The Triggerman Dance

By the time they parked, her hair was a bird's nest of tangle that she attempted to organize in the mirror, then matter-of factly gave up on.

"Let's go consume," she said. "Be good little wheels in the capitalist machine."

"I'll bet your dad cringes when you talk like that."

"He loathes consumer society. I think he'd bomb this place if he had a chance."

"No offense meant."

"None taken. I'm going to buy you something for what you did yesterday."

"I can't live off my reputation forever," he said. "How about I buy my own clothes?"

"Fine. Then I'll accessorize you."

"No, really—"

"—Put a lid on it, Mr. Menden. You saved me from a rape and maybe more, and it cost you a dog and a home. So I can buy you some stuff if I want to. End of argument, White Knight."

She bought him three pairs of pants, three shirts and three pairs of shoes at a store billing itself as an "outfitter." He gravitated to the sale items but Valerie seemed unfazed by price. At a department store he stocked up on socks and underwear while Valerie wandered off, only to return bearing a light jacket, a sweater and three neckties. She insisted on a cream linen summer-weight suit, with a shirt that matched and a shirt that complemented it, countering his protests with threats to buy more. At a drug emporium he got toiletries and some personal things. At a pet store so overpriced he could hardly believe it, John got a forty-pound bag of food for his batallion.

They stopped for lunch in Laguna Beach. The cafe was little more than a few plastic tables and chairs strung along a cliff-top overlooking the ocean. They sat at the far end. The breeze was stiff from the water, crumbling the little waves onto the beach and trying to blow away their menus. Valerie's lifted off but she caught it mid-air.

"Nice grab."

"The Softball years."

While Valerie ordered, John took the opportunity to study her. He knew from Joshua that she was twenty-two. He guessed her height at five feet eight, but was never any good at women's weights because they always seemed to weigh less than he thought they would. Average, he decided, maybe average plus a few, because Valerie Holt had a full but shapely body that seemed somehow to have retained just a hint of girlish fat. This gave her limbs a taut smoothness, as opposed to the weight-room definition of movie stars and models. Her wrists were slender, her fingers long and beautifully shaped, though the nails were cut short for her hunting and field work with the dogs. Her face was full, with a smattering of freckles on each cheek. Other than the freckles her complexion was flawless and had that kind of moist glow that speaks of health, youth, a body working well. Her mouth was wide and her lips quite pink without lipstick, and when she smiled her teeth were large and even, the kind of teeth no orthodontist could improve. Her nose was small. Her eyes were a dark chocolate brown in the strident October light. To John, her most delicate features were her brows, which arched finely to an inquisitive peak then angled down to frame her calm, steady eyes.

This arch made her look almost uncertain at times, skeptical perhaps, giving her face an expression of intelligence and doubt. Her forehead was high and round, suggesting a youth belied by her twenty-two years. It was the kind of head, John mused, that would still look good when Valerie Holt was eighty years old Her hair at this point was still pulled away from her face in a wind-blown tail of gold and light copper. Valerie was by any standards a beautiful young woman, a woman still growing and still unfinished.

She can be a useful tool, an unwitting voice, a conduit. You can know her only to use her.

"Well," she asked, glancing up from the breeze-bent menu "Did I pass my physical?"

"Sorry. Yes."

"You're forgiven. You are a writer, after all."

"Always studying."

"Like what you see?"

He looked down at his own menu, shrugging. "The chicken sandwich sounds good."

She laughed. "You big oaf. That's what you are—a big sweet oaf. An accidental hero. A mystery man with a quick gun and long coat and a shy streak. What am I?"

He looked at her, summoning distance. "A beautiful young woman with a whole life in front of her."

"Not just a girl with a brain the size of a table grape and way more money than she needs?"

"Naw."

"Good, because you'll be sitting next to me tonight at the grad dinner. It's going to be quite the affair, and you have to b there because you are a guest of honor."

"Grad dinner?"

"Dad gives a bash for his new Holt Men every six month when they finish training."

"He calls them Holt Men?"

"That's what they are," she said cheerfully. "They're just glorified security guards, even though Dad educates the hell out of them. But you're the guest everyone's dying to meet."

"Hmmm."

"Hmmm nothing. It's a perfect time to wear your new suit.'

"Okay, mom."