Third Strike by Philip R. Craig Page A

a couple of men hadn’t caught him as he stumbled back.
    â€œBonzo’s not quite your size,” I said to Steve, trying to control a little flicker of primeval red madness that was rising in the blackness of my psyche. I looked at Bonzo. “You okay, Bonzo?”
    He nodded. “I’m okay, J.W.”
    I stopped myself two yards from Steve and took a deep breath. “All right,” I said. “It’s over.”
    â€œThe hell it is,” said Steve, coming toward me.
    I stepped back, willing down that feral fire within me. “You’ve already been in jail once,” I said. “That should be enough.”
    Steve’s eyes were full of fury. “I’ll be in jail, but you’ll be in the hospital, you fuck!” He came after me as I backed away, then with surprising speed he kicked toward my crotch.
    I turned and caught the blow on my thigh. A spear of pain pierced my leg, and a red film fell over my eyes, turning the world crimson. I caught his foot with both hands, twisted as hard as I could, and heard his ankle bones grind and crack. I heard his scream as I twisted harder then threw him back onto the floor. As he went down, I went after him, knocking aside his defending arms and slamming his head on the floor.
    My hands were hard around his throat when Bonzo’s head was suddenly between my face and Steve’s, looking up at me while his thin hands pushed vainly against my chest, and I heard his voice, saying, “No, no, J.W.! No, no! Stop! Stop! Don’t hurt him anymore! Don’t!”
    Slowly the red veil fell from my eyes, and I saw that Bonzo had thrown himself on his back between us and was making himself a barrier between Steve and me.
    Steve was coughing and sucking in huge gulps of air. I took my hands away and saw Bonzo smile up at me as he patted me the way you pat a dog for obeying a command.
    â€œThat’s good, J.W., that’s good,” he said, scrambling to his feet and pulling on my shoulders. “Here, let’s go back to your booth and I’ll get you that beer.”
    I got up. On the floor, Steve was moaning. Around me men were wearing frightened faces. I felt my fangs become teeth again, my claws become hands. I looked at Jake, who was still behind the bar. “You’d better call an ambulance,” I told him.
    Jake nodded and reached for the phone.
    Bonzo led me back to my booth. “You okay now, J.W.?”
    My hands were shaking. “I’m okay,” I said.
    He brought me a Sam. “You got to try never to get mad,” he said.
    â€œI know.”
    I drank some beer.
    By and by a couple of cops came in with two EMTs.
    â€œWhat happened here?” asked a cop.
    â€œSteve, here, was dancing on a table,” said one of the guys at the bar. “He fell off.”
    â€œYeah,” said another man. “That’s what happened.”
    Heads nodded all around the room.
    The second cop leaned over Steve. “You’re too old to be dancing on tables, Steve. Look what you’ve done to yourself.”
    Steve gritted his teeth. “I guess it could have been worse. I could have broken my neck.”
    The cop scribbled on his report pad. “You know what they say. If you’re gonna dance, don’t drink. If you’re gonna drink, don’t dance.”
    Steve groaned. “I’ll try to remember that.”
    Our eyes met as they carried him out of the room. I had another name to put on my list of people I wanted to talk to.

Chapter Six
    Brady
    I woke up sometime in the middle of the night. It took me a minute to remember where I was and why my head hurt and my stomach was jumpy. The darkness outside the window in Larry Bucyck’s little house was a couple of shades lighter than the darkness inside. I guessed I’d only been asleep for an hour or so. A lot of alcohol, for me, always means a rough night of sleeping.
    Living in the city, I wasn’t used to the quiet