Out in the salon, Jonathan saw Two-mouths approach Maggie and speak to her. She frowned and followed him toward a back door. Jonathan hoped she wouldn't put up too much of a fight when they put the needle in her.

"You're not trying to tell me that Max didn't impress you, are you, honey bun?"

"Oh, no. He impressed me all right. In fact, he scares the shit out of me."

She laughed. "I really like you, Hemlock. You must have been some kind of bad actor in your day. Only really tough men admit to being scared. Cheers." She emptied her glass, and he could not help swallowing twice sympathetically in a vicarious effort to help her get it down. "But," she continued, "he's a rare and beautiful animal. He's really evil, you know. Black mass sort of thing. Not just nasty or naughty or crotch-happy, like most men who think they're bad. But really evil.And there's nothing sexier than that. You have to get past sin, past sacrilege before things get really delicious."

"What does P'tit Noel think about all this?"

"He doesn't even know about The Cloisters. And if he did, it wouldn't matter. He'd do anything in the world for me. Like a puppy dog-like a real big, real fierce puppy dog, that is."

"Hey, would you mind not pointing that thing at me? It makes me nervous."

She laughed and pulled down her peignoir.

"And you don't feel sorry for P'tit Noel?"

"Hell no. I know his type. He likes getting hurt. Big gesture; romantic crash. Like winos who drink because it's so goddamn tragic and attractive to be a wino. You know what I mean?"

"Yes, madam, I do." He ran his fingers through his hair, tugging at the back of it to suppress his fatigue. "May I ask you something, Grace?"

"Shoot."

"I can't understand how Van Dyke got mixed up with you people. I've known her for years, and I can't imagine what Strange could have paid her that would bring her into this."

"He didn't pay her," she said, tickling her lips with the rim of her empty glass and smiling at him. "Idid."

Jonathan looked down. "I see."

Two-mouths conducted him through the exercise room into the now empty salon, its Art Deco sconces still ablaze. Jonathan looked toward the wall of mirrors behind which he assumed Amazing Grace was sitting, finishing a last Everclear. He waved good night to her, feeling a little foolish as he saw only his reflection wave back.

Up the wide staircase with its aluminum walls buffed in patterns of swirls, and down the long corridor, Two-mouths kept up a patter of talk to which Jonathan attended only vaguely.

"You could of knocked me over with a feather, you could, sir, when Mr. Strange told me to fix up that hostess for you. I thought you'd be done for sure, what with how you give such a beating to Lolly-he's the one what's teeth you cracked off, Lolly is. She didn't half put up a fight, that little Mick. Took two of us to get the needle in. Good thing for her Leonard wasn't there. He'd have done it right enough, and no fuss either. She wouldn't of been able to walk for a week, if Leonard had done it. He doesn't half rip 'em when he gets a chance. Well, here we are, sir. Pleasant dreams."

Jonathan entered the dark bedroom, and the door clicked locked behind him. The city glow beyond the window gave dim illumination, and he could see a bundled figure on the bed. She turned in her delirium and moaned softly, then she laughed to herself.

It was in rooms like this that the compromising films of government officials had been taken, and possibly some of them had been taken in the dark. Jonathan removed his jacket and checked his shirt sleeve. The starch gave off none of the phosphorescent glow that would indicate infrared light, so at least this room was not equipped with cameras and sniper scope lenses. But it was doubtless bugged and, under the drugs, she might say something that would give him away. He had to keep that in mind.

He undressed quickly and approached the bed. Maggie had been tossed onto it, still dressed in her flapper frock. One shoe was off and the other dangled from a toe, and a rope of beads had fallen across her face. In the dim light she opened her eyes and stared up at him, frowning. She was confused, trying hard to understand what was happening to her. As the needle had entered her, she had reminded herself that she must do nothing to endanger Jonathan's cover, and that thought had gone swirling down with her into the churn and chaos of distorted reality. She had clung to it for a time, then she had forgotten what it was she was clinging to. But it was important. She remembered that much.

"What?... What..." She looked at him, her eyes pleading for help. Then she laughed again.

"My name is Jonathan Hemlock," he told her immediately, really speaking for the microphones. It would not do for her to name him out of the blue.

"Jonathan? Jonathan?"

"That's right. But you can call me 'honey.' Come on, let's get your clothes off."

"Are my clothes still on?" She spoke with the clumsy diction of someone whose lip is rubbery from dentist's Novocain. "Isn't that funny?"

"A knee-slapper. Come on. Turn over."

He undressed her as quickly as possible, but with her limp and uncooperative body, it was not easy. Indeed, some bits would have been comic under less dangerous circumstances. She, at least, found it funny.

"Say," she said with the sudden seriousness of a drunk. "Do you really think we should be doing this?"

"Why not? We live in a permissive society."

"But... here? Isn't it... isn't it dangerous?"

"I'll be careful."

"What? What? I don't understand, Jonathan."

"You see? You remember my name."

"Yes, of course. Of course I know your name. You're-"

He kissed her. She hummed and drew him down to her.

He was painfully tired, but sleep was evasive. The open microphone was like a living thing in the dark, straining to catch their words, and the presence of it was palpable and uncomfortable. Maggie slept. The drugs had been good for her in one way. They had liberated her even beyond her usual abandoned and inventive lovemaking, and climax had been a total and body-shuddering thing for her, as though the sensation had begun in the small of her back and gushed outward. She had worked hard at it, and then she had slept, curled up on her side, sitting in his lap, his arms around her, completely and safely wrapped up by him.

He did not know she had awakened when she spoke softly. "Jonathan?"

He instantly thought of the bug-probably in the headboard to catch guests' quietest words. "Go to sleep, honey," he said rather harshly.

"I love you, Jonathan." It was a declarative sentence. A matter of fact. She might have said it was Tuesday, or raining.

"Well, that's just great, honey. You're a warm, wonderful, loving person. Now please let me get some sleep, will you?" But the microphone could not transmit the message in the way he hugged her in and buried his cheek in her hair.

He wondered if he would ever get to sleep, get the rest his body demanded. He was still wondering this when he awoke to find it was full day and there was a brilliant bar of sunlight across the bed. He opened his eyes and looked up. Maggie was there, sitting on the edge of the bed. She had been awake for some time, looking at his sleeping face, occasionally touching his hair gently, fearful of disturbing him, but desiring the possessive contact.

"Good morning," he said feebly, and he took her hand, only to find that his grip was too weak to squeeze it. The efforts of the past two days had caught up with him, and he had slept at coma depth.

"Good morning," she said, the brogue dealing carelessly with the vowels. She put her finger to her lips and pointed to the headboard, where a small core of metal shone dully in the center of a carved decoration.

He nodded and brought her with him as he turned around in the bed, lying with their heads at the footboard. They kissed good morning, and he brought his lips into contact with her ear and whispered to her soundlessly. "Play it out. Good girl wakes up in bed with strange man."