Chapter 27
The note arrived late in the afternoon while Thomas was out. One odd aspect of it, in retrospect, was that he'd only been gone a short time. It was as if she'd made a conscious effort to avoid him.
The other odd aspect was that it was typewritten. Where had she obtained a typewriter? And why, suddenly, was she now using one?
He attributed those two concerns to her idiosyncrasies. The important thing was that the note was signed Leslie and she was summoning him to another late meeting. Midnight, this time. But tonight theyd be hiding in plain sight. She gave as a meeting place a discotheque named Suzanne's on East Fifty-second Street. He had no choice. He would go.
Suzanne's, at midnight, was simultaneously colorful, loud, garish, and crowded. Thomas arrived a few minutes before the hour, entered and waited at the end of a long, dim bar which afforded a look at both the front door and the dance floor. The bar and the dance floor were ringed by mirrors. Some enterprising proprietor had had an inspiration in dry ice and a thin, filmy cloud floated around everyone's feet.
Reds, yellows, and greens dominated, mostly in plastic, neon, and then more neon. Cramped tables lined the outer reaches of the dance floor and tobacco smoke wafted around the sound system which hung from the ceiling. On the dance floor, gaudily clad youths moved dispassionately to the blaring music. Suzanne's was, Thomas Daniels observed, either a dream or a nightmare, depending on one's perspective; the kind of a place which makes one want to dress up or throw up. Again, depending.
There were no laws against bad taste, Thomas reminded himself.
Thomas remained at the end of the bar, studying alternately the dancing area and the entrance. Watching, waiting, growing impatient. No Leslie.
He was aware of movement next to him. He glanced at a man he'd never seen before, then looked away.
'Looking for some action?' The words barely carried above the sound of rock music. When the man repeated the words, Thomas knew he was being spoken to by someone with a vaguely British accent.
'I'm waiting for someone.'
The man smiled.
'Sure' he said.
Thomas looked away, attempting to ignore his new acquaintance.
The man elbowed him and continued to talk.
'Plenty of unattached ass here' he proclaimed.
'Won't find it on a bar stool, though. Got to make the move over there' The man pointed toward the hustling figures in the larger room.
Thomas turned toward him.
'That's not what I'm looking for! All right?' he snapped, raising his voice to be heard.
The man raised his open palms in mock surrender, as if to apologize. He was silent for a moment, then also shouting to be heard, announced,
'I know what you are here for.'
Thomas studied the entrance and the dance floor again, then checked his watch. It was twelve ten. He felt the elbow against his arm again. He looked back and the man was holding his hand open, a small glass vial in his palm.
'What the hell's that?' asked Daniels, annoyed.
'It's what you want.'
'Get lost' 'You snort it, man. It's terrific. It'll get you a rush like-' Thomas glared into the man's eyes.
'I said, get lost! Can't you hear me?'
The man only smiled.
'Your name's Daniels, isn't it?' he asked.
'And you're looking for my friend Leslie?'
Thomas froze. He studied the man intensely. The man's palm closed on the vial, but the small glass object was not put in a pocket.
'Where is she?' Thomas asked.
'Let's sit down' the man said amiably, pointing to two empty chairs at a table toward the opposite end of the bar.
'It's important' ' Thomas didn't know whether to trust him or not. But again, he had little choice other than to follow events.
They sat at a small table, leaving their drinks behind. Daniels figured he'd give the man two minutes to make sense. Otherwise he'd consider the typed note a hoax and leave. He looked at the man carefully again as they sat. He was about to speak when he became aware of movement behind him, two figures emerging from the fury and sound of center stage at Suzanne's.
Daniels attempted to whirl and get to his feet since the two faces were familiar. Instantly he knew why he'd been drawn here. And by whom.
But as he tried to rise, four hands seized him and jammed him roughly back into the wooden chair. He cursed at them and tried to flail with his arms.
But Grover held him on one side. And the bearded Hunter had him pinned steadfastly on the other.
Then as Daniels struggled, amidst the noise and flashing lights, his nose was accosted by a repulsive smell which made his entire head jerk backwards. His eyes glazed, but through the red and yellow and green he could see enough to know what was happening.
The man from the bar was leaning forward. The cap had been removed from -the vial and the small glass container was being jammed beneath Daniels nose.
He tried to move his head away, but someone was gripping him by the hair. He tried to hold his breath, but his lungs gave out and he gasped.
Then he coughed violently, gasping again, taking in large gulps of the chemical being forced upon him.
The will to resist left him. He felt his limbs growing weak and the fight was gone from his arms. It all seemed better now, the noise and these men around him. Within the dull blur they seemed less menacing.
Another gulp and he was almost unconscious, not struggling at all.
The next thing he knew he was walking, or being helped to walk.
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?
