The Triggerman Dance

Evan was large and heavy, but when he rose from the table to shake hands, John noted he was not fat. His hand was fleshy and strong. He looked sixty. His hair was straight, gray and cut short. His complexion was gray also, as was his suit. His blue eyes had a mirthless patina, echoed by deep frown lines that ran down from the sides of his mouth and joined those creasing upward from the knot of his chin. A forty-year, two-pack a day cigarette eater, John guessed. But the dour face contradicted itself with a wide and reassuring smile featuring two rows of stunningly white false teeth. He looked to John Menden like a veteran of quiet, unrecorded wars.

They sat around an oval oak table with a dull finish, vintage 1970. There were six plastic placemats depicting floral arrangements, and dust on the surface of the table between them. Four of the places were set with flatware and paper napkins. Beside Evan's fork was a green plastic ashtray, used. The dining room was wallpapered light brown, and a rococo chandelier hung over the center of the table. In the connecting kitchen a young Latino woman poured the contents of a large saucepan into a steaming skillet and regarded John with a profoundly uninterested expression. The house smelled of cilantro and meat.

"What kind of trailer do you have?" Evan asked. His voice was rough and had a very slight Texas drawl.

"It's a Holiday Rambler twenty-nine," said John. "Built in seventy-three."

"Got the power jacks?"

"Yeah. Dual propane tanks and an air conditioner that still works."

Evan's throat rumbled a little and his big smile flashed. "Had a coach myself—a little Airstream—back when I was young. Hunted all over Texas with it—quail, dove, turkey, deer. You name it. I hear you hunt."

"Lots of quail out where I live."

"But you don't use pointers?"

"Flushing dogs, three labs."

"The bobwhite in Texas lock down pretty hard. Need a pointer to show you the way."

"The ones out here like to run. They won't hold for a point except for opening day, maybe."

Evan nodded. He looked at John, then at Sharon, then at the cook in the kitchen. "I miss those days. Young and carefree and the whole of Texas to play in. Me and my brother. You have a brother?"

"No family."

Evan seemed to think about this, nodding absently. "You all grew up right here, didn't you?"

"With my uncle. Just a few miles away."

"How come you've never been married?"

"Never met the right woman."

Evan said nothing, but locked a long evaluating stare onto John Menden's face. "Ever knock one up? Send her to the clinic?"

"Once. High school."

"How'd you feel about that?"

"Sick."

"Not as sick as she felt, though."

"It was bad."

"You a carnivore?"

"Yes, I am."

"Good. We've got some carnitas here for lunch."

The cook emerged with three plates balanced on her left arm and one in her right hand. She served Evan first, then Sharon. While she set out the plates, Evan stared at the dusty table top. She returned a moment later with a small plastic tortilla warmer for each of them.

"Bless this food, amen," Evan mumbled, then stuffed the paper napkin into his shirt collar. "Believe in God, John?"

"Yes." John thought a moment. "But I don't claim that He believes in me."

Evan liked this. He laughed from deep down in his chest, and the dead patina over his eyes turned moist and vibrant. "That's good. Last time I checked, He wasn't convinced of my being, either. Busy old bastard, I would think. Spends most of his time worrying about babies and the devil."

Mild laughter.

"To Wayfarer," said Weinstein, holding out his freshly filled glass of iced tea. "Since you mentioned the devil."

John and Dumars clicked glasses with him. Evan rattled the ice in his, but didn't extend it. He set it down without drinking, then plucked a tortilla from his warmer and spooned some pork into it.

"I like to serve pork to Joshua," said Evan. "He won't eat it unless I order him to. Of course, he loves the stuff."

Weinstein smiled rather sourly, but loaded some of the steaming carnitas into a tortilla. "Evan loves to find a sore spot, then heal it," he said. "Then rip it open again, then heal it. He's a sadist with a Christ complex, or a Christ with a sadistic side—I haven't figured out which. One of the comforts of my life is that he lives and works on the other side of the continent."

Dumars laughed. "You'd join him in a heartbeat in Washington, if you could."

"No," said Weinstein with his customary gravity. "Wayfarer first. Everything else can wait."

Dumars did one of those downspiraling little chuckles meant to clear the stage.

"You a drinking man, John?" asked Evan.

"When I feel like it."

"Feel like it often?"

"Pretty much so."

"I do, too. Skipped all our wars, didn't you?"

"I was too young for Vietnam."

"Ever feel like you missed out?"

"I had a friend in Grenada. One in the Gulf. They wrote and we talked. I felt like I'd missed little wars and wasn't the worse for it. They did a good enough job without me."

"Would you have gone, in a draft?"

"Sure. They did."

"How come you never registered?"