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show my bloody face to too many conventioneers and visiting software salesmen. He took it from there, getting us onto a car and pushing the button for the eighth floor. Once we got there he picked up the pace. We were downright sprinting by the time we reached Room 821.
    No one home wasthe first thing I thought after the security guy used his master-key and pushed the door open. Just to the right of the door I saw Proxy’s electric-blue roller suitcase knocked over on its side with its handle still fully extended—but no Proxy. Then I heard an urgent and indignant “UHMPF! UMPH!” from between the twin beds.
    I got there in two good strides, tossing the attaché case on the bed as I went so that she’d know I’d recovered it. I saw Proxy, gagged with a white gym sock knotted crudely behind her head and hog-tied with thin electrical cord. “Hog-tied” as in trussed like a stoat on the first stage of his way to a goyim breakfast. Lying on her stomach, she had her hands and arms pulled behind her back and the lower half of her legs up and pulled as far toward her waist as they’d go. The electrical cord tied her wrists and ankles together and to each other. The guy who’d tied her up wasn’t any sailor, that’s for sure. The knots he’d managed were ugly blobs without a trace of rope-craft to them.
    As Proxy twisted her head over her shoulder at my approach, I read blind fury in her eyes. She’d been humiliated, degraded, and (worst of all in her eyes) deprived of control over her situation. The way she looked at things, my coming across her like this was way worse than surprising her stark naked. She figured to be one pissed-off lady.
    â€œKnife!” I barked at the security guy.
    He produced a folding Buck knife at least four inches long and slapped it into my palm. I pulled the blade out and felt it lock into place, but before I went to work on the restraints I began loosening the gag between Proxy’s teeth as gently as I could. I really wanted to hear the first words out of her mouth. Proxy doesn’t do spontaneous cussing. She might let loose with an occasional, carefully calculated “bullshit” during a meeting when it will get maximum attention, but I’ve never heard her use off-color language in an angry outburst. If it was ever going to happen, I thought, today would be the day.
    â€œSteady, soldier,” I told her soothingly as I unknotted the sock and began tugging it from between her teeth. “Police are already on their way.” I figured that the security guard’s “Mr. Blue” instruction to the parking valet was code for, “Call the cops.” I pulled the sock out without taking any of her dental work along with it and braced myself for her reaction to being mugged and left tied up like a bondage freak. Her face contorted in barely controlled wrath and the words came.
    â€œDavidovich! You’re hurt!”

Chapter Eight
    Jay Davidovich
    â€œMy name is Proxeine Violet Shifcos, I’m at the Omni Hotel in Pittsburgh, and about half an hour ago I got mugged in my own room.”
    Holding a blue coldpack against the top-back of her head, Proxy said this to the hotel’s staff nurse. Along with the coldpack, the nurse had just given her an Advil and the standard verbal concussion test: tell me who you are, where you are, and what’s happening. I’d gotten that oral exam a couple of times during high school basketball games. The next step is to tell you to count backwards from a hundred by threes. When the trainer had tried that one on me, one of my teammates had said, “Oh come on! He couldn’t do that before the game started!” The nurse here didn’t bother with the backward-counting stuff.
    â€œNasty bump,” she told Proxy instead. “I recommend going to the hospital for an EEG and observation.”
    â€œNoted—but I’d rather have a comp