Spike opens his mouth -- not that he has the slightest idea what's about to come out of it. He's not half as ticked as he pretends to be when he's interrupted by the pocket of his black leather coat playing a snatch of "Sugar in the Sacrament."

The cell phone's out, open, at his ear without him ever actually looking at it, in one automatic motion, like drawing a switchblade.

"Spike," he says into it, one eye on the girl to see if she'll bolt.