T. Parker - The Triggerman Dance

John turned and nodded. Partch, the blond in the tennis shirt, nodded back; Snakey simply stared at him through his black glasses, his mantis-like head unmoving. When they sat on the couch it seemed to shrink.

Fargo settled behind the desk, unlocked a drawer and removed a manila file folder, which he set before him and opened. Out came a yellow note pad. John could see some writing on the first two pages, which Fargo perused, then flipped behind the backing. Under the notepad lay some loose papers.

Fargo seemed to have a rather sunny glow about him, for Fargo. His black hair was mussed from the wind and his face looked tanned. The mustache was freshly trimmed, though it still drooped. He was back in his standard uniform: black t-shirt and jeans, black boots, black shoulder holster and automatic. A gasket of black hair sprouted up from his lower neck, rimming the collar of his shirt. He smiled, collapsing the humanity of his face into a pointy-toothed mask that suggested to John a deep and abiding sickness of soul.

"Enjoying yourself on Liberty Ridge?" Fargo asked.

"Yeah, it's nice."

"Nice," said Lane. "That's very nice. When Mr. Holt told me you'd be staying a few days, I did my usual-checked you out."

"Hope I passed," said John.

"Mr. Holt has a way of taking people in sometimes. Every once in a while, we get a bad one."

"You can count the silverware out at the cottage."

"We're not talking about silverware."

"What are we talking about?"

"For starters, Rebecca Harris. How close were you with her?"

"Not very," John answered, before he had fully assimilated the question. He now imagined The Lie-that he had scarcely even talked to her. He and Josh had perfected The Lie. To imagine The Lie was to see in his mind a black gray wall, round and tall, like the inside of a well, perhaps, and himself at the bottom of it, staring up. The wall was Rebecca.

"But how close is not very? Elaborate for me here, John-Boy-it sets the right tone and gets this little interview over quicker. If I get the feeling you're holding out, I'll just send you packing."

Your trump card is always your innocence.

"I can start packing now. I'm here because Mr. Holt invited me. I've got no reason to put up with your questions, your crap or your mustache."

Fargo stared at him for a long moment, apparently puzzled "I think I've just been dissed, Snakey."

"You have."

"Partch?"

"Definitely dissed, sir."

John heard a shuffling behind him. He had just begun turning to look when his right ear seemed to go silent, then explode He was flat on his back, looking up at Snakey's severe triangle of a face. The ringing in his head was as loud as sirens. He could clearly feel the shape of a jagged lightning bolt crackling through his brain. The next thing he knew he was upright in the chair again, holding on to the seat with both hands, his torso swaying and his equilibrium unfocused and distant as a dream.

"I won't put up with any more jesting from you, John-Boy I've got my standards of behavior here, rigidly enforced. Clear on that precept now?"

"Clear."

"That's just great. Couple of the Journal people said the thought you had the hots for Rebecca Harris."

He saw the blank gray wall. "They were wrong."

"How couldn't you? I've seen pictures of her. She was young, fresh, beautiful. How could you not have had the hots for such a thing?"

"Well, there are hots and then there are hots."

His own voice was coming through to him as if from a long distance line. There was echo, lag, static. The taste of blood filled John's mouth but when he tried to swallow all he could manage was a dry, throat-catching cough.

"And which kind of hot were you, little buddy?"

"I looked at her. I never got a look back. She was engaged.

John turned to look at the big boys, got a grin and a thumbs up from Partch, then swayingly returned his gaze to Lane Fargo.

"She tell you that?"

"Gossip, I think."

"Never talked to her?"

"Coffee machine stuff."

"Ever ask her out?"

"No."

"What?"

"No."

"Then who were you seeing at the time?"

"Nobody in particular."

"Nobody even unparticular, from what I've gathered. How were you managing the urges, Johnny? Just Rosy Palm and her five sisters?"

Suddenly, John's head cleared. The ringing was still there, but he felt his sense of balance return, settling under him like a trusted old horse.

"None of your business."

He swiveled to look back, but Partch and Snakey still sat on the couch, two giants lost in cushions. Fargo was laughing.

"You're right, Johnny-that's not my business. Where'd you get that dog?"

"Dog?"

"Rusty, the hero."

"He showed up at the club one day."

"A purebred, attack-trained German shepherd just wandered up to your trailer one day and asked for a Milk Bone?"

"He was a mess. Half-starved, no collar. My labs came close to killing him."

"When?"

"Last spring."

"So you took him in?"

"That's what I did."

"Funny."

John said nothing. The siren scream in his ear was coming and going now-a piercing whine followed by a pressured silence.

"Funny that nobody in Anza Valley ever saw you with that dog. A truckful of dogs, but no German shepherd."

John shrugged off the unobservant Anza public.

"Maybe you could explain why," said Fargo.

"He liked the trailer. He was territorial and a little mean. He wasn't the best around-town dog."

"But he was a good enough retriever to take out hunting on opening day?"

"Yes, he was."

"But how did you know he could hunt, if you hadn't had him out in bird season?"

"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."