Golf Pro removed his glasses, wiped them, and laughed. He called for a round of martinis. Phone Woman was enraptured by her glowing cathode. For me, another double Auchentoshan to neutralize the lingering aftertaste of dinner. A young, beautiful couple wandered in and ordered cosmos. He wore a tux, and she a white Cinderella gown. They were past their limit and made an adventure of navigating to a table.

The televised beating continued. I nursed the scotch to the bitter foregone conclusion. The referee visibly considered stopping the show in the eleventh. The Russian, slumped, eyes swollen, survived to watch the Congolese get his arm raised in a unanimous decision.

Mr. Denim and Golf Pro observed a moment of silence before resuming their conversation. The beautiful couple were drunk in love in addition to being drunk-drunk, and too busy mooning over each other to register the human tragedy on the screen.

Phone Lady swore. She snapped her fingers and demanded a vodka neat.

“I’m dead,” she said to the phone or to herself. “He’s going to fucking kill me.”

“Good.” The bartender poured her a vodka. The woman stared at him, flabbergasted. He reflected her stare, a dishrag draped over his forearm.

Thunderclouds gathered.

I texted Lionel to alert him, then pinned a few bucks on the bar with my empty glass and headed for the exit.

Mr. Denim and Golf Pro patently ignored me as I moved past. Their martinis were virtually untouched. I detest guys like them. Guys who pretend to drink. The thunderclouds caught me as I went through the lobby doors.

Come on then, I said. Come on.

I’d parked the Monte Carlo in a slot across from the entrance. Nancy the Beautician leaned on the hood. She was in costume and smiling evilly. A cheerleader transported from an alternate history Cold War America. Inebriated partygoers were cutting up in the loading zone; laughing, snapping pictures, and waving an open bottle of champagne while an exasperated taxi driver looked on.

Nancy beckoned, perhaps hesitant because of the crowd.

“Mr. Detective!”

Ghastly pale in brutal contrast with her red, red lips. Ancient and vital. Her seams and wrinkles were armor. As I approached, she sprang off the hood and grabbed my arm. The movement was like a crocodile lurching from tall grass, jaws agape. Her perfume stung my nose and throat. I’d gotten a whiff of her scent in the past. This was magnitudes more potent; the reek of chemical burning, of rancid meat, black horses milling in a stable, whinnying as they tore at one another, hooves churning.

I reacted violently.

The war club was out of my belt and into my fist. Gagging, I raised the club, then brought its calcified knob down in a savage tomahawk stroke that caught her above the eye. Her skull dented; the eye likely destroyed. She slumped, dead weight, claws yet sunk into my arm. I shoved her down.

“You animal!” Nancy shuddered with an electric current. She began to rise. Blood decanted in a rivulet from her forehead and covered her face. “You animal! You animal!” She raked blindly at where I’d been.