Larry groaned again, opened the other eye and attempted to focus.
“What happened?” he muttered.
“Now that's an original question,” Steve said.
Larry Woolford struggled up into a sitting position. He'd been stretched out on a couch in the Professor's combined living room and study.
Steve Hackett, his hands on his hips, was looking down at him sarcastically. There were two or three others, one of whom Larry vaguely remembered as being a Secret Service colleague of Steve's, going about and in and out of the room.
Larry said, his fingers pressing into his forehead, “My head's killing me. Damn it, what's going on?”
Steve said sarcastically, “You've been slipped a mickey, my cloak and dagger friend, and the bird has flown.”
“You mean the Professor? He's a bird all right.”
“Humor we get, yet,” Hackett said, his ugly face scowling. “Listen, I thought you people had pulled out of this case.”
Larry sat up and swung his two feet around to the floor. “So did I,” he moaned, “but there were two or three things that bothered me and I thought I'd tidy them up before leaving.”