The Triggerman Dance

"That's because she never saw me with him."

"Coincidence, I guess. Speaking of pictures, I like this one."

Fargo picked a sheet out of his file and set it, facing John, on the desktop. It was a blown-up version of the photograph taken by the Journal photographer in the parking lot: Rebecca by the planter in the rain, with the five newspaper employees approaching in varying attitudes of horror. John was in the center, stepping toward her as if all things could be remedied. The rain spills off his fedora and his leather duster is blown by the wind. He looked at the picture but he saw only the gray wall of The Lie.

"That's you there, isn't it?"

"Yeah."

"Look pretty rattled."

"You would have been, too."

"How'd you get there so fast?"

"I was heading for my car. End of the work day."

"You two have a little rendezvous set up that evening?"

John said nothing for a moment. He just looked at Fargo and thought how satisfying it would be to slam a shotgun butt into his face.

"You're boring me," said John.

"What about Susan Baum? Know her?"

"Not well. Didn't have the hots for her, either, Fargo. She's more your type."

Fargo leaned back and offered his rotting smile. "Keep in touch with her, Baum?"

"No."

"Like her?"

John hesitated. "Not really."

"Too political? Too liberal? Too pushy and self-centered?"

"We finally agree."

"Ever argue with her at work?"

"Nobody at the Journal argued with Susan Baum."

"She must have hated your outdoor articles."

"In fact, she did."

"You two never had a big blowout, then one of those reconciliation’s where you're both so happy you suddenly love each other forever? You know—fight on the playground Monday, best friends Tuesday?"

"We weren't on a playground."

"Haven't kept in touch with her since you left?"

"I don't keep in touch with any of the Journal people."

"Well, why not? You worked with some of them for almost three years."

John was silent for a moment. He turned around to look at Snakey and Partch. He could see himself mixing it up with Fargo, but not with either of these two. He wondered if they'd graduated cum laude from the Liberty Ops martial arts program.

"People move on, Fargo. You've sure got a rudimentary mind."

"I'm just curious, John-Boy. See, you've been gone six months but you haven't so much as called one of your old drinking buddies? Not one of the butts you chased around on Friday evenings after work when you'd all get boozed up? Seems you just dumped them all for no good reason."

"I'm slow to make friends."

"I can see why, John-Boy! What, do you mumble and blush every time someone tries to like you? Or do you act like you're acting now, all defensive?"

"Um-hm."

"Just gave them all up, moved away to tumbleweed city to live in an aluminium box. Just found a trained attack dog that saved little Val's life. Just happened to wander by Olie's that day, like you did in the Journal parking lot. Just happened to be packing your piece. Just happened to shoot up a couple of bikers. Funny none of them got a shot off at you. So you go from the skids all the way to Liberty Ridge in one fell swoop, never even losing your hat. You've got good fortune, don't you John-Boy?"

"It seemed better about twenty minutes ago."

"Funny that biker you shot didn't require any medical attention. Looked to me like you blew his ball and socket in half. No gunshot wounds treated that day in Riverside County—no shoulder wounds, that is. Your victim must have guzzled whiskey, bit a bullet and had a redhead named Kitty or Cora Lee pull out that slug with her teeth."

"If I were him, I'd have dodged the doctors, too."

Fargo put the photograph and legal pad back in the folder and closed the cover. He looked at John a little gloomily now, his smile suspended somewhere back in his dark and hostile face.

"Oh, it's all innocent enough, John—I know it is. No, it's really truly heroic. It all fits. A place for everything and everything in its place. I just worry too much. I imagine things. I always wonder why people arrive and depart, why they do what they do. Hey, I'm head of security for the head of a security company. So I'm secure. I'm so secure I see a plot every time the sun comes up. It's just my nature. With Mr. Holt due to leave tomorrow, I thought it would be prudent to get a fix on you. No good having a person of low moral character lurking around here, what with young Valerie so fresh and trusting. Yeah, conspiracies everywhere—that's what I'm paid to see. And to be truthful, it's really kind of a fun way to live."

"Thanks for having my eardrum smashed."

"Just a little pop, John. You won't even remember it twenty years from now."

"Can I go?"