Considering the circumstances, I felt totally meshed with my karma. Or at least I was feeling this way until I got to the big grey door that opened into Mini-Suite 1150 in the Far Wing. I rammed my key into the knob-lock and swung the door open, thinking,

Ah, home at last! . . . but the door hit something, which I recognized at once as a human form: a girl of indeterminate age with the face and form of a Pit Bull. She was wearing a shapeless blue smock and her eyes were angry . . . Somehow I knew that I had the right room. I wanted to think otherwise, but the vibes were hopelessly right . . . and she seemed to know, too, because she made no move to stop me when I moved past her and into the suite. I tossed my leather satchel on one of the beds and looked around for what I knew I would see . . . my attorney . . . stark naked, standing in the bathroom door with a drug-addled grin on his face. You degenerate pig, I muttered. It can't be helped, he said, nodding at the bulldog girl. >This is Lucy. He laughed distractedly. You know -- like Lucy in the sky with diamonds . . . I nodded to Lucy, who was eyeing me with definite venom. I was clearly some kind of enemy, some ugly intrusion on her scene . . . and it was clear from the way she moved around the room, very quick and tense on her feet, that she was sizing me up. She was ready for violence, there was not much doubt about that. Even my attorney picked up on it. Lucy! he snapped. Lucy! Be cool, goddamnit! Remember what happened at the airport ... no more of that, OK? He smiled nervously at her. She had the look of a beast that had just been tossed into a sawdust pit to fight for its life . . . Lucy . . . this is my client; this is Mister Duke, the famous journalist. He's paying for this suite, Lucy. He's on our side.

Excerpt from chapter 3