Caitlin stops and turns. “Why don’t you dickless Neanderthals find a gun to play with? Maybe you’ll do the world a favor and shoot each other.”

They hoot and run after us. This is exactly what they wanted. I admire Caitlin’s courage, but she is writing verbal checks that I might have to cash with blood. In seconds the four of them have formed a line between us and the parking lot.

“She’s a bitch,” says the one with the slurry voice. “But she’s a fine bitch.” He jabs a finger toward Caitlin’s crotch. “I’d sure like to get in those pants.”

“I already have one asshole in my pants,” she retorts in a voice like a saber’s edge. “Why would I want another?”

The roughneck blinks, thrown off balance by the ricochet comeback. But Spurling has his Academy Award–winning line ready. “How about sitting on my face when you say that?”

“If I thought you’d know what to do once I sat down, I might.”

Spurling sticks out his tongue and flicks it up and down like a snake. He’s trying to force me to throw a punch, which I do not especially want to do, considering the odds. Chivalry is a wonderful concept, but just now it doesn’t seem the most prudent of options.

Spurling is still wiggling his tongue when Caitlin pops him across the mouth with a closed fist. He’s more surprised than hurt, but he must have bitten his tongue, because he’s spitting blood on the concrete.

“You thucking cunt!” he gurgles.

“Let’s all take it easy!” I say, holding up my hands. “We were minding our business, walking along a public street—”

“Nobody wants you on this fucking street!” yells the one with the Jack Daniel’s bottle. “Go back to Beverly Hills or wherever the fuck you live. We gotta make a living here, unlike you.”

A few club patrons have noticed our exchange and are moving toward us, but they don’t look like ready sources of aid. I take Caitlin’s arm, spin her around, and walk her toward the BMW. She hisses something indignant, but I’m not listening to her. I’m listening for the scuff of boots on gravel.

Soon enough, I hear it.

I shove her to my right and dart left, feeling a breeze as the whiskey bottle arcs through the space my head occupied a split second ago and smashes on the gravel of the parking lot. Guessing that someone will follow the bottle forward, I whirl and throw a blind punch.

Luck is always better than skill. I hear bone crack, or maybe nasal cartilage, then a strangled scream of agony as someone hits the gravel. Throwing the car keys at Caitlin, I yell, “The black BMW!” then whirl to face the other three, who jump me simultaneously.