The Triggerman Dance

"I actually forgot. No action when I was eighteen. No draft. No point in it."

"You committed a felony by not seeing the point in it."

"You could arrest me," said John.

"No. That helps us. That's okay. When this is all over and it's become a fiasco, you—an alcoholic, draft-dodging, abortion-happy, meat-hunting woman stealer—will be lots easier to discredit."

"The hood I wore will help, too."

Weinstein almost choked on his tea. "Why do you talk like that, Evan?"

"I'm paid to talk like that. I'm the tire-kicker, John, the guy with fingers in the carb. You're lucky, though, because you don't have to deal with me. Young Joshua here does. The Bureau is annealing him in my still strong but fading flame. My task here is to make sure we aren't going into an operation with a complete idiot—I'm speaking now of you. My task is to make sure the Bureau gets what it wants and that you don't get dead. We're dealing with assassins. Anybody who'd shoot a woman from three hundred yards would shoot you in the face from two. So if I'm a little blunt, consider it a thorough check under the hood."

"Check away."

"Why do you want to do this?" Evan asked.

John didn't answer immediately. Joshua had told him that this question would come, and that his answer must be right. The right answer, Joshua had said, was to avenge the death of Rebecca Harris. John could not indicate that the arrest of Wayfarer would complete some personal cycle for him, could not imply great personal hatred of Wayfarer, could not suggest that he, John, was after any form of redemption. His desire was to be nothing other than a temporary tool for the execution of justice. You are just doing your duty—like voting. But John had never cottoned to Joshua's instruction on this point.

"Because I hate the bastard who shot Rebecca, and I'd like to see him rot in jail. It would make me feel better."

Weinstein's face reddened, so he directed it down toward his plate. Dumars just looked at John, then at Evan.

Evan blinked, then smiled. "Tugging at the collar a little early, aren't you? Joshua will make you pay for that little outburst. That kind of heated honesty might, under the coming circumstances, get you killed."

"You need to know," said John. "You already know. If you didn't, I wouldn't be here. Wayfarer doesn't."

"Christ in heaven let's hope not." ,

Weinstein was shaking his head toward his plate, as if the carnitas had misbehaved.

"But seriously, John, we have no proof at all that Wayfarer even knows who Rebecca Harris was. He's an innocent man. And God knows, he's lethal. That, my friend, is a dangerous combination."

"I take one step at a time. That's all. One little step at a time. I trust these two people."

Weinstein sighed and finally looked up.

Evan took a long moment to study John, then commenced building another pork taco. "I'm curious," he said finally. "I'm curious about how it felt to be poking Rebecca Harris while she made plans to marry someone else. Can you help me out a little here?"

"No, I can't. That's none of your business."

"Oh, it's most definitely my business."

"Then use your imagination, or go to a library, or call a radio shrink and ask. I won't talk to you about her. She's not a part of this. If that means the whole thing is over, then the whole thing is absolutely over. Don't say her name again. I don't like the way it comes out of your mouth."

Evan stared at John. His eyes were dry, unblinking. "I'll tell you this, Mr. Menden—if you worked for me and said that, I'd slap the living shit out of your head and get you assigned to Alaska."

John shrugged. "Guess I wasn't cut out for Bureau work."

"No. You're the kind of smart guy who likes to stay solo, make his own mistakes, achieve martyrdom. I don't. Joshua doesn't. Sharon doesn't. We're team players. We're real Feds. What we like to do is win."

"I can stand winning."

"You better be ready to. I'll do almost anything to win."

They finished the meal. When it was over and the cook had cleared the dishes, Evan dropped his briefcase onto the table, opened it and removed a stack of paper.

"Loosen up your trigger finger, John," he .said. "You've got about a hundred forms to sign. They remove us from any liability for you. They protect us from just about anything you might say to a court of inquiry. They prevent you from going public with anything you do or learn while working with us, whether for private profit, or the catharsis of a guilty conscience, or simply getting back at the bastards who used you. The forms are all standard. I wouldn't even bother trying to read them if I were you. Basically, you're giving away the ranch, and that's the way we like it."

He passed the stack to Dumars, who laid it beside John's elbow.

John didn't look down at the papers. "I need to know what the plan is. I need to know what I'm going to be asked to do."

"You need to what?" asked Evan. "To know}"