Stephen Leigh - Card Sharks

"Thanks," she said, taking a swallow and shutting down her recorder.

She cased the recorder and placed it in her shoulderbag, along with the clipboard.

"So much for business," Croyd said. "How's about having dinner with me?"

She slung the bag over her shoulder and moved toward the door.

"Sorry," she said. "I've got to organize a lot of notes tonight, and I'll be leaving fairly early in the morning."

"You prejudiced against guys with tails?" he said.

She removed a collapsible umbrella from her bag and opened it. She smiled then.

"No, Croyd," she said. "But I'll be keeping mine to myself. Good evening," and she turned and walked off into the shadows and the drizzle.

Croyd stood in the doorway, watching until she was out of sight. Then he turned back to the empty bar.

"Play it, Sam," he said softly, and racks of glasses began to sing. A horde of flies chose that moment to swarm about him. Cursing, he swatted at them. Their buzzing took on the sounds of a tune.

"I know you. You're Hannah."

The quiet voice spoke in the dark. Hannah turned. In the dim glow of the lamps hung from the porch's ceiling, she could see Quasiman's eyes looking at her. "Hi. You came hack, huh?"

"Yeah. Sorry." He looked pained, frowning as if he had a migraine. "Hannah, it's so damned hard keeping it all together. Remembering you, remembering what we're doing and who's involved and why … I write every day, and I keep looking at it when I forget, but …"

"Don't apologize. I know you carft help it. Where were you?"

The hunchback shook his head. "I don't know. I heard a gunshot, and I was frightened. I saw you, but … but …" His shoulders sagged. His mouth twisted as his lips pressed together. "I've forgotten it. Already. The whole thing's gone now, and I don't know what it was or what it meant, but it was important. Damn it …"

Quasiman went silent. He stepped out onto the rude wooden planks Where Hannah leaned against the railing, looking out to where Faneuil's grave lay invisible in the jungle night. Gently, as if he didn't want his nearness to trouble her, he halted several feet away. The gesture, so caring and self-effacing, touched her. She found herself smiling at the joker; he gave her a tentative smile in return. "Where's …?" Quasiman asked.

"Croyd? He got himself invited to dinner at Ngo's."

"You didn't want to go?"

Hannah shook her head. "No. I just felt like … thinking."

"Are you still having nightmares about the bomb?"

"No. But it's nice of you to ask."

Quasiman took a step toward her. His hand lifted as if he were going to touch her as he had after the bomb in Saigon, then halted in mid-motion. "You sound sad," he said. "Didn't you find out anything this afternoon?"

Hannah gave a soft laugh at that. She moved her hand away from his. "I found out nothing, and also more than I bargained for. I'm just not sure What it means. You've sure set me on a strange course, you and your talk. The trouble is, it's starting to scare me, too." Hannah looked up at the sky — she didn't know if she'd ever seen so many stars. Yet like the prejudice and hatred she was uncovering, they too had always been there, hidden but unseen. "I think we've hit a dead end with Faneuil," she told him. "No records, no problems. Nothing. Dead men don't talk."

"But they can ," Quasiman replied, softly and earnestly. He was looking at the sky also. "With the right person they can. I know how, Hannah…."

It seemed so easy in the old horror movies.

They took a pair of kerosene lanterns from behind the bar. In the back of Croyd's jeep they found a medical kit, a crowbar, and a shovel. Thus armed, Hannah and Quasiman went out into the field behind the village. Quasiman was a tireless, powerful worker, but he had his own limitations. Twice they had to stop: once when Quasiman found that he couldn't lift either arm because a major muscle group in his back had phased out, and again when his left leg disappeared. Both times, the episode was short, and Hannah only had to remind Quasiman of what they were doing a few times. Even so it was several hours before the shovel made a harsh tchunk! as it struck wood.

In that time, they'd piled up an impressive amount of earth, made a fair amount of noise, and acquired an audience of villagers. Hannah found it blackly amusing: a circle of Awed Asian faces watching a cliche in motion: the middle of the night, a hunchback digging up a grave in the light of a lantern held in the hand of a young woman. Croyd came up about the time Quasiman struck the casket, Ngo Dinh Yie in tow. Croyd stopped and let out a horse laugh. "Vell," he said, in an atrocious Germanic accent. "Haf you got ze brain for me, Igor?"

"As soon as you stop laughing at your own jokes, give us a hand with this," Hannah told him. "Bring that crowbar."

"Ja, Frau Frankenstein. Did anyone ever tell you you're lovely when you're macabre?" Croyd picked up the crowbar and walked over to look down into the hole, where Quasiman was standing on top of the rough wooden casket. "Mind if I ask what you're after? I mean, it's obvious enough what you intend to do, but why?" His tail brushed the length of her leg.

Hannah ignored it. "We need a ring."

"You could've asked me. There's a thousand jewelry stores back in Saigon. This is going about it the hard way."

Hannah glared at him. "All right," Croyd said at last. He hopped down into the open grave with Quasiman. Hannah came down after him with three handkerchiefs soaked in smelling salts. "Here," she said. "This is going to be bad."

It was. The smell of corruption hit them like a sledgehammer as soon as the lid was pried open. The handkerchiefs were little protection; Hannah, who at least had some small experience of decomposing bodies, gagged but managed to hold it down. Croyd struggled, then lost his supper to the side. Almost all the faces which had been looking down at them from above disappeared quickly. Quasiman alone seemed unaffected.

Hannah took a slow, deep breath into the handkerchief, men shone the light in. The face was unrecognizable, flesh rotting and peeling away from the bone. The wood had let in moisture: a green fuzz hung around the body's neck like a fur collar and mushrooms sprouted from his chest. The hands folded over the moldy suit were almost down to bone. In the lamplight, a ring glittered on the right hand: a class ring with a blue stone, inset with diamonds. "I'll do it, Hannah," Quasiman said.

"No," she told him. "I'll do it. Here, hold this." She gave the joker the lamp, then reached into the coffin with trembling fingers. She snatched at the ring, grimacing as the fingerbones broke apart from dried tendons. She slammed the lid down again and let out a breath she hadn't known she'd been holding. " That was gross," she said. "I sure as hell hope this was worth it." She shuddered "Let's get this done and over with — I have to take a bath."

She started to climb out of the grave. One face was still looking down at them, framed in stars: Ngo Dinh Yie. He was staring at the ring in Hannah's hand.

***

"Anything to declare?"

"A few articles of clothing," Hannah said. "Maybe a hundred dollars' worth. That's all."

The customs agent — his name tag said FIELDING — snapped shut her passport. He tapped it against his palm. Hannah's purse was still open before him, and Hannah tried to avoid looking at it — tried to pretend that it wasn't important. "Ms. Davis," Fielding said. "Would you please step out of line and follow me?"

"Wait a minute — " Hannah said. Her stomach was suddenly knotted; her breath tight. She could feel sweat beading at her hairline. Her fellow passengers were watching, and she oould feel the mixture of fascination and irritation coming from them.