irs and that all the stuff about a “secure environment” had been a joke。 But when he saw my expression； Kroll laughed and said； “No； no； it’s notthat 。 It’s just a book by another client of mine。 I’d really appreciate your opinion if you get a chance to look at it。 Here’s my number。” I took his card and slipped it into my pocket。 Quigley still hadn’t said a word。
“I’ll give you a call when we’ve settled the deal；” said Rick。
“Make them howl；” I told him； squeezing his shoulder。
Maddox laughed。 “Hey！ Remember！” he called as Quigley showed me out of the door。 He struck his big fist against his blue…suited chest。 “Heart！”
As we went down in the lift； Quigley stared at the ceiling。 “Was it my imagination； or did I just get fired in there？”
“They wouldn’t let you go； Roy；” I said with all the sincerity I could muster； which wasn’t much。 “You’re the only one left who can remember what publishing used to be like。”
“‘Let you go；’” he said bitterly。 “Yes； that’s the modern euphemism； isn’t it？ As if it’s a favor。 You’re clinging to the edge of a cliff and someone says； ‘Oh； I’m terribly sorry； we’re going to have to let you go。’”
A couple on their lunch break got in at the fourth floor and Quigley was silent until they got off to go to the restaurant on the second。 When the doors closed； he said； “There’s something not right about this project。”
“Me； you mean？”
“No。 Before you。” He froy finger on it。 The way no one’s allowed to see anything； for a start。 And that fellow Kroll makes me shiver。 And poor old Mike McAra； of course。 I met him when we signed the deal two years ago。 He didn’t strike me as the suicidal type。 Rather the reverse。 He was the sort who specializes in making other people want to kill themselves； if you know what I mean。”
“Hard？”
“Hard； yes。 Lang would be smiling away； and there would be this thug next to him with eyes like a snake’s。 I suppose you’ve got to have someone like that when you’re in Lang’s position。”
We reached the ground floor and stepped out into the lobby。 “You can pick up a taxi round the corner；” said Quigley； and for that one small； mean gesture—leaving me to walk in the rain rather than calling me a cab on the company’s account—I hoped he’d rot。 “Tell me；” he said suddenly； “when did it become fashionable to be stupid？ That’s the thing I really don’t understand。 The Cult of the Idiot。 The Elevation of the Moron。 Our two biggest…selling novelists—the actress with the tits and that ex…army psycho—have never written a word of fiction。 Did you know that？”
“You’re talking like an old man； Roy；” I told him。 “People have been complaining that standards are slipping ever since Shakespeare started writing comedies。”
“Yes； but now it’s really happened； hasn’t it？ It was never like this before。”
I knew he was trying to goad me—the ghostwriter to the stars off to produce the memoirs of an ex–prime minister—but I was too full of myself to care。 I wished him well in his retirement and set off across the lobby swinging that damned yellow plastic bag。
IT MUST HAVE TAKENme half an hour to find a ride back into town。 I had only a very hazy idea of where I was。 The roads were wide； the houses small。 There was a steady； freezing drizzle。 My arm was aching from carrying Kroll’s manuscript。 Judging by the weight； I reckoned it must have been close on a thousand pages。 Who was his client？ Tolstoy？ Eventually I stopped at a bus shelter in front of a greengrocer’s and a funeral parlor。 Wedged into its metal frame was the card of a minicab firm。
The journey home took almost an hour and I had plenty of time to take out the manuscript and study it。 The book was calledOne Out of Many 。 It was the memoir of some ancient U。S。 senator； famous only for having kept on breathing for about a hundred and fifty years。 By any normal measure of tedium it was off the scale—up； up； and away； beyond boring into some oxygen…starved stratosphere of utter nullity。 The car was overheated and smelled of stale takeaways。 I began to feel nauseous。 I put the manuscript back into the bag and wound down the window。 The fare was forty pounds。
I had just paid the driver and was crossing the pavement toward my flat； head down into the rain； searching for my keys； when I felt someone touch me lightly on the shoulder。 I turned and walked into a wall； or was hit by a truck—that was the feeling—some great iron force slammed into me； and I fell backward； into the grip of a second man。 （I was told afterward there were two of them； both in their twenties。 One had been hanging round the entrance to the basement flat； the other appeared from nowhere and grabbed me from behind。） I crumpled； felt the gritty wet stone of the gutter against my cheek； and gasped and sucked and cried like a baby。 My fingers must have clasped the plastic bag with involuntary tightness； because I was conscious； through this much greater pain； of a smaller and sharper one—a flute in the symphony—as a foot trod on my hand； and something was torn away。
Surely one of the most inadequate words in the English language is “winded；” suggestive as it is of something light and fleeting—a graze； perhaps； or a touch of breathlessness。 But I hadn’t been winded。 I had been whumped and whacked and semiasphyxiated； knocked to the ground； and humiliated。 My solar plexus felt as though it had been stuck with a knife。 Sobbing for air； I was convinced I had been stabbed。 I was aware of people taking my arms and pulling me up into a sitting position。 I was propped against a tree； its hard bark jabbing into my spine； and when at last I managed to gulp some oxygen into my lungs； I immediately started blindly patting my stomach； feeling for the gaping wound I knew must be there； imagining my intestines strewn around me。 But when I inspected my moist fingers for blood； there was only dirty London rainwater。 It must have taken a minute for me to realize that I wasn’t going to die—that I was； essentially； intact—and then all I wanted was to get away from these good…hearted folk who had gathered around me and were producing mobile phones and asking me about calling the police and an ambulance。
The thrill of having to wait ten hours to be examined in casualty； followed by half a day spent hanging around the local police station to make a statement； was enough to propel me out of the gutter； up the stairs； and into my flat。 I locked the door； peeled off my outer clothes； and went and lay on the sofa； trembling。 I didn’t move for perhaps an hour； as the cold shadows of that January afternoon gradually gathered in the room。 Then I went into the kitchen and was sick in the sink； after which I poured myself a very large whiskey。
I could feel myself moving now out of shock and into euphoria。 Indeed； with a little alcohol inside me I felt positively merry。 I checked my inside jacket pocket and then my wrist： I still had my wallet and my watch。 The only thing that had gone was the yellow plastic bag containing Senator Alzheimer’s memoirs。 I laughed out loud as I pictured the thieves running down Ladbroke Grove and stopping in some alleyway to check their haul：“My advice to any young person seeking to enter public life today…” It wasn’t until I’d had another drink that I realized this could be awkward。 Old Alzheimer might not mean anything to me； but Sidney Kroll might view matters differently。
I took out his card。 Sidney L。 Kroll of Brinkerhof Lombardi Kroll； attorneys； M Street； Washington； DC。 After thinking about it for ten minutes or so； I went back and sat on the sofa and called his cell phone。 He answered on the second ring： “Sid Kroll。”
I could tell by his inflection he was smiling。
“Sidney；” I said； trying to sound natural using his first name； “you’ll never guess what’s happened。”
“Some guys just stole my manuscript？”
For a moment I couldn’t speak。 “My God；” I said； “is there nothing you don’t know？”
“What？” His tone changed abruptly。 “Jesus； I was kidding。 Is thatreally what happened？ Are you okay？ Where are you now？”
I explained what had happened。 He said not to worry。 The manuscript wastotally unimportant。 He’d given it to me only because he thought it might be of interest to me in a professional capacity。 He’d get another sent over。 What was I going to do？ Was I going to call the police？ I said I would if he wanted； but as far as I was concerned bringing in the police was generally more trouble than it was worth。 I preferred to view the episode as just another round on the gaudy carousel of urban life： “You knobed one day； mugged the next。”
He agreed。 “It was a real pleasure to meet with you today。 It’s great that you’re on board。 Cheerio；” he said； just before he hung up； and there was that little smile in his voice again。Cheerio 。
I went into the bathroom and opened my shirt。 A livid red horizontal mark was branded into my flesh； just above my stomach and below my rib cage。 I stood in front of the mirror for a better look。 It was three inches long and half an inch wide； and curiously sharp edged。 That wasn’t caused by flesh and bone； I thought。 I’d say that was a knuckle…duster。 That lookedprofessional 。 I started to feel strange again and went back to the sofa。
When the phone rang； it was Rick； to tell me the deal was done。 “What’s up？” he said； interrupting himself。 “You don’t sound right。”
“I just got mugged。”
“No！”
Once more I described what had happened。 Rick made appropriately sympathetic noises； but the moment he learned I was well enough to work； the anxiety left his voice。 As soon as he could； he brought the conversation round to what really interested him。
“So you’re still fine to fly to the States on Sunday？”
“Of course。 I’m just a bit shocked； that’s all。”
“Okay； well； here’s another shock for you。 For one month’s work； on a manuscript that’s supposedly already written； Rhinehart Inc。 are willing to pay you two hundred and fifty thousand dollars； plus expenses。”
“What？”
If I hadn’t al