Warner eased off the stool and walked over to the guy in the corner. He was sitting in shadow.

“Ok, pal,” he said, “hands behind your head.”

The guy didn’t move.

Warner pulled out his service revolver and yelled, “hands behind your head, dirtbag. Now.”

Blake spun around on his stool to watch.

The guy slowly stood up, carefully placed his hands behind his head.

Blake let his breath out and relaxed. Warner reached for the man’s wrist to cuff him. In a blur of movement, the guy spun out of Warner’s grip, brought his hand from behind his head and whipped it in the air at the detective as if to ward him off.

Warner reached for his neck and when he turned towards him, Blake saw blood spurting between his splayed fingers.

Blake was reaching for his weapon when he felt a sting in his neck. The bartender was biting him.

He felt like he’d been hit with a tranquilizer dart. The bartender paused, lifted her bloody lips from his neck, and whispered to him, “long-neck. Full of life.â€?