poking at his underbelly with a pair of pointy little fists.
“Why’s that little guy screaming about his girlfriend?” I said.
“Vern felt her up, eh? I seen it. She was staggering around and she bumped into him and almost fell over so he caught her. He held her wrong and she screamed and ran for the bathroom and the boys went for him. Vern broke a chair getting outside, eh? He knows he’s not supposed to fight.”
Becker was bleeding from a cut over his left eye. Every time he pulled a boy off Vern’s back, the boy lashed out with wild punches and kicking feet.
“That guy should get out of it,” a young, bearded fellow said to Otis.
“He’s a cop, eh?” Otis said. “Probably feels obliged.”
“I guess that’s why he’s not hitting back. If he gets decked, I guess we should go in there, eh?”
“If he gets decked,” I said, “the guy who decked him will be charged with assaulting a police officer.” Both men looked at me.
“He should be minding his own business,” Otis said. I gazed back at them. They were grinning.
I looked over at Becker. He was wiping blood away from his eye.
“Becker! Hey!” I said, raising my voice. He looked up, frowned and hurried over to me. The pickup boys, sensing a void, moved in on Vern.
“You should move away from here,” Becker said. “You could get hurt.”
Vern blew. It was like a Marvel Comic.
Biff! Blowie! Splat! Ka-boom!
Four pretty pickup boys, laid in a row. The crowd went wild, hooting, cheering and stamping their feet. Vern swept the cap off his head with a flourish, bowed gravely to the audience and shambled away into the night. The crowd started moving back inside, while three or four big, strong fellows stepped forward to check on the boys. They were conscious, but groggy.
Becker stared wildly at the four prone figures on the grass, turned to see the last of Vern as he disappeared into a thicket of fir trees and then turned back to me.
“Jesus,” he said.
“You’re bleeding,” I said and handed him my backup hanky.
George and Susan came up, arm-in-arm, as if they’d just returned from an evening at the opera.
“You may need a stitch or two,” Susan said.
“I’m fine,” Becker said.
“You did well, son,” George said. “Just leave them be, now.”
“I’ve got to make a phone call,” Becker said.
“To the station?” I said.
“Where do you think? There’s been an assault.”
“Becker,” I said, “you’re off-duty, remember?”
“It was just a little misunderstanding,” Susan said.
“They’ve learned their lesson,” George said. “Kevin, there, will drive them home. He knows where they live.”
Becker was breathing through his nose. He was very pale and his hands were clenched into fists at his side. There was a nasty little pause.
“Jim?” I said. “James T. Kirk? Speak to me. Is it? Oh, God! Not… the goat poison?”
The corner of his mouth twitched.
“Who’s James T. Kirk?” Susan said. Becker said nothing, kept on breathing. His eyes were bugging out. I stepped in closer.
Becker’s breath hissed loudly through his clenched teeth. Susan moved in as well, worried now.
“Relapse,” Becker said softly into Susan’s ear. “Tell McCoy to beam us up.”
“Is he all right?” she said, turning to George.
“Nothing that a Deacon can’t fix, I think,” George said.
“Who’s McCoy?” Susan said, turning back to Becker, who hadn’t moved. Susan had never watched much TV.
I reached into my pocket for the condom-packet, which I slipped into George’s hand. “Dr. McCoy says play safe,” I said.
He handed it right back. “Dr. McCoy should teach her grandmother,” George said.
Becker and I headed for the parking lot.
I drove. I told him I didn’t think he should be behind the wheel after receiving a blow to the head, and he agreed. Gosh. Jeep Cherokees sure go fast.
“Hey, slow down,” Becker said, “or I’ll have to pull you over.”
“Show me your flashing lights.”
“I think they got punched out.” He laughed, a little wildly.
I pulled over to the side of the road and turned on the overhead.
“What?” Becker said.
“Detective Mark Becker, what you did back there was noble and totally right-action, but I want to thank you for not arresting anybody.”
“Well, I was off duty, right?”
“Right. So. I guess dinner and pool in Laingford’s out.” The cut over his eye was still bleeding. “How hurt are you?” I said. “You want to go home? Are you dizzy? Should we go to the hospital?”
“I think sick bay would be better.”
“Sick bay your house or sick bay my house?”
“You’re the doctor.”
“You got gauze and disinfectant at your place?”
“No.”
“The Deacon residence it is. Anyway, when you’re suffering from goat poisoning, you have to return to the source.”
I headed for the Dunbar sideroad and home.
Twenty-One
Move me I’m steel pipes
bashing demented in the gale
—Shepherd’s Pie
I handed the keys over reluctantly. It had been a nice ride. Driving the Cherokee after three years of mollycoddling George’s cranky old pickup was like a snort of fine brandy after years of drinking lemonade. It would never do to own a vehicle that powerful. No wonder that the men who drive those things act like teenagers with painful erections.
“I can feel the testosterone
