The Puppet Master

things, and put the glass down. First, my drink was doped. Adolphe had filled both glasses from the same bottle, so he must have put some powder in mine ahead of time. And that being true, Ballenger would have muscle standing by, probably with heat in a shoulder holster. Fortunately I'd barely tasted the wine.

'Watch out,' I said. 'That salsa is pure jalapeno.' Then I picked up the glass again, pretended to drink, took another bite of the salad and sat blankly for a moment. 'I believe,' I said slowly, 'that I had better go to the men's room. I don't feel good.'

'You don't look good,' Ballenger said. 'Let me get someone to help you.' He looked toward the door. 'Billy!' he called.

Billy. The name Misti had mentioned. The door opened.

'Yessir, reverend?'

'Help my guest to the men's room, will you Billy? He's feelin' a little unsteady.'

'Sure thing, reverend.'

Billy was as big as Ballenger, and looked a lot more solid. Unsteady as I felt, he could no doubt take me. 'Here,' he said. 'Y'all look green around the gills.'

I felt weak, but for someone who'd behaved like a patsy, my wits seemed okay. I wondered if Good Old Billy was really southern, or faking it. I'd heard that 'y'all' was only used for two or more people. He got a shoulder under my left arm, with his right arm around me; I could have walked, wobbled at least, but as he lifted, I let myself go limp. 'Thank you, Billy,' I said, deliberately slurring.

'Reverend,' he said, 'this is a heavy dude. I'm gonna need a hand with him.'

'Set him back down on the chair then. Mr. Smith, just rest your head on the table and we'll help you in a minute.'

I did, cradling my head on an arm. After a few seconds I opened one eye a slit. Ballenger was bent over, his head lower than the tabletop, with Billy half crouched beside him, his back to me. I switched wine glasses while Ballenger pulled the throw rug back, and Billy raised a trapdoor in the floor. The room was built over the water; with the trapdoor open, I could hear small waves chuckling on pilings. It didn't sound good at all.

Then they were back at the table. I lolled loosely while they got me to the trapdoor and laid me beside it. One of them fished out my wallet, and the Walther from my shoulder holster. Billy went partway down the ladder, grabbed my feet, and got me started after him, Ballenger working from above, till they had me laid out on a little dock, I guess you could call it—two planks side by side, about the width of a wide bench. A rowboat was tied to it.

From there they dumped me into the boat, fortunately in the bow. 'Not now, Billy!' Ballenger said. 'You know I can't stand violence! Take him out to the Simon Peter and do it on the fishin' deck; it gets blood on it all the time anyway. But please, no more blood than need be. Just hit him on the head.' He paused. 'You gonna need help gettin' him loaded?'

'No sir, reverend. It's only 'bout four feet. He's a heavy son of a bitch, but I got this length of rope . . .' He paused as if doing something—maybe bending and holding a rope up. 'Everything's took care of. I'll tie it under his arms and just hoist him in.'

'You get that anchor like I told you?'

'Yessir. No need to fret. Like I said, I took care of everything.' Billy was starting to sound impatient.

The reverend sighed heavily. 'I don't know why this had to come up,' he complained, as if to the Lord. Nothing more was said then. After maybe ten seconds, I heard the trapdoor thump quietly shut; Ballenger had taken his sensitivities back into Leon's. I hoped the first thing he did was take a big drink. Through slitted eyes I saw Billy crouch and push off from the dock, then sit down with his back to me, seat the oars, and start to row. I took a deep quiet breath, exhaled, repeated it two or three times and took stock of how I felt. Mentally I seemed okay, but physically I felt out of sync.

There was a gaff beside me in the bottom, that I suspect was used as a small boathook. Along with the fact that Billy thought I was helpless, it gave me a promising chance, but I didn't have much time. When we got to the Simon Peter, good old Billy would come up front with me to tie the painter to a cleat; I needed to act while his back was to me, meanwhile avoiding any movement he might feel. Hopefully he wouldn't look back over his shoulder at the wrong time, correcting course. Very carefully I turned on my side, carefully drew up my legs, and carefully got the little Beretta out of the holster by my left calf, all while keeping my eyes on Billy. Holding the Beretta in my left hand, I carefully sat up and gripped the gaff with my right. He hadn't felt the movements at all.

Gathering myself, I got to my knees, and that movement he did feel. As he turned, I hit him hard with the gaff handle. He didn't make a sound, just fell backward. I pulled on him till his legs were off the rowing seat, then crawled over him and took his place. Hard as I'd hit him, I'd still rather have dragged him into the stern, where he'd be easier to watch. I wasn't up to it though, so I sat facing the bow and push-rowed. It was slow and awkward, but it kept Billy in front of me.

It occurred to me that Ballenger might not have drunk any more wine, might even be watching us through the window. Given all the city lights, the night was as dark as it gets in L.A., and thick with drizzle, but even so . . . With a gun, maybe my gun, could Adolphe serve as muscle? Instead of rowing back to Leon's, I tied to a wharf farther along the street. After rapping Billy again with the gaff handle, I frisked him and found my Walther, my wallet, and a Colt .32 he'd carried. The Colt and the gaff I threw in the marina. By then I was pretty bedraggled. Good Old Billy, though, would be soggy to the bone when he woke up. I hoped he got pneumonia.

Meanwhile the rowing had done me good; I was still a little unsteady, but had no real problem climbing onto the low wharf and up some steps to the sidewalk. It was abandoned, just me and the drizzle, but I had the Walther in my fist as I walked to the parking lot. My unmarked company car was still there. Powering up, I turned the heater on high to dry me out, and drove back to headquarters. I keyed open the garage beneath the building, and parked in the properly numbered space. Prudential had the security contract, and Ramon, the garage guard, had come over as I parked. 'Bad night,' he said, eyeing me as I climbed out. 'Worse where you were, looks like. You need help?'

'Not now,' I said, 'but a while ago . . . Would you believe I got drugged and tossed in the bottom of a boat?'

His eyes were round. 'Jesus!' he said. 'Will I read about it in tomorrow's Times?'

'I hope not. I hope I didn't hit him that hard.'