His legs were wobbly and his senses were askew. But Grover had him on one side and Hunter on the other. They were walking him out, taking him from the cigarette-stenched air of Suzanne's out into the cold night.

He remembered hearing Hunter speak to the man at the door.

"Our friend's had too much to drink already," Hunter said. And Daniels could hear distant laughter. He tried to talk, but the words came out garbled. More laughter.

He was aware of being pushed into a car and feeling both dizzy and sick in the backseat. Then everything was blackening and he remembered thinking that if this was dying, it certainly was easy.

Chapter 28 Voices. Distant voices, becoming louder.

Thomas turned over on the bed and was slowly conscious. He saw the dingy ceiling and stared at it without comprehension. He saw sunlight streaming in from behind drawn venetian blinds and he saw the bare branches of a tree beyond the blinds and the window.

He sat up in bed, still hearing the voices, men's voices, in the next room. Voices with English accents. One American accent, too. He was suddenly dizzy and his head was aching, a headache beyond comprehension. He slipped back onto the pillow and thought.

Where was he? He knew his mind was working slowly, but he simply couldn't figure it out. Where was he?

Then he realized. He recognized nothing because he had never been in this room before. And the last thing he remembered was that Knight of the Nightlife accosting his nostrils with that stinking vial.

He lay there until he thought he could walk. He could not discern what the voices were saying. But if he could make it to the window and peek beyond the blinds, well, maybe at least he'd have an inkling of where he was.

He tried to stand.

He wobbled and took a step.

Then the dizziness was upon him and he swayed. One direction, then the other. He groped for the bedpost and missed by several feet. He tumbled forward, knocking over a wooden chair and banging noisily with a thud onto the floor.

The voices stopped. Moments later the door opened.

Hunter stood there, watching him from that round face with the puffy relentless eyes. Hunter turned and addressed the men behind him.

"He's up," he said.

Thomas wanted to say something but was still too woozy. Then he heard footsteps. Three men were walking toward him from the doorway. Hunter was the first, Grover the second.

The third was an older man.

Thomas's vision was blurred. He squinted and glared at the third man and was struck by the idea, the sudden flash of excitement, that this could indeed be Arthur Sandler. At last. It was in fact an older man.

Tall, lean, and graceful. Meticulously dressed in a dark Saville Row suit. He stepped past Hunter and Grover and stopped, looking down at Thomas and flanked by the two henchmen.

Thomas tried to focus on the face. It was familiar. He had seen it before.

"Whiteside," he muttered. And he let his cheek touch the floor again.

"Yes," said Whiteside thoughtfully, as if in response to a question.

"Yes, it is " He turned to Grover and Hunter.

"Wake him up, d.a.m.n it," he ordered crisply.

"He didn't even welcome me to America."

Thomas felt the footsteps coming, then he felt the hands on him.

He was sat up and shaken, then stood up. The two men began to undress him and warned him not to resist. Stripped to his undershorts, and allowed to keep them in the interest of decency, he was walked to the bathroom adjoining the bedroom. He managed to see out a window. He was in a house in the country somewhere and it appeared to be midmorning.

"Your morning bath, sir," Hunter grunted with obvious enjoyment.

Hunter's hammy fist reached into a shower and turned on the frigid water full blast. Then, with no further introduction, Hunter and Grover shoved Thomas into the jet of water.

Forty-five minutes later, Thomas had been permitted to dry himself and dress in fresh clothes. He was seated in the living room of a small apparently rural house. He was on a sofa sipping a lukewarm cup of black coffee.

Grover was to his right. Hunter was to his left. Both were seated.

Whiteside was seated in an armchair in front of him. Whiteside was talking.

"From what I hear," Whiteside purred amiably, leaning, forward a trifle for emphasis, 'you made my a.s.sociate, Mr. Hunter, do a little wrestling" He stared at Thomas primly and blankly.

"Rather nasty of you, I should think."

Thomas set down the coffee on the table, wondering absently what was in it. He could imagine battery acid which would taste better. But then the English were cognoscenti of Asian leaves, not South American beans.

"Where am I?"

"Safe," offered Whiteside, as if giving a benediction.

"Quite safe, I should say."

Thomas's eyes drifted to Grover, then to Hunter.

"Safe?" he asked, indicating the latter.

"With this ape here?"

Hunter smirked.

"Mr. Hunter is a paragon of delicacy and fine manners said Whiteside.

"I have no doubt whatsoever that if Mr. Hunter used force to bring you here, it was because you provoked him. Is that not the case?" he asked, turning to Hunter.

Hunter nodded soberly.

Whiteside allowed himself a slight smile.

"As I suspected," he intoned softly. He looked back to Thomas. I

"I'm not at all surprised that he subdued you. Mr. Hunter was always a bit of an athlete.

Tried out as a mid fielder in 1952 for, which was it, a.r.s.enal or Sunderland?"

"Southampton" mumbled Hunter with obvious satisfaction.