Card Sharks

The same people, all the time…. The fear that had haunted her in Vietnam returned to Hannah. 'You were there working for him? You fought against the jokers?'

'I've been lots of people.' Cameo said. The fedora slapped her thigh angrily. 'Every last one of them had done something at some time that they weren't proud of. I guess this was my turn. Battle used me and lied to me, but I was still stupid enough to go along with him in the first place. It'll be a long time before I forgive myself.'

'That's what someone who was still working for them might say.'

'It might be.' Cameo spat out the words, staring at Hannah. The woman held out her hand. 'So where's this ring?' she asked.

Hannah was no longer sure if she wanted to go through with this. But before she could move or speak, Quasiman handed Cameo the ring. Cameo placed the ring on her finger and fisted her hand around it. She threw the fedora on the coffee table, sat heavily on the couch and closed her eyes, leaning back. Hannah waited, not quite knowing what to expect. Would this Cameo change her appearance? Would, she speak in Faneuil's voice like she was possessed? Quasiman and Father Squid had both been vague on the details of this summoning. Hannah shifted in her seat, uneasy.

Cameo's eyes opened. She uncurled her hand.

'Faneuil's not dead,' she said.

Quasiman snorted. Hannah felt like she'd been kicked in the stomach. 'You're sure?'

Cameo nodded. 'There's a lot of personal energy in this ring. I can feel it. When you wear something all day, every day; when you use something so much that it becomes part of you — then some of your energy gets locked up in the item. That's not so unusual a belief either; that's why a lot of so-called 'primitive' cultures are careful about how they dispose of hair clippings and even excrement: what was once part of you is always part of you. When a person dies, I can use the emotional matrix embedded in a physical object to bring them up. I think … I've kind of imagined that the ego barriers are gone then. But while they're still alive, the person is too strong, too connected to their body. I can't do anything with the energy, even though I can sense it. This is the same — whoever wore this ring is still alive, somewhere.'

Hannah looked at Quasiman. The hunchback was looking at her, waiting, with a trusting gaze. 'You knew that, didn't you, Hannah?' he said. 'You weren't convinced he was dead.'

'I wondered, yes. But …' Hannah frowned, looking at Cameo. 'Pardon me, but how do we know you're telling the truth?'

'Why should I lie?'

Because you worked for Battle. Because even though my instincts tell me that you're genuinely sorry, I don't trust anyone anymore and my stomach's killing me and I can't sleep nights. Hannah didn't say it, she only stared. That was a standard procedure in interviewing: wait. Most people hate silence. Sometimes they filled it with things they might otherwise not have said. Cameo either knew that or was an exceptionally patient person. She returned Hannah's gaze openly, keeping the eye contact far longer than Hannah expected. Finally Hannah sighed and stood up.

'Thank you, Cameo,' she said. 'You've given us a lot to think about.'

'You don't like me, do you?'

'I don't know you.' Hannah held the woman's gaze without blinking. 'But I don't trust you.'

'I don't trust anybody, either. Except the dead.' Cameo picked up the hat again, placing it on her lap.

'I prefer people when they're living. Come on, Quasi.' Hannah started toward the door. Quasiman stared at Cameo for a long minute, as if he were seeing something in her face invisible to Hannah.

'He Wanted to help,' he said to her, and then limped after Hannah. Cameo reacted as if she'd been hit in the stomach. Her face went as white as the cameo at her throat. Hannah reached the door and opened it.

'Pan Rudo,' Cameo said behind them.

The name was like an incantation. Hannah shivered, as if someone had just brushed her spine with a finger. She turned.

Cameo's fingers crumpled the fedora's rim. 'Pan Rudo. Card Sharks. They're what you're looking for, right?'

Card Sharks; the words sent an icy finger down Hannah's spine. 'Yes,' she managed.

'You going to see Rudo again? You going to tell him about what you know?' When Hannah didn't answer, Cameo smiled grimly. 'Hey, it's a fair question. You asked me about Battle. And I don't care if you have Quasiman and Father Squid fooled, you're still a goddamn nat.'

Hannah nodded. She knew that without Croyd's tale, she would have gone back to him. She would have told Rudo everything. But not now. Croyd hadn't seemed to be the most stable of personalities, but his reaction to Rudo's name had been genuine, and there'd been no reason for him to lie.

Just as there was no reason for Cameo to lie about Faneuil. 'All right,' Hannah answered. 'No. That's your answer. Rudo may be the one responsible for the fire. So … do you know him?'

'Not me. A … friend. I brought the hat along because of that, because of what Father told me when he called. Kept me up all night, and I spent today trying to decide whether I was going to come here or not. Trying to decide whether I'd tell you or not. I'd even made up my mind that I wasn't going to …' Her eyes were bleak, and Hannah had a sense of the frailness and vulnerability that lay under the woman's surface. 'One of the side effects of my … gift' — she said the word like it was a curse — 'is that I experience vicarously everything the person I summon has experienced. I get to know my people very well. Too well, sometimes.' She picked up the fedora and placed it on her lap. 'This is Nicky's hat,' she said. 'He knew Rudo. And he … he …'

Tears had gathered in the young woman's eyes. Hannah waited. On the couch, Cameo took a deep breath. 'I'll let him tell you,' she said.

Cameo put the hat on her head.

'Cursum Perficio'

Kevin Andrew Murphy

It's kind of hard for me to talk about the past. I mean, I know it's the past, that it's 1993, not 1962, but it's hard to come to grips with, you know? Like being dead. And waking up in a woman's body. And knowing the woman who killed you is out there, somewhere, with your son.

But let me tell you my story. It all took place so far away from here and now, you might as well think of it as an old movie. Fade in. Superimpose title: Hollywood, California. February 15, 1962. Orson Welles's office, the Fox lot.

I slipped inside, shutting the door behind me, and took off my fedora. The one I'm wearing right now, though it was new then. But even in '62, it was still the only thing about me that looked the part of the private investigator. The rest looked like central casting had got mixed up and sent out for a hero for some Viking flick: six-three, blond hair, blue eyes and a California tan. A Malibu Seigfried, and since it's bad luck to speak ill of the dead, I'll say I was pretty darn good looking, not that it matters now. It would have been a liability any other place than Hollywood, but snooping around the studios, everybody took me for just another nowhere actor and didn't give me a second glance.

Welles sat behind his desk, trying to grow a beard over his baby fat. He leaned over and stabbed the intercom with a pudgy finger: 'Hold all calls, Agnes.' His face had the same jaded and disturbed look he'd worn in Citizen Kane.

There was one of those nasal voices you only hear in movies: 'Right-O, Mr. Welles.' Central casting had done their job with the receptionist at least.

'Make yourself comfortable, Mr. Williams. This should take a while.' He gestured to an overstuffed leather