The Triggerman Dance

"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.