Rémi dropped from the bar and stepped between the combatants, the bat resting lightly on his shoulder. He placed a foot on Tank's wrist, applied weight, and what remained of the bottle rol ed free. Rémi kicked it away, then pul ed Tank to his feet. Tank started to sputter but the man holding me cut him off.

"Shut the fuck up and listen."

"You talking to me, JJ?" Tank swayed, then spread his feet for better balance.

"You fucking bet your ass I am."

Again Tank opened his mouth. Again, JJ ignored him.

"Look what we have here, gents."

A few listened, faces vacant from booze or boredom, most turned away. George finished his song and the Rol ing Stones took over The bartender went back to pouring drinks. The hubbub began to swel .

"Big fuckin' deal," yel ed a man at the bar. "You found a broad who don't puke when she looks at you.

Laughter

"Take a good look, dick brain," JJ replied in an adenoidal whine. "Ever hear of the bone lady?"

"Who the fuck cares?"

"The one what did a little yard work for the Vipers?" He was shouting now, the tendons in his neck taut as guy wires.

A handful of customers turned back to us, confusion floating across their faces.

"Don't any of you assholes read the papers?" JJ's voice cracked with the effort to be heard.

While others went back to their drinks and conversation, Tank picked his way toward us, moving with the exaggerated care of the very drunk. Breathing heavily, he planted himself in front of me, and ran a hand down my cheek.

I turned away, but he cupped my chin and twisted my face to his. His beery breath made my stomach lurch.

"She don't look like such a bal buster to me." I said nothing.

"You out slummin', plotte?"

Ignoring the whore reference, I looked him straight in the eyes. With his free hand Tank fumbled with the zipper of his jacket. When it opened I could see the butt of a .38 tucked into his waistband. Fear slithered along my nerves.

On the edge of my vision, I saw a man slide from a bar stool and move in our direction. He stepped close and gave Tank a shoulderjab greeting.

"Tabernouche, I could definitely get a bone on for this." The man wore baggy black trousers, gold neck chains, and an open vest showing skin that was fish-bel y white. Jailhouse art decorated his chest and arms, and wraparound shades covered his eyes. His muscles were swol en with steroids, and he spoke in heavily accented French.

Tank released my chin and stepped back, staggering slightly. "She's the bitch dug up Gately and Martineau."

Stay calm, I told myself.

"You dig Pascal, sugar, you come up with something real y big." When Pascal removed his shades my fear escalated. His eyes had the bright, glazed look of omnipotence only meth or crack can bestow.