Eyes of Prey

blacks were in whiteface. Cassie saw him and raised a tentative hand, said something to the artistic director, and they both walked over.
    “Just looking around, if that’s okay,” Lucas said. “Would it bother you if I watch?”
    “Not much to see,” the artistic director said, his greasepainted lips turning down. “You’re welcome to stay, but it’s mostly people talking.”
    “We’ll be another hour or so . . .” Cassie said. Her green eyes were like lamps peering through the dark paint.
    “How about some French food? I mean, later, if you’re not doing anything.”
    “Sounds great.” She stepped away and said, “About an hour.”
    Lucas walked halfway up the rising bank of seats and settled in to watch. Whiteface was a brutal but cheerful attack on latter-day segregation. A dozen set pieces were combined with rewritten nineteenth-century show tunes. There were frequent halts to argue, to change lines, to choreograph body positions. Twisting through the set pieces, the troupe kept up a running vaudeville: juggling, tap and rap dancing, joking, banjo-playing.
    One manic set involved the two black actors as professional golfers, trying to sneak through a segregated southern country club. Cassie, in a play within a play, took the part of a white southern college belle in blackface, trying to sort out her relationship with a black radical in whiteface.
    In a darker piece, a burly man in a wide snap-brimmed felt hat robbed white passersby in a park. Although he was obviously in blackface, none of the victims, when they were talking to the cops, could ever get beyond the blackness, even though they knew  . . .
    When that segment was over, there was a brief, sharp argument about whether it violated the pace and feel of the rest of the show. The two black actors, who were used as arbiters of taste, split on the question. One, who seemed more involved in the technical aspects of playmaking, thought it should go;the other, more interested in the social impact, insisted that it stay.
    The artistic director turned and looked up into the seats.
    “What do the police think?” he called.
    “I think it’s pretty strong,” Lucas said. “It’s not like the rest of the stuff, but it adds something.”
    “Good. Let’s leave it, at least for now,” the director said.
    When they were done, Lucas sat with Cassie and a half-dozen other actors while they cleaned the paint off their faces. The man who played the mugger was not among them. On the way out, Lucas saw him on the stage, working on a dance he did late in the show.
    “Carlo,” Cassie said. “He works at it.”
     
    They ate and went to Lucas’ house. Cassie flopped on the living room couch.
    “You know what the worst part of being poor is? You have to work all the time. You’re rich, you can take six weeks to veg out. That’s what I need: about six weeks of daytime TV.”
    “Better’n watching the news, anyway,” Lucas said. He lifted her legs, sat down on the couch and dropped them in his lap. “At least with the soaps, you know you’re getting bullshit.”
    “Hmph. Well, we could get really philosophical about the media and have an intelligent conversation, or we could go fool around,” Cassie said. “What’d you want to do?”
    “Guess,” Lucas said.
     
    Later in the evening, Del called. “Sorry about the other day . . .”
    “ ’S okay,” Lucas said. “What’s happening?”
    “I’ve been out with Cheryl twice and she’s starting to talk,” he said. “I keep telling her I don’t want to hear it, and she keeps talking.”
    “Told you,” Lucas said.
    “Asshole,” said Del. “I actually kind of like her . . . . Anyway, she thinks Bekker might be on some kind of drug. Speed or coke or something. She said he’d sometimes act nuts, he’d be fuckin’ her and he’d go a little crazy, start raving, spitting . . . .”
    “Sex freak?”
    “Well, not exactly. The sex, I guess, was pretty conventional, it’s just that he’d kind of lose control. He’d come after her with this really ferocious rush, and then afterwards, it was almost like she was a piece of furniture. Didn’t want to hear her talk, didn’t want to cuddle up. Usually he’d bring something to read, until he got it up again, and then he’d start freaking out all over.”
    “Hmph. That’s not exactly the worst thing I’ve ever heard . . . .”
    “Well, I’m gonna see her again tomorrow.”
    “Is there any way we can let