming that, after the fire, this would be the logical place for Holt and his party to take John. He watched as the two Land Rovers pulled into the wide, semi-circle of a driveway, and John's Ford lumbered up behind them. Weinstein's ears roared with blood.

"God, I'm good, he whispered to Sharon.

"Yes, I am."

"We're good. We're just too damn good, Sharon. We get done with this, they'll want us to run the whole country."

"You're really not worried about that radio on his belt?"

"He's a newspaper editor, and the only full-time reporter. He's always on call. If Wayfarer has an allergic reaction to a beeper at this point, we're sunk. But we're not sunk. What we are is damned good."

The transmission came through clearly, even when John and his benefactors disappeared into the large ranch-style home. holt: Get comfortable everybody, make calls if you want. There's bathrooms all over this damned place. titisi: Not what I expected for a hunting lodge. valerie: We've got everything to drink. John? john: Not for me, thanks. valerie: Some cold water at least? john: That might hit the spot.

"Listen to him," said Weinstein, actually rubbing his long-fingered hands together in a parody of enthusiasm. "My Joe. My man. My secret agent. My handsome little goy-boy nobody can resist."

"I think he's scared," said Sharon.

"I hope so."

The transmitted conversation followed John, of course, and for ten minutes amounted to little more than polite mundanities. At one point Titisi said that he could use a few hundred men like John in Uganda. The reel-to-reel took it all. Then the moment of revelation that Weinstein had been careful not to expect, was thrown at him like a firecracker:

Holt: I was thinking we could put you up at my home in Orange County for the night. It's comfortable. I realize it would be a long commute out here to work, but I don't see any sense in stranding you here with those scum on the prowl.

John: That's really nice of you to offer, but it wouldn't sit well with me.

Holt: Relatives around here? Friends? John: Well, not exactly. I've only been in Anza Valley for a few months.

Valerie: Then what doesn't sit well? John: Well, it's an imposition for one thing. valerie: You ought to see Dad's house. He's got enough room for Juma's army, then some. Really, it could work out jus fine. It would give you a chance to let the trouble blow over, then set up a new trailer. If you plan on staying out here, that is.

Holt: He saved your life, Valerie, that doesn't mean you can run his.

John: (laughter) You know, that's really a generous offer but I don't know. It's-

Holt: It's our way of saying thank you. A small way. Please let us be generous. What you did today was beyond generosity It still hasn't really sunk in. valerie: Please?

John: Well, I really would be grateful for a place to stay tonight.

Holt: Then it's settled. You'll be comfortable with us for a night, John. We've got plenty of comfort on Liberty Ridge. John: Liberty Bridge?

Valerie: Ridge. Dad names everything. Can't even have a house without making it a proper noun. You'll like it, though- and of course your dog is welcome. I've got fourteen springers and Dad's got another six, so there's plenty of kennel run.

John: Well, there might be a problem there, because I've got two more out on the property. I left them with the groundskeeper when I went hunting this morning.

Valerie: Are you kidding? Three more dogs won't even be noticed.

Holt: She's right.

John: At some point I need to go back to the trailer and see if anything's left. I mean, I don't want to burden you with that.

Holt: Understood. We'll do it before we leave, give you a hand if you want.

John: I'd like to bury Rusty out there, too.

Holt: With honors.

John: That would be great.

"That would be just one-hundred percent totally fucking great," Weinstein whispered. "I'd scream right now, but I'm afraid they'd hear me."

"You can bellow all the way back to Orange County." "Maybe I will."

But he didn't. Instead, while Dumars drove, Josh called Norton in Washington and told him that Wayfarer was now the proud owner of Owl, Joshua's chosen code name for John.

"All the Hollywood stuff, go down okay?" Norton asked.

"One take."

"How'd it look?" "Rated X for violence."

"You didn't get the live rounds and blanks mixed up? The girl didn't rip Sammy's blood bag off his shoulder?"

"It was perfect."

"Rusty die nobly?"

"Yeah, he was great."

"Fast?"

"Instantly."

"You know that dog cost us seven thousand, four hundred dollars? That's room, board and training for three years. Club and Fang actually let us amortize him because we wouldn't be sending him back. Those wags."