Fortunately he had change. He dropped a one-dollar gold piece into the slot, dialed Al Bliss’s number.

“Bliss Talent Agency,” Al’s voice came presently.

“Listen,” Jason said. “I don’t know where I am. In the name of Christ come and get me; get me out of here; get me someplace else. You understand, Al? Do you?”

Silence from the phone. And then in a distant, detached voice Al Bliss said, “Who am I talking to?”

He snarled his answer.

“I don’t know you, Mr. Jason Taverner,” Al Bliss said, again in his most neutral, uninvolved voice. “Are you sure you have the right number? Who did you want to talk to?”

“To you, Al. Al Bliss, my agent. What happened in the hospital? How’d I get out of there into here? Don’t you know?” His panic ebbed as he forced control on himself; he made his words come out reasonably. “Can you get hold of Heather for me?”

“Miss Hart?” Al said, and chuckled. And did not answer.

“You,” Jason said savagely, “are through as my agent. Period. No matter what the situation is. You are out.”

In his ear Al Bliss chuckled again and then, with a click, the line became dead. Al Bliss had hung up.

I’ll kill the son of a bitch, Jason said to himself. I’ll tear that fat balding little bastard into inch-square pieces.

What was he trying to do to me? I don’t understand. What all of a sudden does he have against me? What the hell did I do to him, for chrissakes? He’s been my friend and agent nineteen years. And nothing like this has ever happened before.

I’ll try Bill Wolfer, he decided. He’s always in his office or on call; I’ll be able to get hold of him and find out what this is all about. He dropped a second gold dollar into the phone’s slot and, from memory, once more dialed.

“Wolfer and Blame, Attorneys-at-law,” a female receptionist’s voice sounded in his ear.

“Let me talk to Bill,” Jason said. “This is Jason Taverner. You know who I am.”