Voices. Distant voices, becoming louder.
Thomas turned over on the bed and was slowly conscious. He saw the dingy ceiling and stared at it without comprehension. He saw sunlight streaming in from behind drawn venetian blinds and he saw the bare branches of a tree beyond the blinds and the window.
He sat up in bed, still hearing the voices, men's voices, in the next room. Voices with English accents. One American accent, too. He was suddenly dizzy and his head was aching, a headache beyond comprehension. He slipped back onto the pillow and thought.
Where was he? He knew his mind was working slowly, but he simply couldn't figure it out. Where was he?
Then he realized. He recognized nothing because he had never been in this room before. And the last thing he remembered was that Knight of the Nightlife accosting his nostrils with that stinking vial.
He lay there until he thought he could walk. He could not discern what the voices were saying. But if he could make it to the window and peek beyond the blinds, well, maybe at least he'd have an inkling of where he was.
He tried to stand.
He wobbled and took a step.
Then the dizziness was upon him and he swayed. One direction, then the other. He groped for the bedpost and missed by several feet. He tumbled forward, knocking over a wooden chair and banging noisily with a thud onto the floor.
The voices stopped. Moments later the door opened.
Hunter stood there, watching him from that round face with the puffy relentless eyes. Hunter turned and addressed the men behind him.
"He's up," he said.
Thomas wanted to say something but was still too woozy. Then he heard footsteps. Three men were walking toward him from the doorway. Hunter was the first, Grover the second.
The third was an older man.
Thomas's vision was blurred. He squinted and glared at the third man and was struck by the idea, the sudden flash of excitement, that this could indeed be Arthur Sandler. At last. It was in fact an older man.
Tall, lean, and graceful. Meticulously dressed in a dark Saville Row suit. He stepped past Hunter and Grover and stopped, looking down at Thomas and flanked by the two henchmen.
Thomas tried to focus on the face. It was familiar. He had seen it before.
"Whiteside," he muttered. And he let his cheek touch the floor again.
"Yes," said Whiteside thoughtfully, as if in response to a question.
"Yes, it is " He turned to Grover and Hunter.
"Wake him up, damn it," he ordered crisply.
"He didn't even welcome me to America."
Thomas felt the footsteps coming, then he felt the hands on him.
He was sat up and shaken, then stood up. The two men began to undress him and warned him not to resist. Stripped to his undershorts, and allowed to keep them in the interest of decency, he was walked to the bathroom adjoining the bedroom. He managed to see out a window. He was in a house in the country somewhere and it appeared to be midmorning.
"Your morning bath, sir," Hunter grunted with obvious enjoyment.
Hunter's hammy fist reached into a shower and turned on the frigid water full blast. Then, with no further introduction, Hunter and Grover shoved Thomas into the jet of water.
Forty-five minutes later, Thomas had been permitted to dry himself and dress in fresh clothes. He was seated in the living room of a small apparently rural house. He was on a sofa sipping a lukewarm cup of black coffee.
Grover was to his right. Hunter was to his left. Both were seated.
Whiteside was seated in an armchair in front of him. Whiteside was talking.
"From what I hear," Whiteside purred amiably, leaning, forward a trifle for emphasis, 'you made my associate, Mr. Hunter, do a little wrestling" He stared at Thomas primly and blankly.
"Rather nasty of you, I should think."
Thomas set down the coffee on the table, wondering absently what was in it. He could imagine battery acid which would taste better. But then the English were cognoscenti of Asian leaves, not South American beans.
"Where am I?"
"Safe," offered Whiteside, as if giving a benediction.
"Quite safe, I should say."
Thomas's eyes drifted to Grover, then to Hunter.
"Safe?" he asked, indicating the latter.
"With this ape here?"
Hunter smirked.
"Mr. Hunter is a paragon of delicacy and fine manners said Whiteside.
"I have no doubt whatsoever that if Mr. Hunter used force to bring you here, it was because you provoked him. Is that not the case?" he asked, turning to Hunter.
Hunter nodded soberly.
Whiteside allowed himself a slight smile.
"As I suspected," he intoned softly. He looked back to Thomas. I "I'm not at all surprised that he subdued you. Mr. Hunter was always a bit of an athlete.
Tried out as a mid fielder in 1952 for, which was it, Arsenal or Sunderland?"
"Southampton" mumbled Hunter with obvious satisfaction.
– They're all the' same' snorted Whiteside.
"Maybe he should have tried as a defender," offered Grover, slipping into an impeccably working-class accent from northern England.
"For Newcastle. Or maybe Leeds United" Grover broke into a genuine laugh as Hunte'r shot him a half annoyed glare.
"For Christ's sake," snapped Thomas angrily and in confusion, 'what the hell are you talking about?"
The room was quickly silent as the three men knew Thomas was not thinking properly and able to reason.
"You don't understand our terms, is that it?" asked Whiteside.
"No.
"Well," he answered expansively, drawing out the word, 'in point of fact, that's why you're here." He rose from where he was sitting and explained further.
"Terms," he said.
"Terms " "Trash collection" said Whiteside.
"You know all about it. Except what it is" Thomas eyed each of the three men.
"And how about your dad?" asked Hunter.
"The 'recruiting sergeant'?" There was a trace of hostility in his voice.
Thomas looked at the three men suspiciously. He answered in a calm even voice.
"I don't even know what you're talking about' "Well then," said Whiteside, his voice now barely above a whisper.
"It's high time you learned." Whiteside turned his graying head and addressed Grover.
"Tell us, Mr. Grover," he said, 'take us back to 1938. When exactly did you go into trash collecting?"
"It was that year," said Grover.
"Maybe you could give our friend here a few of the details,"
Whiteside suggested easing himself back into his chair.
"Bring him up to date " Grover looked at Thomas with some surprise.
"You don't know this story, huh?" he asked.
"How would I know anything about you?" answered Thomas huffily.
"Your old man" said Grover, speaking again in an American accent, this time almost with New York street intonations.
"He sure kept his lips tight " "What's trash collection?" Thomas asked.
"Disposal of waste material," said Grover.
"Getting rid of the garbage. Human garbage. Got it yet?"
"Not quite."
"From the start, Mr. Grover," said Whiteside in civilized tones.
"Briefly, but from the start."
Hunter leaned back in his chair, tilting back on the chair's two rear legs. His thick arms were folded across his barrel chest. He alternated his gaze back and forth between his captive, Thomas and his associate, Grover, who was starting to speak.
"I'd had trouble with the law off and on through 1938 and 1939," said Grover.
"Small stuff. Checks. Bank books. Shit like that."
"Mr. Grover was a forger, Mr. Daniels. A very good one As you know," commented Whiteside.
Thomas nodded.
"I don't like to be boastful," said Grover humbly, 'but-' "But he could look at a signature once and reproduce it" said Whiteside.
"The endowments of an artist, in a sense " "I know about his criminal career," said Thomas.
"What's it have to do with garbage?"
"Trash," Grover corrected him, quickly and gleefully.
"Trash collection. You see, in 1940 I was in trouble. Very serious trouble with the United States government over a bit of artwork I was doing:' "Forgery?"
"Certain signatures," said Grover innocently.
"On a set of Treasury bills He shrugged.
"The signatures themselves were perfectly done. Using the wrong name did me in."
"What did it have to do with Sandler?" asked Thomas.
Grover smiled.
"Very good" he complimented the younger man.
"You figured that right away." He paused, glancing at Whiteside.
"I was a forger, not an engraver. Does that answer it? It should."
Thomas assessed him coldly, wondering what was within or outside of the bounds of credibility.
"But Sandler could engrave," he suggested, half a question, half a statement.
"Could?" he laughed, his eyebrows shooting skyward.
"Could? Do the frigging birds sing in the morning? Best damned engraver who ever lived. Give him the right tools and he could reengrave Cleopatra's needle so that you couldn't tell his from the original. Hell"' he laughed, "he could reengrave Cleopatra." "So you were his associate. I already knew that. So what?"
"Trash collection" smiled Grover, warming to his reminiscences.
"The government arrested me for forging Treasury bills. They were all set to really stick it to me. I figured that I was ready to sit out the next twenty in the jug. But then," he added slowly, 'they offered me a deal. Mind if I smoke?"
Grover reached to a pack of cigarettes within his pocket. No one was inclined to object.
"The government told me there was a lot of trash in the country and abroad" he said.
"They knew I was Italian and knew I spoke Italian fluently. Like a native. They asked me)' he said through a cloud of smoke as he looked Daniels squarely in the eye, 'how I'd feel about killing."
"Killing who?"
"Killing whoever they told me to' he said. He drew on the cigarette.
"We came to an agreement. four assignments. Trash assignments, they called them, and I'd be the collector. Foreign spies against the United States, they assured me." He blew the smoke out through his nose.
"Well, I'm as patriotic as the next guy. Even more so, if it keeps me out of prison. Capisce?"he winked, with an exaggerated gesture and an Italian-peasant accent.
"One murder in New York, another in south Philadelphia. On the third they sent me to Calabria in 1944. I scored" Thomas wondered about the fourth assignment and was about to inquire when Whiteside spoke.
"So there's what a trash collector is" said the Englishman.
"Now you know."
"Sure' said Thomas.
"But that can't be all of it "Perceptive, perceptive," grinned Whiteside.
"Of course there's more. How could there not be? After all, there was more than simply my friend Mr. Grover involved. There was also Arthur Sandler.
And, of course…" He offered his hand forward expansively, soliciting the missing word from Thomas.
"My father."
Hunter and Grover both smiled. Whiteside eased back in his chair, apparently quite pleased.