If there had been a lull in the party during my absence, I didn’t detect it. Within a few minutes, Badger was back at my table. So was Fenton. He brought a buddy named Oliver Keaton. They talked among themselves, they talked to me, each one trying to out-flirt the other. They tried to ply me with drink; I demurred and drank club soda. Another man pulled up a chair—white hair and probably in his seventies. He was well preserved. He owned property. He regaled me with stories about how wealthy he was. They all conspired with me to get the coveted reaction.

Steely eyes constantly swept my way.

I should have acted aloof, yea even frosty. Instead I met him stare for stare and flirted back with my table companions. Sweet smiles, throaty laughter, and a touch here and there. The more relaxed I became, the tenser he got. The drinks in his hand began to come in rapid succession. Three, four, five, six, and then I stopped counting. He said he had cut down on alcohol consumption, but tonight was an exception. Alcohol made him act looser. He laughed more often, he talked a little louder, and his motions became exaggerated. His complexion had blossomed pink. With every glance he gave me, his eyes became angrier and angrier, but for the crowd he held it together. All people saw was a man having a good old time.

About two in the morning, the crowds started to thin, lasting another hour until the lounge was emptied. We walked back to his place in silence. I was wrecked from exhaustion and pain. He was staggering a bit, reeking of booze and hyped up on anger. As soon as we got into the room, I whirled on him and said, “If you lay a single fingertip on me, Sanjay or no Sanjay, I am leaving you forever. And if you think I’m bluffing, you’ll have to use a gun to stop me.”

“Don’t fucking worry,” he spat back. “I don’t want you and neither does anyone else.”

“Well, we both know that’s not exactly true.”

His eyes turned dead. “Fuck off, bitch.”

I should have answered him back with anger and called him names in kind. Anger didn’t make him angry. He understood anger. Instead, I laughed. Not a big laugh. One of those little derisive laughs that said, You’re ridiculous.

Although his gun was still holstered, his left hand was on the butt. He whispered, “Get the fuck out of here!” I was debating just where to go when he yelled, “Get! Out!”