The Triggerman Dance

But when he had met Rebecca Harris, engaged though she was, he easily foresaw her presence in his life. She had simply arrived. Up to that point, John had not believed that destiny was anything more than what you decided to do, but the connection he felt to Rebecca made him reconsider. Rebecca wasn't so much a discovery as a recognition.

He had puzzled over this for many nights, wondering if the circumstances of a man's life could conspire to lead him to the one woman destined to join him. It was a corny idea, or was it? Either way, it had happened.

But how could he possibly explain to this woman what he had found, what he knew? It was like having an album of the world's most beautiful music, and nothing to play it on.

Weinstein shuttled between the kitchen and the deck. As John put the chicken on the grill, Weinstein arrived holding his third cocktail, already half gone, John's bottle of Herradura and a handful of limes. He set the bottle and the limes on the railing, then took a seat toward the sunset and drank from his glass.

"I don't usually drink this much," he said.

"You seem to be enjoying it."

"We've got so much to do," Weinstein said thoughtfully. "But no, I don't want to talk about that right now. I want to talk about Rebecca."

John looked at him, then returned his attention to the sizzling hens. Through the smoke, he was aware of Weinstein's eyes upon him.

Joshua drank deeply. "Did her letter surprise you? Had you intuited that she was about to leave me for you?"

John opened the bottle and took a sip of the Herradura. It was warm and sweet in his mouth, and tasted like the desert and the maguey it was made out of. "I knew she had to decide. The time for that had come. I thought she'd stay with you."

Weinstein grunted. "I knew she was leaving. I watched her do it, minute by minute, day by day, month by month. I didn't know who it was. I didn't ask. My father died of cancer when I was twenty-two. It was similar. A slow march, but you understand where it will end. Don't say you're sorry. You can say anything you want about Rebecca, but don't say you're sorry."

John said nothing, but repositioned the chicken on the grill. He took another sip of tequila.

"How come you don't drink that stuff with limes and salt?" Weinstein asked.

"It ruins the taste."

"Is it really hallucinogenic, like they say?"

"No, not for me."

"Does it make you mean?"

"No. It's a green, feminine spirit. It's calming compared to, say, Scotch or gin. Not so angular."

"A feminine spirit," repeated Weinstein. "You fucked Rebecca for the first time on January the ninth, didn't you?"

"That's right."

"I could tell from the look on her face when I saw her that night. Here, was it?"

"Downstairs."

"Bedroom?"

"You really want to know these things, Josh?"

"Yes, John. I want to know them. I have my ways of tending her memory, just like you have yours. What did she do when you finished?"

"She cried."

"Did you cry, too?"

"No."

"How did you feel?"

John sipped again from the bottle as a fresh billow of smoke emerged from the coals. "I felt like I'd finally come home, after long time away."

Weinstein smiled unhappily. "Did you tell her that?"

John nodded.

"You're a real smoothie," said Weinstein. "I never really had that gift myself."

"What gift is that?"

"Telling women the right thing. The thing they want to hear even if they don't believe it."

"Well, I don't know, Josh."

"That's what you are, John—a smooth-talking Romeo."

John took another sip of the Herradura. It was apparent him that Joshua Weinstein was spoiling for a fight, or at least for a way to define John lowly, and believe the definition. Part tending the memory, he thought. It didn't seem right to resist, really, but you couldn't just stand there in your own house, 1 some fellow serve you a plate of shit and pretend to enjoy it.

"An hour ago, it was my stupid honesty with Evan you we complaining about," he said. "Now I talk smoothly. Whatever had that Rebecca liked, you must have had some of, too."

Weinstein took another big gulp of his drink. A visible shudder traveled down his neck. "That's wrong. I've concluded that we are opposites. That, in fact, the reasons she went to you were to acquire what I couldn't supply. Smooth talk was one thing. And cool another. I'm not cool, John. I'm a hot little New York Jew, and nothing can change that. She loved that about me. But what you are, she loved more. You've got the tongue, Menden. You've got the look and the cool. You've got the qualities promoted on cold-filtered beer commercials and ads for sports cars. You've got a touch of something few women can really resist. It's part Hollywood, part myth."

"Don't undermine her," said John.

"Accuracy before sentiment. The truth may not get us far, but lies get us nothing but lost."

"The truth is she loved us both, and for the time it took her to write that letter at least, she thought she loved me more."

"She wasn't fickle. That letter was her heart."