The Triggerman Dance

The dining room basks in the burnished candlelight of an immense, circular candelabra. The table seems to stretch into infinity. Waiters come and go, glancing occasionally at Laura Messinger, who directs them with the silent nodding of her head. Vann Holt has stolen in—exactly when, John has no idea—and now presides at the head of the table. He has not acknowledged his guest of honor. John sees that his host looks alert, fit and leonine, with his thick gray hair, stout neck and shoulders and a easy physical grace. Holt is also conspicuously underdressed in black suit with a black polo shirt buttoned to the top. But John senses that Holt is the kind of man who can make everyone else in a room feel pretentiously overstated. Finally, Holt looks his way and stares at him for a moment without expression. Then he lifts his wine glass, nods rather formally, and offers a robust smile. From behind Holt, Lane Fargo stares his way with a look of focused aggression. His widow's peak and mustache are some how absurd above his tight white dinner jacket. He is drinking glass of beer.

Holt seats himself and the others follow. John has a seat of honor on Holt's left. They are just settling in when Holt pushed back his chair and stands, brushing up his coat-sleeve to look a his watch. Then he bellows in a voice that threatens to rattle the crystal, " Valerie Anne Holt—you are holding up my dinner party—again!"

By the unanimous chuckles John understands that this i something of a ritual. Heads turn, and John looks to see Valerie Anne Holt coming up the broad hallway toward the dining room. Her hair is up and she is wearing a black knit dress with a high neck and that holds her snugly under the chin. There are no sleeves on it and her brown arms sway easily as she walks. The dress ends well above her knees. Her shoes are heeled and black and she makes walking in them appear easy and natural. She claps across the tiled floor and enters the room to a chorus of Hello Valerie; Evening, dear; Worth the wait, young lady; Nice of you to join us; etc. Lane Fargo sustains a piercing whistle that continues for a beat after the general welcome has died down.

"Oh, Lane, put a lid on it," she says, which brings another round of laughter from the guests.

Beaming, Valerie walks the length of the table and kisses her father on both cheeks. Then, helped by a new Holt Man who has popped up to assist her, she settles into the chair on her father's right, across from John. She looks around the table, holding each face for a brief moment. Then, smiling and apparently finished, she sits back and turns her full attention to John.

His ears ring again and he feels uncomfortable, as if the entire world is staring at him.

"Nice suit, Mr. Menden," she says. "It goes perfectly with your blush. "For John, dinner goes by in a pleasant haze. He drinks two cocktails and three glasses of wine. The conversation around him is animated and light. Holt regales him with stories of his Boone &c Crockett trophies, most notably a "Grand Slam" sheep hunt during which he nearly froze to death somewhere in Tibet. In fact, one of his guides had been buried in an avalanche. But John hears nothing of the braggart in Holt, none of the macho posturing associated with the rich eccentrics who aspire to the Boone &c Crockett "Book" and spend scores of thousands of dollars to acquire that status. John had written about these men in the Journal, finding them fascinating, driven almost beyond comprehension, and eerily dispassionate about taking life for sport. Even for a bird hunter such as himself, it was hard to understand their ardor for such grueling, far-flung expeditions. The articles had brought a cascade of protesting letters from his readers, who chose to believe that merely reporting on these people was endorsing them. But Holt's narratives are self-effacing, almost scientifically objective. He does not use the euphemisms of the contemporary "hunter/conservationist" such as "harvest" or "collect." When Vann Holt tells of killing an animals he uses the verb kill, pronouncing it with slightly less volume than the rest of the sentence, in a kind of reverential hush.

Valerie listens to her father, talks with Thurmond Messinge to her right and looks at John from across the table. He can fee her attention on him even when she's looking away, and it worries him that Vann Holt must sense the same thing. But it feels reassuring to know that he is not totally alone here. His eyes ar drawn directly to her. They are not willing to look past, through or around her. In the light of the candles above, she radiates restless, almost ungovernable energy.

You can know her only to use her.