'Are you back to stay, John?' Sexton asked.
'No. I've got work down in Anza Valley.'
'People down there can actually read?'
'They light their caves with candles.'
'Candles. That's rich. Hey, plenty of work here in the county, if you're interested. All kinds of it.'
'Thanks. I like my job.'
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 amp;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 amp;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.
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
