Eyes of Prey

fight would stop it; Marie had gotten to her feet and was staring at a bleeding palm, shrieking; the two shitkickers had taken a step away from the shuffleboard bowling machine, and one of them, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, was fumbling at the sheath on his belt . . . .
    “Fuck you, cop, kill me,” Randy shrieked, doing a sidestep shuffle. “I’m a fuckin’ juvenile, assholes . . . .”
    “Put the fuckin’ blade down, Randy . . . .” Del screamed again. He glanced sideways at Lucas. “What d’ya wanna do, man?”
    “Let me take him, let me take him,” Lucas said, and he pointed. “The shitkicker’s got a knife.” As Del started to turn, Lucas was facing Randy, his eyes wide and black, and he asked, “You like to fuck, Randy?”
    “Fuckin’ A, man,” Randy brayed. He was panting, his tongue hanging out. Nuts: “Fuck-in-A.”
    “Then I hope you got a good memory, ’cause I’m gonna stick that point right through your testicles, my man. You fucked up Betty with that church key. She was a friend of mine. I been looking for you . . . .”
    “Well, you got me, Davenport, motherfucker, come get cut,” Randy shouted. He had one hand down, as he’d been shown in reform school, the knife hand back a bit. Cop rule of thumb: An asshole gets within ten feet of you with a knife, you’re gonna get cut, gun or no gun, shoot or no shoot.
    “Easy, man, easy,” Del shouted, looking at the shit-kicker . . . .
    “Where’s the woman? Where’s the woman?” Lucas called, still facing Randy, his arms wide in a wrestler’s stance.
    “By the door . . .”
    “Get her . . . .”
    “Man . . .”
    “Get her. I’ll take care of this asshole . . . .”
    Lucas went straight in, faked with his right, eluded Randy’s probing left hand, and when the knife hand came around, Lucas reached in and caught his right coat sleeve, half threw him and hit him in the face with a roundhouse right. Randy banged against the wall, still trying with the knife, Lucas punching him in the face.
    “Lucas . . .” Del screamed at him.
    But the air was going blue, slowing, slowing . . . the boy’s head was bouncing off the wall, Lucas’ arms pumping, his knee coming up, his elbow, then both hands pumping, a slow motion, a long, beautiful combination, a whole series of combinations, one-two-three, one-two, one-two-three, like working with a speed bag . . . the knife on the floor, skittering away . . .
    Suddenly Lucas was staggering backward; he tried to turn, and couldn’t. Del’s arm was around his throat, dragging him away . . . .
    The world sped up again. The people in the bar stared in stunned silence, all of them on their feet now, their faces like postage stamps on a long, unaddressed envelope. The basketball game was going in the background, broadcast cheers echoing tinnily through the bar.
    “Jesus,” Del said, gasping for breath. He said, too loudly, “I thought he got you with that knife. Everybody stay away from the knife, we need prints. Anybody touches it, goes to jail.”
    He still had a hand on Lucas’ coat collar. Lucas said, “I’m okay, man.”
    “You okay?” Del looked at him and silently mouthed, Witnesses. Lucas nodded and Del said loudly, “You didn’t get stabbed?”
    “I think I’m okay . . . .”
    “Close call,” Del said, still too loud. “The kid was nuts. You see him go nuts with that knife? Never saw anything like that . . .”
    Steering the witnesses, Lucas thought. He looked around for Randy. The boy was on the floor, faceup, unmoving, his face a mask of blood.
    “Where’s his girlfriend?” Lucas asked.
    “Fuck her,” Del said. He stepped over to Randy, keeping one eye on Lucas, then squatted next to the boy and cuffed his hands in front. “I thought you were gonna get stuck, you crazy fuck.”
    One of the hookers, up and wrapping a red plastic raincoat around her shoulders, ready to leave, looked down at Randy and into the general silence said, in a long, calm Kansas City drawl, “You better call an ambliance. That motherfucker is hurt.”

CHAPTER
3
    Bekker was of two minds.
    There was an Everyday Bekker, the man of science, the man in the white lab coat, doing his separations in the high-speed centrifuge, the man with the scalpel.
    And then there was Beauty.
     
    Beauty was up. Beauty was light. Beauty was dance . . . .
    Beauty was the dextroamphetamines, the orange heart-shaped tablets and the half-black,