I woke up with a feeling of anticipation. Dan had something planned but, rather than speculating wildly, I was content to wait.

I'd gone easy on the margaritas the day before - if my previous self had any inclination to alcoholism, it hadn't manifested itself yet but, on the other hand, that was one piece of my past, I wasn't anxious to discover. Of course, since my inclinations seemed to lean towards moderation in matters of drink, the odds were that my past persona had similar habits.

As for the barbecued ribs and chicken - as well as the salads - I hadn't been as moderate and was feeling well-fed rather than hungry.

It was early yet. Outside, the shadows stretched beyond the bluff and I pulled on the stained jacket - the one the previous I had been wearing when shot - before going to sit zazen above the cliff.

Lucille had been a fascinating person to meet - and not just because of her initial reactions. She was attractive - and it was reassuring to discover that my libido was still healthy - but she was also intelligent, lucid and demonstrated a wicked sense of humor ... all qualities which I found intriguing.

I hadn't monopolized her time yesterday but we had shared several conversations and had discovered common interests ... and a few shared dislikes as well. After dinner, we'd also spent a while talking quietly and I had accepted - with eager fascination - an invitation to attend a voodoo ceremony. I had little inherited memory of voodoo - only theoretical knowledge, the kind you might get from reading about something but not from seeing it - and I was interested in seeing voodoo rites first hand and in gaining some understanding of a religion which, in its roots, was certainly as old as any in the world.

I'd also - tentatively, since my schedule was uncertain - invited Lucille to join me for dinner one day the following week, suggesting she should name the restaurant since she was more familiar with the region than I. Tentatively - she'd accepted.

Whether anything would come of this, I didn't know - just as I didn't know what inherited obligations I might have - but I was sure that Lucille was someone I wanted to know ... even if only as a friend. What was that old - and subtle - toast: "May we never have a friend we would not share ... and never ever a friend to spare?"

Friends, I thought, were valuable beyond riches ... and, having friends, I was enriched.

But, the evidence suggested, I also had an enemy.

An enemy wasn't a commodity I was anxious to treasure. Particularly not a deadly enemy. And I most particularly didn't like not knowing who ... or why ...

It wasn't an interest in revenge - "Who seeks revenge should dig two graves" the old saying cautioned - but I was interested in discovering who if only so that I could protect myself.

On the plus side, if I had no idea 'who', I could reasonably assume that they - whoever 'they' were - thought that 'I' was dead ... which was true in one sense ... but I wasn't anxious for it to become true in another. And, since the best defense is often a good offense, the first question was simply knowing 'who' ... Without the 'who,' neither offense nor defense were practical.

The alternative was simply 'hiding' ... except that option - short of being a total and comprehensive reclusive paranoid - also required knowing 'who' one was hiding from. I definitely wasn't interested in being a recluse. It just wasn't my style.

Of course, to find out 'who' the enemy was, I needed to know 'who' I had been.

Toward this end, I had one e-mail message - from yesterday - promising a lead ... but - apparently - Dan had been doing some detective work and he also had a strong lead ... which would be the subject of his 'surprise' today.

There was no point in speculating on so little data. Wasn't it Holmes who said "It is a prime mistake to theorized in the absence of facts?" In any case, with so little to go on, there was even less to surmise.

Dan's spy scenario of yesterday, however, had suggested one overlooked possibility ... except I wasn't sure how to check on it ... or if I would need to.

* * *

While my head was clear - physically, I didn't appear to suffer too readily from hangovers - I didn't know how Dan and Captain Donavi would be feeling this morning. Folk wisdom about 'hair of the dog' to the contrary - more alcohol only postpones the hangover and, often, makes it worse - there were a few things which could help on the morning after.

And, no, I wasn't thinking of secret concoctions of highly-spiced juices, raw eggs or massive doses of vitamins.

Instead, I sliced a couple of potatoes and an onion while frying a small rasher of bacon, then browned the potatoes and onions in the bacon fat. It was high cholesterol, sure but it was starch and, cooked, the onions weren't an irritant.

While the potatoes and onions sizzled, I whipped the remaining eggs into a froth, adding a couple of tablespoons of sugar to sweeten them and stiffen the mixture.

Then, when I heard sounds of life from the bedrooms - the aromas of bacon, onions and coffee were enough to waken the dead - I started the omelet and placed a jar of peach jam in the microwave to warm. The jam would be spread on the omelet before folding.

The results included cholesterol, sure, but also included enough sugar for a mild rush, enough starch for sustained energy, a good share of protein ... and enough flavor to tempt the appetites of anyone - no matter what they'd had to drink the night before.

Food was the real cure - not a miracle but at least a solution that worked.

* * *

"Uh, look, guys," Dan was hesitant. "I've got a couple of errands to run this morning. How about meeting me at Takahara's - about twelve?" Takahara's meant Takahara's Osaka Sushi Bar - downtown and upscale but still authentic ... and Dan's new favorite.

"Fine," I accepted, assuming that Takahara's was where Dan planned to spring his surprise.

"Sushi, eh? Reckon we can find it," the Captain grinned. "Cast off, mate. I'll be keeping Alex out of trouble for the morning."

Exactly what kind of trouble Captain Donavi was planning to keep me out of, I didn't discover. The ringing phone interrupted his remarks.

A moment later, "Alex, it's for you," Dan was covering the receiver with his hand. "Are you here?"

"Why not?" I questioned. "Who is it?"

"Police," Dan responded. "A Lieutenant Grayson."

"Why not?" I crossed and accepted the phone, then answered, "Good morning, Lieutenant. Alex Tambeau. Can I help you?"

"I just wanted to touch bases for a minute, if you don't mind," Grayson's voice was familiar. "How are you feeling?"

"Since I assume you aren't asking in a medical capacity, I'm fine, thank you."

"Is there a medical problem?" the Lieutenant jumped on my casual remark. "No complications?"

"I'm fine," I smiled. "What can I do for you?"

"I was just wondering," Grayson offered, "if your memory has improved any? Since you left the hospital, I mean."

"Sorry to disappoint you," I consoled him, "but, no, I don't remember anything new that could help you." And that was essentially true - I hadn't remembered anything ... Granted, I had deduced a few items ... and I had a few ideas ... but I wasn't ready to share them. For that matter, I wasn't sure if I'd ever be ready to share them.

"Well, I just thought I check. Look, you have my number, right?"

"That's right," I agreed.

"Okay," he continued, "if you remember anything - even if it's minor - give me a call, right?"

"Happy to," I assured the Lieutenant - not that it was likely to happen - there was nothing to remember. "But don't they say that if a murder's not solved within the first few days, it's not likely to be solved at all?"

"Murder?" Lieutenant Grayson sounded puzzled, then recovered, "Oh, you mean 'attempted murder' - Actually, if we could find out who, the charges would probably be aggravated assault. And I suppose that you're right, it does seem like a long shot. Even if you do regain your memory, it could be a hard case to prove anything. Sorry, I don't mean to be discouraging. I hope you do recover your memory and I'd like to help if I can."

"Your attention to duty is commendable," I suggested.

"I don't like unsolved ..." he stopped in mid-sentence.

"Murders?" I offered.

"Look, call me anytime. Okay?"

I agreed - provisionally - to call if I had anything which would help, then thanked him again for his concern before saying good-bye.

"You're not much for asking someone else to handle your problems, eh?" Captain Donavi observed. "Well, we'll see how the wind sets this afternoon. But, you find you be needing a hand, I'd be down right dissatisfied if you didn't ask your old mate for a bit of assistance."

"Meaning you'd hate to be left out?" I took an easy guess.

"You've read my drift," the Captain assured me. "Now how about you and I get out and see a bit of this port? Too early for bar hopping, maybe, but I reckon the two of us are old enough to manage other entertainments, eh?"

I wasn't sure what the Captain had in mind ... but there was one errand that needed to be handled.

* * *

When we arrived at Bay Tour Services, we had to wait for a few minutes - Ms Ostrider, I'd been informed, was busy but would be free shortly.

When Ms Ostrider was ready, I left Captain Donavi chatting with an Arab student in the waiting room while I turned in my accounts for the weekend.

"I have a fax from Mr. Shoji," Ms Ostrider offered. "He is very complimentary. Your services made an excellent impression. There's just one point that I'm curious about - he asks that I convey their thanks again to Tambeau sensi. I don't speak Japanese but doesn't sensi mean teacher?"

"Sometimes," I agreed. "But it can also mean doctor or any professional." I didn't explain.

"I see," her tone suggested that she really didn't. "Well, your expense sheet appears in order. Uh, Father Hardesty explained your circumstances - if you can wait for a few minutes, I'll draw a check for you. Humh, is a check all right? I can call the bank and ask them to cash it if it would help. Without asking for identification, I mean."

"A check will be fine," I assured her. "No problem."

* * *

We left Bay Tour Services with a check in my pocket which represented a very satisfactory week's wages by any reasonable standards ... and arrangements to guide a tour group for a couple of days later in the week. Nothing quite as elaborate as my first tour group - this would be a standard package tour with nine Japanese couples. Two days and one night to see the sights of San Francisco by bus - I had a printout of the itinerary.

And there was an Indian tour group the following week - four days including a night in Santa Barbara - if I was agreeable.

Then later, as the tourist season came into full swing, I could expect more regular bookings.

It looked like I could expect to eat regularly.

In deference to the Captain's leg and crutches, I was ready to call a cab but Captain Donavi had other ideas. "Can't get the flavor of a city riding round in a taxi," he countered. "And can't be going soft just 'cause my leg's in a bind, eh? Long as you can navigate, mate, we're under way." He suited action to intent by setting off with a rapid swinging motion, setting a course toward Chinatown, a few blocks distant.

* * *

Reaching Chinatown, the Captain was in his own element and we spent the next hour wandering with Captain Donavi chatting - and sometimes haggling - in what I suspected was reprehensible gutter Mandarin. Or, maybe, Cantonese.

In any case, he seem to be able to make himself understood ... and the pattern of half-banter, half-insult haggling was familiar even without knowing the language.

We didn't buy much - Captain Donavi spent fifteen minutes arranging the purchase price for a set of small dolls - which I thought were cheap enough at the original asking price. But, since both the Captain and the merchant seemed to enjoy the transaction - and the final payment was roughly two-thirds the marked price - I didn't see any reason to quibble.

For that matter, the whole process seemed intimately familiar - as if I - my previous I - had done the same thing many times ... and in many places. Overall, watching was making me feel strangely lonesome. Or, maybe, homesick was a better word.

A short time later, I purchased a pair of enameled health balls - two-inch steel balls used to exercise the hands. It wasn't so much because I wanted them or needed them but simply because I felt a need to haggle ... even if I didn't speak Chinese.

After a few minutes of back and forth, I handed over three dollars and accepted the silk-covered box holding the green and gold patterned balls ... feeling almost guilty at how easily the transaction had gone ... but also feeling satisfied - like an itch I hadn't know I'd had had been scratched.

"We'd better grab a cab this time," I suggested, glancing at my watch. It was getting close to twelve and we were several miles from Takahara's. Then I laughed, realizing that, as I spoke, I was glancing around, looking for a pedicab ... or a tuk-tuk.

* * *

The cab delivering us to Takahara's was a conventional Red and White even if the driver did appear to be a Rastaferian ... and smelled slightly of ganja as well. He drove that way, too.

Since the cab was metered, we didn't haggle over the fare - despite the temptation.

Dan was waiting, seated at a table with a middle-aged lady dressed in a light-blue business suit - jacket and pants - over a darker, boat-collared silk blouse. The lady's hair was carefully coiffured, a pair of glasses hung around her neck held by a beaded retainer, a single solitaire - moderately large - adorned her left ring finger and a silver broach styled after a lizard crawled up her jacket collar.

As we entered, the lady looked up, smiled suddenly and started to rise - then hesitated, stood and waited for our approach. At the same time, Dan was swiveling his head to watch both the lady's face and mine.

It didn't take a Sherlock or a Magriet to deduce that the lady had recognized me ... but my own memories held no corresponding recognition.

"I'm sorry," I apologized, extending my hand, "I'm sure I should know you but I'm afraid that I don't. Did Dan explain?" I was sure he had but asked anyway.

"Yes, he did," she agreed. "But hearing it and ... realizing ... are two different things. You really don't remember anything, do you."

"I'm sorry," I repeated. "But, no, nothing. You are?"

"Oh, Alex," Dan stepped in, "This is Barbara Yount, Senior Editor at Brown and Vauxhall. Barbara, meet Alexander Jason Tambeau."

"My pleasure," we shook hands before I continued, "But I take it that you know me by another name?"

"For several years," Ms Yount agreed. "But Dan's asked me to - ah - reserve the information? Just for a moment?"

"Why not," I smiled. "I'm comfortable with Alex. And this is Captain Mikael Donavi of the Andromea," I completed the introductions, then suggested, "Maybe we should order?"

* * *

After ordering, I let Dan set the topic for the conversation - after all, it was his party ... and I was almost as curious about how he had put this together as I was about who I had been. Besides, however he'd done it, I was impressed - so why not let him strut for a bit.

"One of the things that puzzled me," Dan explained, "almost from the moment we met, was your virtually encyclopedic knowledge of mysteries. Not completely encyclopedic - you did have gaps, there were some popular authors who you didn't know but you seemed to know all of the old classics as well as a great many of the contemporary authors. So, I decided at the very least that you were a reader ... and probably a fan as well. On that basis, you might have been a book dealer, an editor ... or a librarian, I suppose.

"But then there were your multilingual skills," Dan continued, "Obviously, you've traveled a lot. Not just because you spoke the languages but because you know so much about customs and cultures and everything.

"At the same time," he paused to sip his tea, "you also talked about plot devices, how characters were developed and how writers would use misdirection to keep the reader from guessing the clues too soon. Then, when you started encouraging me to develop a mystery plot with an accountant for a detective, I started wondering what kind of books you'd write ... which led me to wonder if you had written any.

"However," he paused purely for emphasis, "the real giveaway was when you explained the plot device in Rubles Are Red. That and your knowledge of the missing segment in the first edition - that's not the kind of thing your average reader knows."

I noticed Ms Yount wince slightly at the mention and had a feeling that I knew where Dan was leading. Not that I'd have interrupted him for the world - not while he was on a roll.

"Of course," Dan covered the alternatives, "you might still have been a book dealer ... or a publisher even. But that didn't jibe with travel and languages. So, I dismissed those two occupations."

"And that," I hazarded a mild guess, "was why you asked so many questions about the plots of the Robeson novels?"

"Precisely," Dan agreed, "you had everyone of them down pat. With other people's mysteries, you were good - but, on Robeson's plots, you were perfect. And, just to round out the evidence," he reached under the table for his briefcase, opening it to produce his copy of 'Modus Operandi Nova,' "there was this. You remember when I bought this?"

I did - it was last week, the first day after we left the hospital. I also remembered thinking that Dan might be disappointed to discover that 'Modus' was a departure from the Robeson saga.

"This book went on sale only two days before I purchased a copy," Dan continued. "And it's very good ... but it's not a Paul Robeson novel. Instead, the principal character's name ... is Alexander Tambeau."

The silence around the table was deafening.

"Your evidence," I suggested slowly, "appears conclusive. I don't believe I can find holes to pick. Congratulations. Then I was 'Gregory Thorne'?"

"Elementary, my dear Alex," Dan grinned, delivering his punchline as the waiter appeared bearing a lacquered boat filled with sushi. "You are Gregory Thorne. Published by Brown and Vauxhall in the U.S. And Ms Yount is your editor. I faxed your illegible signature to Ms Yount for confirmation and she flew out immediately."

* * *

"When your first book came in," Ms Yount - Barbara, she insisted, since we were old friends and colleagues - explained, "I thought it was the most original plot I'd seen in years. That was 'Another Hole In The Wall' where you had Robeson leading a team to blow holes in the Berlin Wall - during the height of the Cold War.

"But it wasn't the Berlin Wall theme that caught my eye," she continued. "Ian Fleming was king of the super-spy authors then. It was the twists you used, that Robeson was blowing holes in the Wall not so that people could escape but so that he could smuggle a truckload of espionage gear into East Berlin right under the noses of the East German police."

"The best scene," Dan interjected, "was where Robeson was in East German uniform, backing that truck up to the fallen wall to make it look like it had come across from the eastern side. Then, when the real East German soldiers showed up, he started harraging them for letting defectors escape and made the police haul the truck back across while he marched his confederates through the wall at gun point - under arrest - before loading them in the truck and driving it into East Germany, leaving the police standing guard behind him."

I remembered the plot ... and also remembered a dozen holes in it - which weren't in the Berlin Wall. According to the plot, the trucks had contained equipment to be used to monitor the East German secret police's telephone and fax transmissions. And the holes in the wall had been created using shaped plastique charges. The holes in the plot, however, had escaped almost everyone.

I also remembered that the book had sold well - which Barbara confirmed.

"It was a real headache keeping up with you," she reminisced. "When sales really took off and we wanted you to do talk shows and book signings, you were off in India working on 'The Darjeeling Scam'. I spent three days just trying to get a phone call through to Claridges in Delhi to persuade you to fly back to do the Tonight Show. Then it took another two days before you got the message - you'd been up country at some hill station - and ..."

* * *

"Actually, I'd been trying to reach you for a couple of weeks," Barbara was explaining as we relaxed with iced tea on the balcony of her suite at the Embarco Hilton - Dan and Captain Donavi had left us after lunch, with arrangements to meet later for dinner. "I tried both Algiers and Marrakech, then called Phoenix - where I'd sent the figures you wanted. Anyway, it's about your latest manuscript - The Sucker Game ... but I don't suppose you remember anything about it?"

"Not really," I admitted. "But what's wrong with it?"

"It just isn't up to standard," she explained. "The final manuscript was delivered about two weeks ago - by DHL from Marrakech - that's why I tried to reach you there. I'd okayed your original outline and I was looking forward to the final manuscript ... but it bothered me. Too rough, too many loose ends not tied up. And the style isn't consistent - the last third of the book just doesn't fit - it's not a Gregory Thorne mystery. I've got a copy right here," she produced a plastic-bound manuscript from her luggage. "Maybe you should look it over - see if it brings anything back to you."

* * *

Two hours later, I put down the manuscript. "You're absolutely right," I agreed. "From chapter fifteen, it reads like it had been written by a bad amateur. And that's not even how the Big Store operates. The setup - back in chapter 10 and 11? - is okay but ..." I shook my head, I was at a loss for words. I'd skimmed it rather than reading it in detail but I had the highlights. The plot had begun in Algeria and then moved to Arizona and southern California where the imported camels had been used for the auxiliary purpose of smuggling diamonds from South Africa. The primary purpose - in this version - involved a variation on the Big Store con ... except it was wrong.

"It needs a total rewrite," Barbara suggested.

"Absolutely," I agreed. "The business with the camel races is totally unresolved and that's integral to the plot. And the blow-off on the scam would never work - it's against human nature. The mark would simply go berserk and, if he's really a organization kingpin, he'd have shooters out gunning for the operators in a split. The only thing to do is to toss the last five chapters and get someone to figure out the missing plot elements and tie them up neatly. Like this it would be a total loss." In essence - what I was saying was - the plot had been butchered.

"So?" Barbara looked at me across her tea. "When can you have it done?"

"Me?"

"You're Gregory Thorne," she reminded me. "And the first fifteen chapters are authentic Thorne. Can you finish it?"

I had to think about it for a minute - it wasn't just the last five chapters, some of the earlier material needed work as well - the motivations were okay but they could have been better. And, instead of a Big Store blow off, maybe it needed something more original. There was something Lucille had said - yesterday - about zombies and Haiti ... The camels ... well, there was another way to use them ... better even.

"Maybe I could ..." I considered. The truth of the matter was that I was feeling a positive itch to tear the novel apart and fix it the way it should be written.

"It would take time ... and I've got tourist groups to guide ..." I temporized, trying to remember what the financial arrangements were on a project like this. I didn't exactly have the financial resources to give up being a translator/guide and just write ...

"You have another fifty-thousand coming on your advance for the book," Barbara advised. "Suppose I write you a check for five thousand right now and have another twenty for you by, say, Thursday? Can you finish it?"

For twenty-five thousand in hand?

"Do you have the manuscript on disk?"

In lieu of a reply, she produced a floppy disk from her briefcase. "Word format," she announced, extending the disk to me.

"It will take a little while," I accepted the diskette. "Tell me," another thought came to mind, "What do you know about my personal background?"

* * *

Barbara knew a lot ... and a little ... about Gregory Thorne.

First, Thorne wasn't married. He had been but he'd been widowed shortly before he'd written his first book. No children or immediate family as far as she knew but, Barbara admitted, she wasn't entirely certain either.

She - Barbara - and her husband had entertained Thorne on several trips to New York and knew him relatively well but couldn't remember his ever mentioning close family. Mostly they'd talked about books, book plots, book contracts, book publicity and book covers. When they hadn't talked about books, they'd talked about travels.

The silver pin she wore - a ginko - was a gift Thorne had brought her from Thailand, a souvenir.

"Then this must be for you," I produced the silk brocade covered box from the bag I'd been carrying. "A souvenir of San Francisco's Chinatown. You roll them in your hand for relaxation." The two-inch steel balls made a soft chiming sound as they rolled.

Thorne also had an agent - one Joseph R. Toland. Residence - somewhere in Oakland - Toland's that was, not Thorne's.

Gregory Thorne's residence seemed to be anywhere in the world - with regular changes.

"You hired Toland," Barbara explained, "about the time you finished 'The Darjeeling Scam'. That was the last time I had to wire transfer funds to your Bank of Shanghai account. You said they were the only bank who could be reached in any currency and in any country. Hey," she exclaimed, "maybe you still have an account there."

Bank of Shanghai sounded familiar but ... Well, maybe I could check on it later.

Toland, according to Barbara, had been Thorne's business manager cum agent for the last seven books and, as far as Barbara would admit, had been doing a reasonable job of handling the contracts for the books.

"You could, of course, be demanding much higher advances," she admitted. "An advance of a hundred fifty thousand per book - for an established author with your record - is not exorbitant. There are much poorer authors who are demanding - and receiving - seven figure advances. Of course," she added, "you get it in royalties instead so it all comes out the same in the end.

"And, if Tri-Star picks up the movie option on 'Modus Operandi Nova' - which it looks like they will if book sales continue the way they are - we'll be negotiating for at least a mil and half up front. This is all news to you, isn't it?"

"Since I have no memory of any of it, yes. That's a lot of cash." From what Barbara said, we were talking about a whole lot of cash ... and, I thought, it might be a good idea to find out just exactly how much.

* * *

"I'm sorry," Barbara hung up the phone. "It will be Wednesday before the statements can be here. I left instructions for them to be Fed Ex'd tomorrow for priority delivery at the Daly City address. The check for twenty thousand will be here the following day - I know Accounting and there's no rushing them."

She'd already handed me a personal check - in the name Alex Tambeau - for five thousand. The second, company check, would bear both names - with an 'AKA' between them.

Barbara was scheduled to catch the red-eye back to New York this evening but she had my new internet address ... and had agreed not to mention anything - anything at all - to anyone.

As for me, I was busy plotting changes to 'The Sucker Game.'

* * *

Dinner was at Fisherman's Grotto - early both to suit Barbara's personal clock which was four hours ahead of ours and to get her on her flight back to the Big Apple on time.

I also - regretfully - called Bay Tour Services to explain that I would not be available for next week ... but that I would take the two-day Japanese tour unless they were able to find a substitute.

I went to sleep that night thinking of plots. Of Dan's detective work - which was excellent ... of changes to 'The Sucker Game' - which was fun ... and of possible plots involving shooting a man in the head - which was deadly serious.