The Triggerman Dance

Holt stopped halfway down the stairs, turned, and drove a very strong finger into John's chest. "That's what happens when people don't stay where they belong and take care of their own ground. That's what happens when they sneak into this country, breed like fleas and try to steal away what they haven't worked for and don't understand. That's what happens when two innocent people go out for lunch one afternoon in this fucked up melting pot of a republic we've got. And that's why you stay and fight it out. That's why you make a stand on the ground that raised you. That's why you give a fuck. Right, Lane?"

"Right, Mr. Holt."

Fargo was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, a briefcase on the floor beside him. He stared as John descended.

Behind him stood two young men, one with short blond hair, the other with a 1950's flat-top grown long on the sides. They were wedge-shaped and huge. The blond wore a tennis shirt and slacks; Flat-top wore a loose fitting suit. Flat-top had a sharply triangular face, giving him the look of a mantis. They stood with legs apart and hands behind their backs, unmoving. Their eyes were hidden behind identical pairs of dark sunglasses.

"Ready?" asked Holt.

"Ready, sir."

Holt walked across the floor without looking back.

"John, go with Fargo," he ordered into the echoing caverns of the house. "He's got some questions you'll need to answer if I'm going to hire that gun of yours."

CHAPTER 21

Fargo walked him along the row of Liberty Ops cottages, the two big men behind them. John felt the heat of the sun on his face as he glanced at the closed doors. In the parking spaces were three Liberty Operations patrol cars and two orange-and-black command vans. There were blinds on the windows of the building drawn against the fierce sunshine, but through the slats of the martial arts room John saw a man mid-air, heading for the ma In the library were the shapes of bodies bent over tables. In the classroom he saw Thurmond Messinger lecturing to a group of cadets.

John's nerves were brittle and his heart felt flighty and anxious. Fargo will be the Grand Inquisitor so Holt can be the generous king. But remember, Fargo is Holt's ears and eyes, his fist Fargo is Holt, and Holt is Fargo.

"Here, John," said Fargo. "Up the steps, okay?"

John climbed to the wooden deck surrounding the last Liberty Operations cottage. Fargo pushed open the door and let John in first. He could hear the footfalls of the big boys as he stepped into the air-conditioned cool of the room.

The light was dim because the shades were drawn. The floor was hardwood and there was an industrial desk along one wall a chair behind and in front of it, and a couch opposite, along the front windows. The desktop was completely empty. John noted water cooler, two worktables pushed to one wall, and a hallway leading back to what he assumed were restrooms. A surveillance camera hung in one corner. The air conditioner hummed away, though the room was cold.

"Have a seat here in front of the desk, John," said Fargo. "Partch, Snakey, sit on the couch. Oh, John, this is Partch and that's Snakey. Friends."

John turned and nodded. Partch, the blond in the tennis shirt, nodded back; Snakey simply stared at him through his black glasses, his mantis-like head unmoving. When they sat on the couch it seemed to shrink.

Fargo settled behind the desk, unlocked a drawer and removed a manila file folder, which he set before him and opened. Out came a yellow note pad. John could see some writing on the first two pages, which Fargo perused, then flipped behind the backing. Under the notepad lay some loose papers.

Fargo seemed to have a rather sunny glow about him, for Fargo. His black hair was mussed from the wind and his face looked tanned. The mustache was freshly trimmed, though it still drooped. He was back in his standard uniform: black t-shirt and jeans, black boots, black shoulder holster and automatic. A gasket of black hair sprouted up from his lower neck, rimming the collar of his shirt. He smiled, collapsing the humanity of his face into a pointy-toothed mask that suggested to John a deep and abiding sickness of soul.

"Enjoying yourself on Liberty Ridge?" Fargo asked.

"Yeah, it's nice."

"Nice," said Lane. "That's very nice. When Mr. Holt told me you'd be staying a few days, I did my usual—checked you out."

"Hope I passed," said John.

"Mr. Holt has a way of taking people in sometimes. Every once in a while, we get a bad one."

"You can count the silverware out at the cottage."

"We're not talking about silverware."

"What are we talking about?"

"For starters, Rebecca Harris. How close were you with her?"