The Triggerman Dance

With her arm again on John's, Laura Messinger leads him into the living room. "Oyez, oyez," she calls in a mellifluous voice, "John Menden. "Heads turn: two dozen of them, men in dinner jackets an women in dresses, tanned healthy faces, mostly middle-aged bi some old and some young, expressions of polite assessment, mild approval, curiosity. The newly minted Holt Men stand out conspicuously, clustered together a little nervously near the fireplace. They are late twenties to late thirties, fit, alert and dressed alike in black slacks and white dinner jackets. They have the bearing of West Point cadets. John regards the guests with his native taciturnity, feeling embarrassed and underdressed. He scans the room quickly for Valerie, resting his glance occasionally on a still-beholding guest. They are clapping.

"Don't embarrass the poor boy too much," says Laura, smiling at John. "We don't want to spoil his appetite."

Then she takes John to the first little group of people, releases his arm and is gone. He can feel the warm spot where her hand was, cooling through the fabric of his linen coat.

"Hey, I've missed your articles in the Journal," says the first man to shake his hand.

John recognizes him from one of Joshua's endless briefings—Adam Sexton—young, ambitious, married into one of the county's largest landholding families and currently Vice President of Domestic Development for Liberty Operations.

"Thanks. Nice to be back in the county. "Sexton brings in the genuine dollars for Liberty Ops. Domestic takes in triple what foreign does, prosaic as the work might sound. Home security. Plant Security. Store security. Personal security. Private Investigations. Sexton married straight into the Orange County movers and shakers, waved a vague Manhattan pedigree in front of them, convinced them he was one up on them. Easy to do to Californians, of course. His timing was perfect. When crime started grabbing the headlines a few years back, everybody was worried. Everybody was scared. Nobody could remember it being this bad. Afraid to leave the mansion. Who do we trust? Who do we hire? The cops can't help us. Who can really blast away on our behalf when the gook home invaders from Little Saigon show up, or the gangbangers from Santa Ana come scaling our gated-community walls? Sexton was ready with his sophistication-and-a-touch-of-streetsmarts routine, New York style. Thanks to him they all prefer to use Holt Men—excuse me, Liberty Men now. It's as much a status symbol to have Liberty Ops patrolling your bay front house in Newport as it is to drive the right car or wear the right clothes. Even more so. You own more than just a home or a private plane—you own a man. A Liberty Man. There was a joke going around last year Question: Why is a Holt Man better than a dildo? Answer: dildo can't show itself to the door. You know you've entered a profitable vernacular when rich women joke about the penis size of your employees. Well, thank Sexton for the entree.span>

"Are you back to stay, John?" Sexton asked.

"No. I've got work down in Anza Valley."

"People down there can actually read?"

"They light their caves with candles."

"Candles. That's rich. Hey, plenty of work here in the county, if you're interested. All kinds of it."

"Thanks. I like my job."