Gary lay in a small hospital room on crisp white sheets, wearing a surgical gown. How did he get there? Then he recalled what happened on Pringle's boat and shuddered. It was like a crazy dream.
His right hand, swathed in bandages, hurt less than before; his scalp felt stiff and tender. He lifted his left hand and gingerly felt his head. A large bandage covered his forehead.
He punched a green button on the headboard. Twenty seconds later, a nurse appeared. She was in her early forties, with greying hair and a stern face.
Gary said: "Hello beautiful."
She smiled through thin lips. "Tell that to my husband. How do you feel?"
"Better than a few hours ago. How'd I get here?"
"An ambulance picked you up."
"Where am I?"
"Sutherland Hospital."
"What's the damage?"
"You've lost the little finger on your right hand. We've also had to put fifteen stitches in your head. What happened?"
Gary wracked his brain for a good lie. Not easy. "Umm ... it's hard to remember ... Ah, yes, now I remember: got my finger caught in a boat winch."
"How'd you hurt your head?"
"Must have hit it when I fainted, I guess."
"Too bad you didn't bring your finger with you. We might have been able to re-attach it. Is there anyone you want us to contact, Mr Maddox?"
"No. How do you know my name?"
"We looked in your wallet. It's in the bedside table."
"What happened to my clothes?"
"They're being washed. They were quite a mess. I've never seen so much blood."
Most of which was Moses'. "When will I get them back?"
"Probably tomorrow morning."
"What time is it now?"
She glanced at her watch. "About six-thirty."
"In the evening?"
"Yes."
"I'd like my clothes back now, if possible."
She looked surprised. "Why? You won't need them."
Pringle could easily find out where Gary was and then anaesthetise him with bullets. Gary was a sitting duck.
He said: "I've got to get out of here immediately."
"You're not going anywhere for a while."
"We'll see about that. Where's the doctor?"
"He'll be here in half-an-hour."
"Can I see him right away?"
"No, you'll have to wait," she said and left.
Soon afterwards, a young woman from the hospital's administration department arrived and took down his details. Since she already knew his name, there was no point giving her a false one.
"Do you belong to a health fund?"
"No."
"Are you carrying your Medicare Card?"
"No."
She pursed her lips disapprovingly. "Alright. Thanks for your time." She started to rise.
"Look, if anybody rings up the hospital and asks for me, I want you to say I'm not here."
She raised her eyebrows. "Why?"
"Umm ... well ... you may not recognise me, but I'm quite a well-known actor. If the gossip columnists find out I'm in a hospital, they'll probably make up all sorts of stories: say I'm dying of AIDS or getting a nose job, or something like that. So if anybody rings up and asks for me, say I'm not here."
His story sounded incredibly lame. But his creative juices were stagnant.
She looked dubious but nodded. "Alright, I'll have that noted on the computer."
"Thanks."
Gary drew little comfort from that. Pringle might have already rung up the hospital. Or he might ring up and say he was a cop. If he did, they'd probably give him the information anyway.
The young woman left and Gary dozed off. He woke when someone called his name. "Mr Maddox, Mr Maddox."
Above him was a tall, thin man in his early fifties, with crinkly red hair and faded freckles, looking dog-tired. His name tag said: "Dr Felix Elliott."
Gary's right hand now hurt like hell. The painkillers had obviously worn off.
"Hello, I'm the surgeon who operated on your hand. How does it feel?"
"Like it's on fire. Can you give me something for the pain?"
"I can give you some more Percodan. But we've got to be careful with that because it's addictive."
"I don't care."
"You say that now. What happened to you?"
Gary repeated the story he told the nurse.
Dr Elliott said: "It's lucky you got to the road before you passed out."
"I know. When can I get out of here?"
"Not for several days. You've lost a lot of blood. We also have to change your bandages regularly and make sure there are no complications: septicaemia, gangrene, things like that."
Gary shook his head. "Sorry Doc, I can't hang around. I've got some important business meetings tomorrow. I've got to attend them - got to."
"You need post-operative care."
"Look, when my clothes come back, I'm walking out of here and there's nothing you can do to stop me. Surely, I can get my bandages changed at another hospital."
Dr Elliott crossed his arms and thought awhile. "Where do you live?"
"Bondi."
"I suppose you could attend the casualty department at St Vincent's. I could give you a letter describing your condition."
"Thanks."
"But you're being very unwise."
"Doc, I'm a big boy. I take full responsibility. Now, what about some more Percodan?"
Dr Elliott said a nurse would bring him some, and slouched off to spread gloom and doom elsewhere. When he'd gone, Gary opened the top drawer of the bedside table, fished out his blood-encrusted wallet and nervously looked inside. Two hundred bucks. Not much of a war chest.
He lay back and drew up a mental balance sheet of his assets and liabilities. On the plus side, he was still alive and had a couple of hundred dollars in cash. He also had several thousand dollars in a savings account. On the debit side, he'd lost a finger, had no weapon and had an ultra-violent and crooked cop hunting him. If this wasn't his darkest hour, it was pretty close to it.