They smoked and flirted some more and a couple of times the woman’s mouth opened wide with glee and she threw her head back and set off a brunette tsunami, finished the mini-production by touching Kleffer’s arm.

The badinage continued, interrupted in spurts by passing pedestrians.

“Ah, true love,” said Milo.

A few more minutes of clear view, more passersby. Milo tapped the dashboard.

I said, “What’s the song?”

“ ‘Colonel Bogey March.’ ” He shut his eyes.

I kept watching. More pedestrians.

One of them had stopped a couple of feet shy of the cut.

Tall man in a black baseball cap and long black raincoat.

Illogical choice for a warm, clear afternoon.

Just as I nudged Milo, the man turned into the cut, hand reaching under the coat.

I swung the driver’s door open. Milo was already out of the car, running across Melrose, dodging traffic in two directions, setting off a storm of honks and curses. I hurried to catch up, caught my own share of hostility.

Maybe it was the noise, maybe not. The man in the baseball cap turned.

Long, bony face.

Wide, black-lensed sunglasses.

A perfectly square dark soul patch bottomed a thin lower lip. The portion of scalp visible beneath the cap was shaved clean. Fingernails were polished black.

But no mistaking John Jensen Williams. The knife in his hand.

A sudden thrust toward the interior of the cut.

Milo neared the curb, gun drawn. Pedestrians screamed, scattered. Someone shouted, “Dial 911!”

Williams waved the knife. Long, curved blade. Like the one Robin and I used to gut and bone fish.

Inches of metal glazed crimson.

Darius Kleffer lay on the ground, clutching his abdomen.

The woman in the red jersey stood between him and J. J. Williams, expressionless. Unsurprised.

Then, spotting Milo and his gun, she began fake-crying.

Hnh hnh hnh.

John Jensen Williams looked at his knife. Turned back to Kleffer, now moaning in agony.

Milo said, “Drop it! Now! Drop it!”

Williams said, “You bet, this was self-defense,” in a mild voice. He lowered his arm. His fingers loosened. The knife dangled.

“Drop it!”

“I’m trying to, I’m a little nervous.” Williams smiled shyly. The knife canted downward.

His fingers tightened. Now the blade was tilting up.

He lunged at Milo.

Milo shot him, center of body mass, just like they teach you at the academy.

Williams, the rip in his raincoat barely noticeable, remained on his feet.

“Aw,” he murmured, looking steady.

Protective vest?

Milo must have wondered the same thing. He shot again, creating a noticeable hole in John Jensen Williams’s smooth, pale forehead.

Williams said, “Wow,” and dropped hard. Nearly landed on Kleffer, who was mewling and losing color.

The woman in the red top flipped her hair. “Oh, thank you, sir! You saved my life.”

Not a glance at Darius Kleffer, now screaming in agony, blood leaking around his fingers.

I went to tend to him.

Milo cuffed the woman.