"You can suffer," Aimee spat, jerking away from Gabby's touch. "You can sweat. You can fry in hell until Sunday. Because I know who Knott is. This guy you're looking for. I know him. Sure he left a message in your book. I saw him." "Aimee! For God's sake, who is he?" "I ain't going to tell you. Suffer, you son of a bitch! God knows you made me suffer with your God damned morals and your God damned strap. Suffer!" "What strap? Make sense. Who is he?" "Go on. Ask a little. Beg a little." "What do you want?" Lennox demanded roughly. "Money? How much?" "I want you to suffer, big shot with your comical Christmas tree. We had a million laughs. Now sweat it out, Mr. Lennox." She pushed past Lennox and Gabby and waddled across the back room of the Baroque, honking with laughter, covering her mouth with her hand. The crowd gaped at her. At the side door she turned and screamed: "I know him and I ain't going to tell. Never. But I'll be up to the show Sunday, watching. And when Knott catches up with you ... remember my ass!" CHAPTER X Nine o'clock the next morning, Roy Audibon left Gracie Hospital and took a cab down to the network. His ribs were taped, his face was bruised, his teeth were clenched in a dazzling smile that was sure to hurt someone else worse than it hurt him. He rode the exclusive executives' elevator up to the twentieth floor, strode through the three anterooms guarding the holy of holies, and entered his office. It was rather ascetic compared to the conventional top-level decor. It contained a very large English desk paneled with gold-tooled leather, three Queen Anne armchairs covered with brocade, two red leather library chairs, a walnut breakfront displaying Dresden China and a brass microscope, a French stick barometer, a framed illuminated transparency of M-31, the Andromeda Nebula, and a constrained water color of Fire Island Beach signed: Valentine. Audibon examined the picture for a moment, then went to his desk, thrust aside the mountain of predigested mail, and picked up the phone. To his secretary he said: "Get me Grabinett and Bleutcher." "Yes, Mr. Audibon. What Bleutcher is that, please?" "Tom Bleutcher of Mode Shoes. Brockton, Mass. Check the 'Who He?' file." Audibon licked his lips. "Everybody on my team is expected to know the name and number of every player. This advice will be of value to you in your next job which will start at the end of this week." The secretary gasped. "I'm sorry, Mr. Audibon. I--" "Accounting will arrange your severance pay," Audibon interrupted and hung up. He examined the water color again, remembering a dark girl in striped clam-diggers and an old shirt knotted under her bosom, sitting cross-legged on a blazing dune ... a drawing board before her, tilted on the bleached remains of a driftwood chair ... the tinkle of a brush washed in a jar of water. "Never," Audibon said. The phone rang. He picked it up. "Yes?"