The Triggerman Dance

So were the four young men in the booth. It felt strange to Holt to confront people so powerless yet so harmful. As a boy, he had killed rattlesnakes by cracking them by the tail like whip He was smart enough to do this only in early spring or late fall when the reptiles were chilled and slow. It fascinated him that; something could be deadly, yet helpless. Later, at the Bureau, the same wonderment came to him when he made his first arrest With very few exceptions, the crooks were afraid, confused and overmatched. But they could kill you, too. That was what kept your blood warm, your eyes keen and your hand steady. Any one of those nervous little men might be the one to shoot you dead with a cheap little gun. Many years later, when Holt began to lose respect for his quarry, he knew he had become vulnerable This was what led him to the more sophisticated game—the subversives, the assassins, the terrorists—because they were manifestly dangerous and they engaged his fear. As he gazed down at this tiny gang unit before him, at the clench-jawed little thing they called a leader, Holt thought: this is deadly vermin. Don't forget it.

Deadly, pathetic and outlined in red. One option, he thought again, is just to kill them all and let God sort them out.

Into Holt's mind now flashed the image of his wife laboring four steps across the patio. He blinked slowly, leaving his eyes closed for just a moment so that he could see Carolyn without a red halo on her. And his memory took another leap back, but a much deeper one this time, and it landed Vann Holt in a darkened bedroom many years ago with his wife up close beside him and their mouths locked together. He could smell her breath.

Then he opened his eyes and turned to John. "She was perfect for a while."

Holt shook the vision from his head, then focused on the boys in the booth. There they were, little lapsed Catholics wearing red halos. Truculent bastards, he thought, what do they have, maybe twenty-five mustache hairs each? Boys.

"Behold," he said. "Uneducated, barely literate. Lazy for the most part, due to the Indian blood. Given to binge drinking to replicate the old rites of peyote and mescaline. But a sixer of malt liquor doesn't give you interesting visions. Just gives you a bad mood. No future to speak of for these guys. They've never seen anybody from their streets really make it. What do they have to go on? Television? Isn't that right, boys?"

"We make it out if we want, man," said the leader. "We got roots and we got family here. We take care of each other. We die for each other, if we have to. What're you anyway, whitebread gringo shitface, a fuckin' philosopher?"

Holt looked at John. Still in a red halo. A little more red in it, maybe. But he was pleased to see the impassive expression on John's face, and the alertness of his eyes. He might be getting this, Holt thought: it actually might get through to him. He's capable of understanding.

"And that right there, what he just said, is the shame of it all," continued Holt. "See, John, these guys have the warrior's spirit inside of them. Most boys do—twelve to twenty-five or so. They're full of testosterone, bravery, idealism and anger. Perfect warrior material. He's not kidding—they'll die for each other. Do it all the time. Parties. Weddings. Funerals. Any event you can drive past in a car and pop some rounds at. But there's the rub. Parties aren't wars and drive-bys are for cowards. No war, no warrior. What you've got is a mean little creep with a flannel shirt. A goddamned blue rag wrapped around his puny head. It's a waste. And it's a shame and it killed my boy and wrecked my wife."

With this, Holt looked down at the boys again. "You remember shooting my wife and boy?"

"We didn't shoot nobody, man. That was Ruiz and Ruiz disappear."

"But there's some Ruiz in all of you. That's the part I'm talking to. I'm in your face right now because that kid was my son and that woman was my woman. Because I don't want you to forget what I look like. I want you to understand something, boys. I'm watching you. My men are watching you. We know you. We're here, even when you don't see us. We would have killed you all a long time ago if I thought it would do any good. But I haven't. It's not because I've forgiven you, or ever will. Not because you don't deserve to die. It's because there are too many of you and I'd have to kill you all. Don't have the time or the bullets for that. If I did, well, you'd be bleeding on that floor right now, like Patrick did after you shot him. Like my wife did. So don't ever think you got away with it. You didn't get away with anything. I've got your numbers. I'll call them in on the day I choose to. I'm all over you. Each and every one of you. I'm in the air, man. I'm the badass gringo ghost and you can't get rid of me. I'm everywhere. This is my turf. My blood is on it."

Holt raised his right hand and aimed his forefinger into the face of one of the boys. The kid had paled.

"Whose turf is this, son?"