The blood was still dripping down between them but slower with the dressing. Socrates watched the lovers as long as they gazed at each other. But when they moved into an embrace he turned away.
A few minutes past three A.M., Socrates was talking to Lavant and the white woman, Alice, asking if there would be someone to give him a ride home, when someone yelled, ?Police!?
?Com'on,? Socrates ordered his friend. Then he went toward the back of the building as the tin-plated entrance filled with cops in full riot gear.
Socrates made it to a window that had been blocked with thin plywood. Two well-placed kicks and Socrates, along with Venus, Alice and Lavant, was outside in a concrete yard.
With a nudge of Socrates' shoulder the padlocked fence opened up. Then they were running down the alley, heavy footsteps not far behind.
Socrates allowed Lavant and the women to go before him while he caught a glance of the people behind. They were other refugees from the rave, stumbling along in their awkward party shoes.
From somewhere behind them came the command, ?Halt! Police!?
?Keep on goin'!? Socrates told his friends. And then he ran hard with his head down. He knew that the cops would have their hands full with the other escapees. The only thing to worry about was a shot that might go wild.
But no shots were fired.
When the four reached the alley, Alice shouted, ?My car's at the end of the block!?
It was a copper-toned Jaguar sedan. Socrates and Venus piled in the back. When Alice hit the gas, Socrates laid a heavy hand on her shoulder and said, ?Slow it down to a walk, sugar, we ain't outta the bag yet.?
He left his hand there for twenty blocks or more, until Alice finally moaned, ?You're hurting me.?
Socrates sat back thinking about prison; about how they could have pulled him in for B and E. One small party and the rest of his life could have been spent in stir.
?Mothahfuckahs,? he whispered.
Everyone else was silent.
The rage of the ex-con filled up the car but he was unaware of its effect. All he could think about was how small his cell had been. He couldn't even turn around comfortably. He couldn't play music or go through the bars for a bottle of wine. He couldn't even close his own door or open it for a visitor or friend.
It was cramped in Alice's car too. He thought about going home but his apartment was also small and cell-like. He was a prisoner-in-waiting on the streets as far as the cops were concerned.
Those thoughts played through his head again and again. Socrates paid no heed to the car's direction.
When Lavant sighed and said, ?That was a close one,? Socrates didn't hear him.
?You saved us,? from Venus, could have been the passing blare of a horn.
The music from the party along with the scramble of feet on the gravel of the alley still filled Socrates' ears. He slipped into a daze that was closer to sleep than it was to consciousness. Sweat beaded up on his forehead and his blood ran cool.
Alice drove them up into Malibu hills, to her home.
The living room was sunken below the entrance hall. It was shallow and arching but over fifty feet wide. The walls were all glass. To the left you could see the million winking lights of Los Angeles and to the right there was darkness where Socrates knew the ocean lay.
?Nice, eh, Socco?? Lavant said at his shoulder.
?Yeah,? Socrates said. ?Yeah, this is more like it.?
?If you like the view now,? Alice said. ?Wait until the sun comes up.?
She wasn't yet forty, Socrates surmised, thin and plain, but the hunger in her eyes made up for a bad complexion. She wore a green, loose-knit sweater dress that came down to mid-thigh.
