I stumbled to the dresser, opened my attache case, and found my promotional itinerary. Page four listed my appearance on the “Tonight Show” for September 8. I went back to the bed, retrieved the fallen phone, jiggled the receiver several times, and then dialed O. When a voice with a heavy Hispanic accent finally responded, I was still trying to figure out how to phrase my question.

“Miss, I’m a little confused. What day is this?”

She wasn’t fazed in the least. People are always losing days in Los Angeles. “Thees is Septembair the ninth, sir.”

I hung up without even thanking her. My jaw ached when I opened my mouth, and I had a dull pain in my chest. For God’s sake, what had happened to me? Voices? I heard voices. Calm down, buddy, the television set is on. A man was talking. Strong Jewish dialect but loud and clear. What was he saying? I tried to concentrate. “Premier Sadat must recognize that Jerusalem is our nation’s most precious treasure. We vill never … never … allow its land to be divided again. Never!”

Jerusalem? Easy transition, even for my foggy mind, from Jerusalem to Joseph of Arimathea. Had the old man kept his word? Had I been there with him, or … or had it all been a dream? I went back to the dresser and stared into the mirror. Ugh! Eyes puffed and red. Hair askew. Skin blending perfectly with the color of the walls—sallow chartreuse.

The phone rang again. I jumped. A voice identified itself as the head of hotel security. “Are you all right, Mr. Lawrence?”

“Yes, I think so.”

He chuckled. “You had quite a night. We have the name of the man who slugged you in the Granada Room, in case you intend to prefer charges. Also the names of a dozen witnesses.”

I rubbed my chin tenderly. “No, no, I think it’s best if we forget the whole thing.”

“That’s very considerate of you, sir. The hotel can do without that sort of publicity. Is there anything we can help you with, this morning?”

“No, just tell me how I got back to my room.”

“Two of my men … ah … assisted you. Once you were inside your room, you told them you were okay so they left.”

“Well, I want to thank all of you.”

“Glad we could help out, sir.”

I stumbled out onto the balcony, turning off Barbara Walters as I passed. At first the sun blinded me, but soon I could see, far below, a small figure in fatigues mowing the grass beyond the hotel’s circular driveway. Across the street, workmen on ladders were slowly changing the letters on the marquee of the Shubert Theater. To the left, a light haze billowed lazily above the trees on the Avenue of the Stars. The air smelled strange, not like the air in …