The Triggerman Dance

Joshua had covertly situated Dumars so that she would see his entrance. Joshua easily followed the reflection of John Menden, former Journal writer, in the bar mirror, as he arrived at his usual time, took his usual route to his usual stool, and put his hat down next to him. Joshua studied him, as those in law enforcement do, for some change, some new intelligence that might illuminate a subject. He found none. Menden looked as always, tall and on the slender side, with the easy, gliding gait of an athlete or, as Weinstein knew, a hunter. He wore the long denim duster he preferred for warm weather, the scuffed moccasin-style, flat-soled boots, the work shirt and brown cotton vest in the pockets of which he kept his cigarettes, lighter and pen. Weinstein quite frankly didn't know what to make of John Menden's style of dress. It was like something out of the past, part cowboy, part Indian and part gangster, maybe, what with the hat. The clothing seemed to suit him. Weinstein had observed John here, in his daily post-work lair, a total of five times, and the costume John wore had come to seem less foppish than simply eclectic and functional. As for Weinstein's own clothes, he had come in various guises—businessman, golfer, tourist, local—wanting neither Menden nor the regulars of Olie's to remember him. Joshua noted again that John's hair was the mix of brown and blond common to those who spend a lot of time outdoors, and it was kind of shaggy, falling onto a forehead from which he often had to push it back. His eyes were a pale gray. Like a lot of tall people, Menden stooped slightly, a habit developed early to help him fit into the pack, Josh decided. He smiled rarely and appeared relaxed. But Joshua had noted long ago that Menden's eyes were always alert and busy, whether he was choosing a bar stool, lighting a cigarette or taking a sip from the shots and beers he drank. Weinstein had learned from a routine medical history check that

Menden's uncorrected eyesight was 20/15, impressive for anyone, especially a thirty-four-year old who made a living reading and writing. Yes, Weinstein had decided, John Menden's physical nonchalance was good camouflage for his greedy, gathering eyes. Weinstein was pleased to see the interest in Sharon Dumars's expression as she watched Menden sit down. He had expected no less.

The waitress approached John with a hearty, "Hello, handsome."

"Hi, gorgeous," John said back, again as usual.

If anyone ever wanted to do a number on John Menden, it would sure be easy, Weinstein thought for the hundredth time. He's reliable as cement. Weinstein glanced through the smudged window to Menden's pickup truck outside in the shade and the brown Labrador retriever standing in the bed. The big dog was diligently regarding the saloon doors through which he had watched his master disappear. Menden called him Boomer. Beside Boomer was a yellow Labrador, smaller and female. Weinstein, not a dog man, was pretty sure this one was Bonnie. Not visible, but surely laying in the truck bed somewhere, would be the old black lab that John called Belle. Weinstein had yet to see Menden go anywhere without this herd. Yes, thought Weinstein, Menden is predictable as a country song. We would have to change that.

And this was certainly not the biggest of Weinstein's worries about John Menden. What disturbed him most was his belief that Menden's easy charm and rough good looks—so adroitly used on women, no doubt—were the tools of a man who could take no pressure. A coward. And his drinking. God, the fellow could put the stuff away. But again, like so many times in the last six months, Joshua was way ahead of himself.

During the time it took Weinstein and Dumars to drink one cola each, the waitress brought John Menden two beers and a shot of something. Weinstein and Dumars talked shop for a while.

Then, abruptly, Weinstein got up and made his way across the room to the window where John Menden sat.

Weinstein had been imagining this moment for almost two months now. As he approached he could feel the slight speed-up of his heartbeat, and the warmth that always came to his ears when something was important, or dangerous, or much desired.

When he had been around Rebecca Harris, for example, his damned ears had been on fire all the time. But Weinstein was now better at divorcing himself from his own symptoms. He saw himself standing beside the stool with the hat on it, viewing up close for the first time the man he hoped might someday help accomplish the greatest mission of his—Joshua Weinstein's—life.

"I want to talk to you," he said.

Menden looked him straight in the face, then starting down at Joshua's black wingtips, gave him a longish assessment that ended with his eyes again on Weinstein's own.

"Then I guess you better get started. This is your fifth time in here if I'm counting right, which I am."

"I'm with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. My name is Weinstein, and I want to talk to you about Rebecca Harris."