Free The Triggerman Dance by T. Jefferson Parker Page A

poking Rebecca Harris while she made plans to marry someone else. Can you help me out a little here?"
"No, I can't. That's none of your business."
"Oh, it's most definitely my business."
"Then use your imagination, or go to a library, or call a radio shrink and ask. I won't talk to you about her. She's not a part of this. If that means the whole thing is over, then the whole thing is absolutely over. Don't say her name again. I don't like the way it comes out of your mouth."
Evan stared at John. His eyes were dry, unblinking. "I'll tell you this, Mr. Menden—if you worked for me and said that, I'd slap the living shit out of your head and get you assigned to Alaska."
John shrugged. "Guess I wasn't cut out for Bureau work."
"No. You're the kind of smart guy who likes to stay solo, make his own mistakes, achieve martyrdom. I don't. Joshua doesn't. Sharon doesn't. We're team players. We're real Feds. What we like to do is win."
"I can stand winning."
"You better be ready to. I'll do almost anything to win."
They finished the meal. When it was over and the cook had cleared the dishes, Evan dropped his briefcase onto the table, opened it and removed a stack of paper.
"Loosen up your trigger finger, John," he .said. "You've got about a hundred forms to sign. They remove us from any liability for you. They protect us from just about anything you might say to a court of inquiry. They prevent you from going public with anything you do or learn while working with us, whether for private profit, or the catharsis of a guilty conscience, or simply getting back at the bastards who used you. The forms are all standard. I wouldn't even bother trying to read them if I were you. Basically, you're giving away the ranch, and that's the way we like it."
He passed the stack to Dumars, who laid it beside John's elbow.
John didn't look down at the papers. "I need to know what the plan is. I need to know what I'm going to be asked to do."
"You need to what?" asked Evan. "To know}"
Evan's deep laugh issued forth again, his shoulders heaving and a pink rush of blood coming to his otherwise gray face. His
False teeth shone. Then Weinstein grinned—something Menden had never seen—followed by a giggle from Sharon Dumars. It was all just too much for them. The cook cast a quick glance at him from the kitchen, accompanied by a smirk.
"He needs to know," said Evan, stifling his laughter, looking at Joshua. "God, this is some really funny material here."
Weinstein's grin dissipated and he drew a deep breath. "You will learn, John. That's all I can tell you now."
"Comforting, isn't it?" asked Evan, looking down at his watch. "Sign those papers, will you? I've got to see a man about a dog."

Dog or not, Norton nee Evan dismissed Dumars and John after John signed the papers. He glanced through them quickly, paying no attention whatsoever to Joshua Weinstein, who sat quietly in his chair. Norton slapped the last sheet over, stuffed the documents back into his briefcase and snapped it shut.
"He's uppity," Norton finally declared.
"We need his spirits high."
"Don't tell me what we need, Joshua. Is this honesty of his a chronic thing or just what he trots out when he's surprised by something?"
Norton now spoke without a trace of Texas accent.
"I haven't seen him surprised by anything yet. Menden reverts to candor when he's not sure what lie to tell."
"Certainly you'd warned him about the revenge and hatred speech."
"Well, yes. You have to understand, Norton, it's his high level of emotion that might make this thing sustainable."
"Stop quoting me." He sighed, hefting the briefcase off the table and onto the floor.
At this point the Latina cook came in, wearing a business suit. Her thick black hair was tied back and she was stuffing her apron into a duffel bag. She nodded at Joshua, then set her pistol on the counter and started putting away the clean dishes.
"Monica?" asked Norton, without looking at her.
"He's just confident enough to get into trouble," she said.