“What did you do when the cops told you to get out of the car?” Roxanne asked.
     Carter laughed. “What they said, of course.”
     “Weren’t you scared?”
     “Nah, you know me, Rox, always on top of things. I didn’t really have anything hidden in the seat. I was just faking ’em out to keep ’em from figuring where it was really stashed.”
     “And where was that?”
     “Uh uh,” he chided. “Trade secret.”
     Roxanne pouted.
     They were together in the corner booth Carter habituated in The Joint, celebrating the success of his latest run up from Mexico. And it was a success, he told himself—he’d gotten away, hadn’t he? That tipped the balance to the plus side, in his view. No point in mentioning the loss of the car, or all the pre-Columbian artifacts, or his no-good partner. You didn’t get far as a smuggler dwelling on the downside. So he continued spinning his tale, not exactly lying, just recycling the exploits of previous trips. Roxanne, true to form, feigned more and more excitement—but he knew what she really wanted, and of course she could not hide it forever. All part of the game.
     Sure enough: “So whadja get me, Carter?”
     He flashed a grin. “Feast your eyes, Rox,” he told her, producing by some slight of hand an intriguing tangle of grey metal and wire from a palm that had been empty a moment before. He flipped it in her direction, and it landed in a scatter on the table between them.
     “Oo,” Roxanne squealed. “Silver?”
     “And turquoise,” Carter pointed out. She cooed over the necklace with shining eyes and then put it on. He smiled, anticipating how she would show her appreciation later.
     Then suspicion clouded her face and she darted a sharp glance his way. “How hot is it?” she demanded. “I don’t want to get mixed up in your kind of trouble.”
     His eyes rolled in exasperation. So much for the mood! “It’s Navajo, Roxy. I bought it in Arizona.” True. The hot stuff was all in the cops’ hands now, assuming they had been smart enough to find it.
     “Swear?”
     “First rule in my line of work. Never give out anything you can’t afford to have traced to you.”
     Reassured, the woman surrendered to the admiration of her prize.
     A shadow fell on the two. Carter looked up—a large man, muffled in an overcoat, thick scarf, and knitted cap, loomed over them. The face was fleshy and the eyes close-set, a piercing pale blue in color. “Christ,” he muttered, with a familiar sinking feeling.
     “What?” asked Roxanne, glancing from her beau to the newcomer in bewilderment.
     “Trouble. Get lost, Roxy.”
     “Not so fast.” The newcomer laid a heavy, gloved hand on the woman’s shoulder. “Quite a bauble you’ve got there, girlie. Wonder where ol’ Carter came by it?”
     “Ow! You’re hurting me!”
     Carter moved quickly, striking the man’s arm away. “Scram, Roxy!” he snarled. “I mean it!” Roxanne went, casting back a single, frightened glance.