He was writing a note to himself to put a new subliminal message on his computer, SAVE THE WORLD, BUY THIS POLICY, when Josh Spagnola called.

"Sam, did you hear what happened at the association meeting last night?"

"No, Josh, I've been cleaning up my place."

"The place, Sam. I think this will be an easier transition if you start referring to it as the place."

"You mean they voted to buy me out? Without even asking me? I can't believe it."

"I was actually very surprised myself. People seem to dislike you in the extreme, Sam. I think the dog was just their excuse for a general fuck-over."

"You told them it wasn't my dog, didn't you?"

"I told them, but it didn't matter. They hate you, Sam. The doctors and lawyers hate you because you make enough money to live here. The married guys hate you because you're single. The married women hate you because you remind their husbands that they aren't single. The old people hate you because you're young, and the rest just hate you because you aren't Japanese. Oh, yeah, one bald guy hates you because you have hair. For a guy that maintains a low profile, you've built quite a little snowball of resentment."

Sam had never given his neighbors a second thought, never even spoken to most of them, so now the realization that they hated him enough to take away his home was a shock. "I've never done anything to hurt anybody in this complex."

"I wouldn't take it personally, Sam. Nothing brings people together like hate for profit. You didn't have a chance against the clay tennis courts."

"What does that mean? We don't have clay tennis courts."

"No, but when they buy your townhouse for what you paid for it, then sell it to someone more suitable at the market rate, the association will have enough profit to build clay tennis courts. We'll be the only complex in Santa Barbara with clay courts. Should raise the value of the property at least ten percent. Sorry, Sam."

"Isn't there anything I can do? Can't I bring legal action or something?"

"This isn't an official call, Sam. I am calling as your friend and not on behalf of the association, so let me give you my best advice on taking legal action: it's suicide. Half the guys that voted you out are lawyers. In six months you'd be broke and they'd be drinking your blood over backgammon. The time for legal advice was eight years ago when you signed that agreement."

"Great. Where were you then?"

"I was stealing your Rolex."

"You stole my Rolex? That was you? My gold Rolex? You dick!"

"I didn't know you then, Sam. It was a professional thing. Besides, the statute of limitations has run out. It's time to forgive and forget."

"Fuck you, Josh. You'll get a bill for the damage you caused."

"Sam, do you know how concerned I am about your bill? I don't give a decaying damn, I don't-"

Sam hung up on the security guard. The phone immediately rang and Sam stared at it for a minute. Should he let Josh get the satisfaction of the last word? He looked at the shattered remains of his television, picked up the phone, and shouted, "Look, you wormy little fuck, you're lucky I don't come down there and pop your head like a pimple!"

"Sam, this is Julia, down at the office. I have Aaron on the line for you."

"Sorry, Julia, I was expecting someone else. Hang on a second." He sat down on the couch and held the receiver to his chest while he tried to regain his composure. Too much change, too fast. He couldn't let Aaron catch him with his guard down. His good friend Aaron, his partner, his mentor. And Josh Spagnola was supposed to be his friend, too. What was the deal with Josh? He'd turned on Sam overnight. Why?

Sam lit a cigarette and took a long drag, then blew the smoke out in a slow stream before speaking into the phone. "Julia, you caught me in the shower. Tell Aaron I'll be in the office in an hour. We'll talk then." He hung up before she could respond. He dialed the number of the Cliffs' security office. Josh Spagnola answered.

"Josh, this is Sam Hunter."

"Very rude, Sam. Hanging up when I am telling you how little I care is very rude."

"That's why I'm calling, Josh. I've heard your little speeches before. I want to know what you've got on me."

"Then you haven't seen the paper this morning?"

"I told you before, I've been patching holes all fucking morning. What goes?"

"Seems that Jim Cable, the diving mogul, was attacked by an Indian outside of his office and had a heart attack. They said he had just finished an appointment with an insurance agent."

"So, what's your point, Josh?"

"The point is, Sam, that after I ran out of your place yesterday, I went through the apartment next door and ran out on the deck. I thought I could come in from behind the dog and get a shot at it. But when I got there I saw an Indian vaulting over the rail of your deck. The Indian was wearing black, just like the one they described in the paper. Interesting coincidence, huh?"

Sam didn't know what to say. Spagnola had half the complex under his thumb for one reason or another, but Sam didn't know how the burglar used his information other than as a license to be rude. Sam didn't want to bring up blackmail when Spagnola might just be in this to watch him squirm. Sam had watched a thousand clients squirm under his own manipulation, but he wasn't sure how to go about it himself. He decided to take a direct approach. "Okay, Josh," he said. "I'm squirming. Now what?"

"Sammy, I love you, kid. You and I are like peas in a pod. You, me, and that Aaron guy at your office."

"You know Aaron?"

"Just spoke to him this morning when I called your office. Your secretary said that you were no longer with the firm and Mr. Aaron was taking all your calls from now on. Aaron and I had a long talk."

"Did you tell him about the Indian?"

"No, he told me. Strange thing, Sam, he seems to want you out of the business pretty badly, but not just for the profit. I think he's afraid of the attention you're going to get if it turns out that you're associated with the Indian who attacked Cable. Who do you think has more to lose: you or Aaron?"

"Neither of us is losing anything, Josh. This whole thing is a mistake. I don't care what you saw, I don't know anything about any Indian, and I resent the veiled threat."

"No threat, Sam. Just information. It's the cleanest commodity, you know? No fingerprints, no fibers, no serial numbers. It's kind of ethereal — religious in a way. People will pay for something that they can't smell, or taste, or touch. It's fucking glorious, isn't it? I should have been a spy."

Sam listened to Spagnola sigh, then to the breathing over the line. Here it was again, the standoff. How many times had he backed down over the years? How many times had fear of discovery caused him to lie low and play the role of the victim? Too damn many. He always seemed to be running from the past and avoiding the future, but the future came anyway.

Very softly, barely speaking over a whisper, Sam said, "Josh, before you become too enraptured, remember the information you don't have."

"What's that, old buddy?"

"You have no idea who I am or what I'm capable of."

There was a silence on the line, as if Spagnola was considering what Sam had said. "Good-bye, Josh," Sam whispered.

He hung up the phone, grabbed his car keys, and headed out the door to the Mercedes. As he disarmed the alarm and climbed in the car he realized that he also had no idea who he was or what he was capable of, and for the first time in his life it didn't frighten him. In fact, it felt good.