Laney looked from Blackwell to the empty bourbon glass, back to Blackwell; the bartender moved, as if to refill it, but Laney covered it with his hand. "If you nail my hand to the bar, Blackwell," and here he spread his other hand, flat, palm down, on the dark wood, the drink-ringed varnish, "I'll scream, okay? I don't know what any of this is about. You might be crazy. But what I most definitely am not is anybody's idea of a hero. I'm not now, and I wasn't back there in L.A."