Stephen Leigh - Card Sharks

"Please, ma'am. You're holding up the rest."

Fielding led her to a small office, opened the door, and ushered her in. Another customs official, seated behind a desk, nodded to them. Her passport and purse were given to the man, then the door was shut behind them. The agent perused the passport. "Ms. Hannah Davis?"

"And you're …?"

"Agent Stone. I need to ask you a few questions. You're returning from Free Vietnam?"

"Yes. Is there a problem? I had a personal invitation to visit the country from Ambassador Ngu, Prime Minister Meadows, and President Moonchild."

Stone smiled. "Yes, ma'am, we know. However, a Free Vietnam state official contacted us. They are investigating a report that a small group of Americans recently plundered an old grave in their country — among the stolen items was a ring. We also had a tip from another source that someone of your description would be smuggling it in. I wonder if you have a receipt for the ring that Agent Fielding found in your purse?"

Hannah tried to keep her expression noncommittal. "No, I don't. I didn't buy it. It was given to me several years ago. As you can see, I wasn't trying to hide the ring or smuggle it past. The ring wasn't stulled in the lining of my coat or inside my shoe heel, Agent Stone. It was lying in the bottom of my purse. The ring's mine."

Stone reached into the purse and pulled out the ring. He placed it on the table in front of Hannah. "Yours?" he said. "Odd. This looks like a man's ring. Would you mind putting it on?"

Hannah didn't move. Her stomach churned and she fought not to show it. She looked at Stone blandly. "I don't have to; it won't fit. The ring belonged to … an old lover of mine. He died in an auto accident. I keep it for its sentimental value, not to wear. That's why it's in my purse."

"Aahh." Stone drummed his fingers on the table. "I'm afraid that I'll need to keep the ring for a few days, until we can verily with Saigon that this isn't the stolen item. We will, of course, give you a receipt …"

"No!" Hannah protested. "You can't do that. That's not right."

Stone almost smiled. "I'm afraid that under the circumstances we both can and must, Ms. Davis. I can assure you that the ring will be returned to you just as soon as we hear from someone in Free Vietnam."

"Call Meadows, then. He'll tell you."

"We've done that. Unfortunately, he is unavailable at the moment." Stone smiled, and Hannah knew the man was lying. "I regret the inconvenience, but regulations …"

"Are you detaining me as well — until you talk to Mark?"

"No, ma'am. At the moment, no formal charges have been filed. I'm sure you'll keep yourself available to us if we have further questions, but since Mr. Meadows knows you so well, I'm sure the whole matter will eventually be dropped. Still, I'm sure you understand why I have to do this."

"I understand," Hannah answered. "Actually, I think I understand very well." There didn't seem to be much else she could say. Stone was smiling politely at her. Hannah took a deep breath. "All right," she said. "I suppose I don't have a choice."

"I hate this," Hannah said. "I hate being suspicious of everyone I meet, and I hate even more the fact that it seems like the paranoia's justified. I hate being scared even worse, and that's what I feel all the time now. I'm frightened at what all this means."

"You want to quit, Hannah?" Quasiman asked.

Yes. "No," she said at last. "I guess not. I'm just … well …" Hannah frowned, then made a half-hearted attempt at a smile. "Where's the ring?"

Hannah hadn't thought the subtrefuge necessary, but suspicion seemed to be coming more easily now, and she'd worried about the way Ngo Dinh Yie had been staring at them, especially since Ngo's son had disappeared along with Durand. Once back in Saigon, she'd ask Croyd to find them a ring similar to Faneuil's. In the crowded warrens of that city, it had been easy enough.

Quasiman had teleported back to New York with Faneuil's ring, while Hannah carried the false one.

"Ring? What ring?" Quasiman said now. "Was I supposed to remember something about a ring?"

An invisible fist seemed to grab Hannah's lungs and squeeze. "Oh, no …"

"It's a joke, Hannah," Quasiman said. He was smiling. "The ring's right here." Quasiman held out his hand. In the dim light of the nightclub, the blue stone and diamonds glittered.

"That wasn't funny. Not funny at all," she said, but she smiled back at him. Hannah breathed a sigh of relief. She was still exhausted from the flight in and the confrontation at Customs.

Hannah had thought herself half-crazy for being that devious. She told herself it was only a little test, to prove to herself that she was being ridiculous. She'd told herself that she was going to feel absolutely silly when she got back to New York and nothing had happened. Now she wondered whether she'd been cautious enough.

She wished that this mysterious ace they were waiting for would hurry. Being in Jokertown was bad enough, but the Club Dead Nicholas wasn't exactly a place to inspire confidence. The Dead Nicholas had once been a crematorium. Hannah and Quasiman were seated at the table near the old furnaces, the walls of which had been taken out and turned into a large open grill, where a trio of demonic-looking jokers were grilling steaks and flipping burgers. Altogether too cute mechanical bats flapped and squealed through the dark recesses of the ceiling. Hannah's table was a glass-covered coffin, in which the corpse of a blue-skinned joker resided. Their waiter, a pale wraith wrapped in a gauzy shroud, had assured her that all the corpses were waxworks; Hannah hoped he was right. The blackened chicken she'd ordered had been tasty enough, but she'd only picked at it, her appetite gone.

Hannah suspected she was the only nat in the place. She felt out of place and a little threatened despite the mask she wore — a foam rubber feline half-mask. Masks, in and out of fashion in Jokertown since the 50s, had once again become chic in the wake of the Rox invasion. Hannah didn't care for them. The faces twisted by the wild card were bad enough, but masks hid entirely too much. There was too much hidden about Jokertown already for her taste.

"Your … friend is ready for you." The waiter had drifted up to their table — literally. Hannah noticed that he had no feet underneath the ragged shroud. "If you'll follow me …"

Hannah and Quasiman followed the joker to the rear of the club and down a short corridor. He knocked on a door and nodded to them. "Go on in," he said.

Someone opened the door. Hannah could see a room decorated in red satin wallpaper, dimly lit by a few lamps. The corner of a low table was just visible in front of a worn sofa. Quasiman went in first. The woman who'd opened the door greeted the joker, then looked at Hannah inquisitively. Hannah took off her mask and nodded to the woman.

"Cameo," Quasiman said. "This is Hannah. We're …" He stopped and looked distressed. "I've forgotten why we came," he said, looking from Cameo to Hannah.

"It's okay," Cameo told him. "Father Squid told me most of it." Hannah could see how the woman came by her name: the cameo profile of woman, white on black, hung from a black ribbon around her throat. She had a man's fedora hat in her hands; it looked too large for her: worn, stained and dirty. "Hi," she said to Hannah.

Her voice was soft and, like Quasiman's, somewhat shy, but there was hardness underneath. An angry sadness himg about her like a psychic cloak, and her large, dark eyes looked as if they had seen too much. This was a woman who would follow her own agenda, Hannah decided. She wasn't sure she was going to trust this Cameo. "Father told me about what's happened," Cameo continued. "He said you think there's a group of people out to hurt the jokers. The fire … it was a horrible thing. I think nearly everyone in Jokertown lost someone close to them that night. I … well, I'll do what I can." She sat on a small couch next to the table, and gestured for Hannah and Quasiman to take two chairs on the opposite side.