The Triggerman Dance (9 page)

Sitting in the cramped rear seat of the Bureau sedan, John looked at the profile of the man Rebecca needed to tell, the man to whom she had engaged herself, the man who knew but out of pride, or perhaps consideration, would not speak first. John studied Joshua Weinstein's features, the tight mouth and proud nose, the slightly large ears, the black wavy hair and the acute understanding in his dark eyes. Yes, John thought, Joshua would have known. Joshua knew. Joshua knows.

They took the freeway down to Irvine Boulevard in Tustin and made a right. John assumed they were heading to downtown Santa Ana and the FBI office again, but Sharon turned left onto a side street, then made another left. They were in a forties suburban tract, notable for its lack of notability. The neighborhood was neat and quiet, and the street was lined with liquidambar trees riotous with dying red leaves. Four doors down, an older gentleman pushed a lawn mower on a wavering course.

"You'll have to wear this for just a minute," said Joshua. He had been rummaging in his briefcase, but now turned and handed John a small cloth item.

Menden unfolded it. It was a hood made of heavy material, with a loose drawstring around the open end.

"Put it on and lie down on the seat. Procedure."

"Up yours," said John.

"Put it on," said Joshua.

John lay on the warm upholstery and felt the car making more turns. To the best of his figuring they had backtracked, and Sharon Dumars was now setting a fresh course from the boulevard. A few minutes was all it took. Then he felt the bump of the car passing into a driveway, followed by a coolness. The garage, he thought. After the car engine was shut off, he heard the garage door clunking into place behind him.

"Rise and shine," said Joshua.

Evan was large and heavy, but when he rose from the table to shake hands, John noted he was not fat. His hand was fleshy and strong. He looked sixty. His hair was straight, gray and cut short. His complexion was gray also, as was his suit. His blue eyes had a mirthless patina, echoed by deep frown lines that ran down from the sides of his mouth and joined those creasing upward from the knot of his chin. A forty-year, two-pack a day cigarette eater, John guessed. But the dour face contradicted itself with a wide and reassuring smile featuring two rows of stunningly white false teeth. He looked to John Menden like a veteran of quiet, unrecorded wars.

They sat around an oval oak table with a dull finish, vintage 1970. There were six plastic placemats depicting floral arrangements, and dust on the surface of the table between them. Four of the places were set with flatware and paper napkins. Beside Evan's fork was a green plastic ashtray, used. The dining room was wallpapered light brown, and a rococo chandelier hung over the center of the table. In the connecting kitchen a young Latino woman poured the contents of a large saucepan into a steaming skillet and regarded John with a profoundly uninterested expression. The house smelled of cilantro and meat.

"What kind of trailer do you have?" Evan asked. His voice was rough and had a very slight Texas drawl.

"It's a Holiday Rambler twenty-nine," said John. "Built in seventy-three."

"Got the power jacks?"

"Yeah. Dual propane tanks and an air conditioner that still works."

Evan's throat rumbled a little and his big smile flashed. "Had a coach myself—a little Airstream—back when I was young. Hunted all over Texas with it—quail, dove, turkey, deer. You name it. I hear you hunt."

"Lots of quail out where I live."

"But you don't use pointers?"

"Flushing dogs, three labs."

"The bobwhite in Texas lock down pretty hard. Need a pointer to show you the way."

"The ones out here like to run. They won't hold for a point except for opening day, maybe."

Evan nodded. He looked at John, then at Sharon, then at the cook in the kitchen. "I miss those days. Young and carefree and the whole of Texas to play in. Me and my brother. You have a brother?"

"No family."

Evan seemed to think about this, nodding absently. "You all grew up right here, didn't you?"

"With my uncle. Just a few miles away."

"How come you've never been married?"

"Never met the right woman."

Evan said nothing, but locked a long evaluating stare onto John Menden's face. "Ever knock one up? Send her to the clinic?"

"Once. High school."

"How'd you feel about that?"

"Sick."

"Not as sick as she felt, though."

"It was bad."

"You a carnivore?"

"Yes, I am."

"Good. We've got some
carnitas
here for lunch."

The cook emerged with three plates balanced on her left arm and one in her right hand. She served Evan first, then Sharon. While she set out the plates, Evan stared at the dusty table top. She returned a moment later with a small plastic tortilla warmer for each of them.

"Bless this food, amen," Evan mumbled, then stuffed the paper napkin into his shirt collar. "Believe in God, John?"

"Yes." John thought a moment. "But I don't claim that He believes in me."

Evan liked this. He laughed from deep down in his chest, and the dead patina over his eyes turned moist and vibrant. "That's good. Last time I checked, He wasn't convinced of my being, either. Busy old bastard, I would think. Spends most of his time worrying about babies and the devil."

Mild laughter.

"To Wayfarer," said Weinstein, holding out his freshly filled glass of iced tea. "Since you mentioned the devil."

John and Dumars clicked glasses with him. Evan rattled the ice in his, but didn't extend it. He set it down without drinking, then plucked a tortilla from his warmer and spooned some pork into it.

"I like to serve pork to Joshua," said Evan. "He won't eat it unless I order him to. Of course, he loves the stuff."

Weinstein smiled rather sourly, but loaded some of the steaming
carnitas
into a tortilla. "Evan loves to find a sore spot, then heal it," he said. "Then rip it open again, then heal it. He's a sadist with a Christ complex, or a Christ with a sadistic side—I haven't figured out which. One of the comforts of my life is that he lives and works on the other side of the continent."

Dumars laughed. "You'd join him in a heartbeat in Washington, if you could."

"No," said Weinstein with his customary gravity. "Wayfarer first. Everything else can wait."

Dumars did one of those downspiraling little chuckles meant to clear the stage.

"You a drinking man, John?" asked Evan.

"When I feel like it."

"Feel like it often?"

"Pretty much so."

"I do, too. Skipped all our wars, didn't you?"

"I was too young for Vietnam."

"Ever feel like you missed out?"

"I had a friend in Grenada. One in the Gulf. They wrote and we talked. I felt like I'd missed little wars and wasn't the worse for it. They did a good enough job without me."

"Would you have gone, in a draft?"

"Sure. They did."

"How come you never registered?"

"I actually forgot. No action when I was eighteen. No draft. No point in it."

"You committed a felony by not seeing the point in it."

"You could arrest me," said John.

"No. That helps us. That's okay. When this is all over and it's become a fiasco, you—an alcoholic, draft-dodging, abortion-happy, meat-hunting woman stealer—will be lots easier to discredit."

"The hood I wore will help, too."

Weinstein almost choked on his tea. "Why do you talk like that, Evan?"

"I'm paid to talk like that. I'm the tire-kicker, John, the guy with fingers in the carb. You're lucky, though, because you don't have to deal with me. Young Joshua here does. The Bureau is
annealing
him in my still strong but fading flame. My task here is to make sure we aren't going into an operation with a complete idiot—I'm speaking now of you. My task is to make sure the Bureau gets what it wants and that you don't get dead. We're dealing with assassins. Anybody who'd shoot a woman from three hundred yards would shoot you in the face from two. So if I'm a little blunt, consider it a thorough check under the hood."

"Check away."

"Why do you want to do this?" Evan asked.

John didn't answer immediately. Joshua had told him that this question would come, and that his answer must be right. The right answer, Joshua had said, was
to avenge the death of Rebecca Harris.
John could not indicate that the arrest of Wayfarer would complete some personal cycle for him, could not imply great personal hatred of Wayfarer, could not suggest that he, John, was after any form of redemption. His desire was to be nothing other than a temporary tool for the execution of justice.
You are just doing your duty—like voting.
But John had never cottoned to Joshua's instruction on this point.

"Because I hate the bastard who shot Rebecca, and I'd like to see him rot in jail. It would make me feel better."

Weinstein's face reddened, so he directed it down toward his plate. Dumars just looked at John, then at Evan.

Evan blinked, then smiled. "Tugging at the collar a little early, aren't you? Joshua will make you pay for that little outburst. That kind of heated honesty might, under the coming circumstances, get you killed."

"You need to know," said John. "You already know. If you didn't, I wouldn't be here. Wayfarer doesn't."

"Christ in heaven let's hope not." ,

Weinstein was shaking his head toward his plate, as if the
carnitas
had misbehaved.

"But seriously, John, we have no proof at all that Wayfarer even knows who Rebecca Harris was. He's an innocent man. And God knows, he's lethal. That, my friend, is a dangerous combination."