*

When Worlds Collide.

Tom had seen that movie on TV once after a long session at the Normandie. Now he couldn’t get the title out of his head as he tried to get a grip on the two worlds – cards and work – that he’d thought were entirely separate, but which he now discovered were somehow swirling tightly around each other, like twin stars connected by a pivotal point: the leg-shaking, red-boot-wearing Mr Stanley.

Mr Stanley, who’d beaten him up after folding three of a kind.

Mr Stanley, who’d thrown him into the trunk of his Thunderbird.

Mr Stanley, who’d slapped Ness so hard that he’d knocked the duct tape clear off her mouth.

All those things were about the world of cards.

So what the hell was Mr Stanley doing here in his world of work? Somehow involved with a paper trail that led all the way back to the Pride of Maine? And all the way forward to … what? To whom?

And if he was involved in the Pride of Maine, where did his involvement stop? Halo Jackson? Pam Mashamaete? Buttfuck, Oklahoma? Tom’s head spun.

And what about Ness?

I know that guy. He’s an asshole …

Ness knew Stanley; they worked for the same people. If Stanley was involved in more than the cards, did that mean Ness was too? He felt sick and dizzy at the thought and tried to take a mental step back so he could see the bigger picture instead of these fuzzy, half-formed bits that teased as much as they told, but it was impossible.

Ness under him on the hood of the Honda, bathed in headlights, then suddenly walking away.

Ness holding her phone, as though she’d just made a call from the room they’d shared in De Rust.

Waking in Cape Town to find her holding the bolt.

But there was also Ness bravely grabbing at Lemon’s tether as the big bird thundered past her.

Ness’s warm mouth sliding down him as his hands burned.

Ness, tear-streaked and bruised, with duct tape hanging off her cheek.

It was too much. Every time he thought he was making sense of it, it got away from him again.

He stood in a daze and watched Toby Uncle take Nicholas Nicholas away in his unmarked car to look at computerized mug shots. Tom had told them Stanley’s name and described the Weasel, just in case they were still paired up. But he’d said no more.

Now, with the sun starting to hurt their eyes, Suarez turned to him. ‘So, you gonna tell me what you know about this guy?’

The same question had been buzzing through Tom’s head, along with all the other craziness. There was no way he could tell Suarez everything: what he’d been doing in the card clubs was illegal.

‘I played cards against him once. In LA. He’s a real sore loser.’

Suarez waited for more – obviously aware that there was more to be said – but Tom just shrugged.

‘That’s a coincidence,’ said the detective.

‘Yes,’ agreed Tom, flatly. ‘But a lucky one.’

‘For me, maybe. For you? I’m not so sure.’

Suarez squeezed himself back into the driver’s seat and waited for Tom to get in beside him.

*

Tom called Ness from the airport. ‘Hi.’

‘Hi, Tom. Where are you? Your phone’s not working.’

‘Yeah, it got broken.’

‘Again.’

‘Yes.’

‘So where are you?’

‘Texas.’

There was a nervous silence.

‘When are you coming back?’

‘Now.’

‘Can you play tonight?’

‘Sure.’

‘Good,’ she said, relieved. ‘I’ll meet you at the Honolulu at nine.’

‘Okay. Hey, Ness?’

‘What?’

Tom wanted to ask if she was betraying him, if she and Stanley were in this together. And if they were, just what the hell ‘this’ was. But he suddenly knew that he needed to see her face when he asked her.

‘Looking forward to it,’ he said instead.

‘Me too,’ she said, and Tom could almost hear the sexy little smile that went with the words.

She might have been lying.

But while there was half a chance she’d still fuck him, Tom sure as hell wasn’t leaping to any conclusions.

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