The Triggerman Dance

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.

Valerie blushes and looks away.

Holt is about to speak, but Skinny is on his way now, barging past the doors with a phlegm chuckle.

"Let's get out of here," says Valerie.

"Sit tight," says Lane Fargo, his eyes trained on the swing doors. "Let them go."

The motorcycle engines boom to life with that slapping mechanical flatulence of the Harley. One, two . . . three. Holt can see the exhaust rising from the lot outside. The last bike kicks over and joins the chorus; the engines are gunned to a deafen pitch. Then the clutches release and the bikes scream out of parking lot, headed south on Highway 371. Holt follows their diminishing sound.

He counts some money onto the table, then slides back chair. "Well? Shall we try to find some more birds? Something other than vultures? Lane, have a look out there, will you?"

"Love to."