Night Prey

of fire stairs without breathing hard.
    Koop was a cat burglar. A cat burglar and a killer.

    KOOP KNEW ALL the streets and most of the alleys in Minneapolis and St. Paul. He was learning the suburbs. He spent his days driving, wandering, looking for new places, tracking his progress through the spiderweb of roads, avenues, streets, lanes, courts, and boulevards that made up his working territory.
    Now he drifted down Grand Avenue, over to Summit to the St. Paul Cathedral, past a crack dealer doing business outside the offices of the archdiocese of St. Paul and Minneapolis, and down the hill. He drove a couple of laps around United Hospitals, looking at the nurses on their way to their special protected lot—a joke, that. He looked in at antique stores along West Seventh, drove past the Civic Center, and then curled down Kellogg Boulevard to Robert Street, left on Robert, checking the dashboard clock. He was early. There were two or three bookstores downtown, but only one that interested him. The Saint had a reading scheduled. Some shit about Prairie Women.
    The Saint was run by a graying graduate of St. John’s University. Books new and used, trade your paperbacks two-for-one. Coffee was twenty cents a cup, get it yourself, pay on the honor system. A genteel meat-rack, where shy people went to get laid. Koop had been inside the place only once. There’d been a poetry reading, and the store had been populated by long-haired women with disappointed faces—Koop’s kind of women—and men with bald spots, potbellies, and tentative gray ponytails tied with rubber bands.
    A woman had come up to ask, “Have you read the Rubaiyat ?”
    “Uh . . . ?” What was she talking about?
    “ The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam ? I just read it again,” she babbled. She had a thin book in her hand, with a black poetical cover. “The Fitzgerald translation. I hadn’t read it since college. It really touched me. In some ways it’s analogous to the poems that James was reading tonight.”
    Koop didn’t give a shit about James or his poems. But the question itself, Have you read the Rubaiyat ? had a nice ring to it. Intellectual. A man who’d ask that question— Have you read the Rubaiyat ? —would be . . . safe. Thoughtful. Considerate.
    Koop hadn’t been in the market for a woman that night, but he took the book and tried to read it. It was bullshit. Bullshit of such a high, unadulterated order that Koop eventually threw it out his truck window because it made him feel stupid to have it on the seat beside him.
    He threw the book away, but kept the line: Have you read the Rubaiyat ?
     
     
     
    KOOP CROSSED I - 9 4 , then recrossed it, circling. He didn’t want to arrive at the bookstore until the reading had begun: he wanted people looking at the reader, not at him; what he was doing tonight was out of his careful pattern. He couldn’t help it—the drive was irresistible—but he would be as careful as he could.
    Back across the interstate, he stopped at a red light and looked out the window at the St. Paul police station. The summer solstice was only two weeks away, and at eight-thirty, there was light enough to make out faces, even at a distance. A group of uniformed cops, three men, a couple of women, sat talking on the steps, laughing about something. He watched them, not a thing in his mind, just an eye. . . .
    The car behind him honked.
    Koop glanced in the left mirror, then the right, then up at the light: it had turned green. He glanced in the rearview mirror and started forward, turning left. In front of him, a group of people started across the street, saw him coming, stopped.
    Koop, looking up, saw them and jammed on his brakes, jerking to a halt. When he realized they’d stopped, he started through the turn again; and when they saw him stop, they started forward, into the path of the truck. In the end, they scattered, and Koop swerved to miss a barrel-shaped man in coveralls who was not quite agile enough to get out of the way. One of them shouted, an odd cawing sound, and Koop gave him the finger.
    He instantly regretted it. Koop was the invisible man. He didn’t give people the finger, not when he was hunting or working. He checked the cops, still a half block away. A face turned toward him, then away. He looked in the rearview mirror. The people in the street were laughing now, gesturing to each other, pointing at him.
    Anger jumped up in his stomach. “Faggots,” he muttered. “Fuckin’-A fags. . .