The Triggerman Dance

Between his undeniable attention to Valerie, John still note the face of every guest. Beside him is Mary Randell, a talkative woman in her early fifties with a wizened complexion, the high cheekbones of an Iroquois and a long mane of gray-black hair, Mary is happy to tell John about the interesting characters sitting around the table, spicing her resume of each with at least on tidbit of the personal. "And next to Laura is Mike O'Keefe, brilliant motivator but a terrible doubles partner. He can't handle pace to his backhand. And Adam Sexton? He brings in piles of money to the company. Cocky kid—the only one around who doesn't worship Vann like a god." She is the wife of Rich, whom John knows is part of the Liberty Ops team trying to draw the business of Juma Titisi.

The Ugandan himself sits at the far end of the table, opposite Holt, expansive in his tux and Oxford English. John collects every nugget of information with some effort, because although his mind is keen and capacious, he's not sure what might be important to Joshua and what might be redundant. He doesn't want to miss a thing. He was told to gather so that Joshua could edit; horde so Josh could winnow. John has always been good at collecting facts—a reporter's first task—so before the evening is over he knows the name, face, occupation and at least one person; item about everyone in the room. Laura Messinger, for instance, has two children from a previous marriage, while Thurmom twenty years her senior, has none.

The food is incomparably good. Elk and venison, pheasant and chukar, garden greens, basmati rice with slivered almond frijoles covered with the cilantro sauce, dill-sprinkled rolls, cold asparagus spears with vinaigrette. Holt is unabashedly proud of the dinner, most of which he either grew or shot. He says he killed the elk early last fall while the forage around Jackson Hole was still sweet, and you could taste the berries in the meat. An elk shot deeper into the season would taste of the sparse feed and the stress of winter.

"Do you hunt Anza Valley a lot?" he asks John.

"The last ten seasons, anyway."

"Ever try that meadow out by Copper Saddle, where the old water tank is?"

"There's a nice little covey in there."

"So it's you picking over my quail! Funny we've never run into each other."

"Big desert, Mr. Holt. I usually hunt early, then get out."

"Those labradors take the heat okay?"

"Well, they're not designed for it. They go through five gallons of water on a hot morning."

"Why not hunt springers?"

"Labradors have the kind of character I get along with."

Valerie joined in then, with words of warning. "Dad, don't try to convert a dog man. It's more personal than religion or politics—you taught me that."

Holt smiles, reaches out and touches his daughter's cheek. "What were you doing with that heroic German shepherd yesterday? And don't tell me you taught him how to flush quail."

"Well, someone did, sir. He was on them all spring and summer, so I gave him a try opening day."

"I'll be damned. He looked purebred."

"I'd say."

"Who'd let a thousand-dollar dog just wander off?"

"People aren't always bright."

Holt beholds John and sips his wine. "Poor boy."

To conclude dinner Holt stands and offers a toast to the new Holt Men. It is brief and alludes to the fact that Holt considers Holt Men extensions of himself. He then offers a toast to John Menden, "a good shot and a good man and a good stroke of luck. An honorary Holt Man," he says to polite applause.

"Hey Vann," yells Sexton, "Get him a little orange and black costume to wear!"

Uncertain laughter follows.

After dinner Holt offers John a tour of the Big House. Drinks in hand, they wander the first floor rooms—living, entertainment, den, guest and gun rooms—in which Holt does not seem particularly interested. Then they climb a wide wooden stairway with rough-hewn banisters and leather-capped railings, to the second floor. Here, Holt explains, are the bedroom suites—his wife's, his daughter's, his own and an extra. He hesitates for a moment and John awaits some further elucidation, but Holt merely crosses the tiled landing and continues up the stairs to the third story. Holt shows him the library, a colossal room lined with bookshelves and furnished with very old leather sofas and rawhide chairs. Mission-era trunks serve as tables. Two large French doors open to a balcony and observation deck. Behind a heavy oak door along one wall is Holt's office. He makes them fresh drinks, very strong, from a small bar that swings up from what John thought was a steamer trunk. John looks at the fireplace, a generous cavern overhung by an adobe-and-timber mantle, with nineteenth century wrought iron tools hung from stout dowels protruding from the hearth facade. He notes the smell of leather and fire, cigar smoke and the pages of old books. He thinks that this is the best smelling room he's ever been in.

"I like this room a lot," he says.

"My favorite. Here, let's get an overview."