The fight ends when Ramos knocks out his opponent. A riot ensues. Bells clang. Chairs fly. Wallace grabs Valerie and says he'll lead her to safety. On the way out, Valerie stops to bludgeon an ass-grabber with her purse, never for a moment entertaining the idea that the Gummy Venus de Milo might've been affixed to her cheeks and that the poor sap was simply trying to retrieve it. Wallace takes a swing at the molester, his fist connects with a chair and he winces. They flee.
As they run down the stairs, Wallace whisks Valerie into a quiet nook behind a door. Wallace jokes about what a swell evening it turned into, and he's talking specifically about the swelling in his trousers. "Especially when you got all male and everything," Valerie coos. "Ready for the main event?" Wallace is, and he hopes it's the pommel horse. But first, for the sake of looking respectable, he asks about her boyfriend the gangster. "He's ancient history; you're current events," Valerie says. "I live in the moment." Val asks Wallace if he is in or out, and he briefly contemplates this until he realizes he can be both in and out if he plies her with enough whiskey and finds a nice sturdy sidewalk somewhere.
Chez Benton, the bedspread is completely asunder and clothes pepper the floor. Moaning and heavy breathing call my attention to the floor by the nightstand, a place mercifully blocked by the double bed. Valerie flips her torso up abruptly, letting her chest protrude and her hair fly back around her shoulders. She is straddling Wallace, which proves correct my earlier assumption that she's into bestiality. Valerie gyrates atop Wallace briefly. The Ghost of Cancellation Future, its translucent face frozen in terror, curls into a fetal position and begins weeping softly, rocking back and forth. "The horror," it whispers. "The horror." The camera slowly inches closer to Wally and Val, as if it, too, is terrified by the prospect of a woman -- any woman -- riding Benton like he's bronco when he's clearly more elephantine. "You've got a lot of energy, big boy," Valerie pants, earning Benton's gratitude. Valerie rolls off of him; they both moan and we see that they're both dressed, although his pants are around his ankles. She didn't bother to undress either of them. You know, something tells me -- call it my lunatic intuition -- that she's had sex before. They clink glasses and sip liquor. Valerie tells Wallace that he in particular could turn into a bad habit, as though general-assignment whoring is an otherwise wholesome way to pass the time. Wallace's face looks as rumpled as his bedspread, and he's breathing through his mouth, looking horribly hammered. I think this is Oliver Platt's "sensitive" face, although it look suspiciously like his "sarcastic" and "happy" and "bored" faces too. He caresses a huge bruise on her neck and asks if Lambino abuses her. She spouts something stupid to the effect that we're unable to choose the people we love, especially not based on something like character. "Personality is the booby prize of turning forty," she says. I don't know. I don't see that working for Melanie Griffith. She teases him for acting more like a romantic than the notorious cynic the city knows him to be. "You realize that if it wasn't you tonight, it would've been someone else," Valerie says cheerfully. Wallace considers this, looks depressed for a split second, then clinks glasses with her again. After all, if it hadn't been her, it would've been no one.