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figure just visible behind the glass. She threw it across the counter at him and he flinched back but caught it.
      "One of yours?" she said.
      He looked at it, put it down on the counter. "Got my name on it, hasn't it?" he said.
      "It does, at that," she said.
      "So?"
      He was watching her warily now, caged but not yet knowing why. Or maybe he did… maybe he'd been expecting her, or someone like her, to come eventually to his shop.
      So… "Popular shop?" she said, looking around her at the empty space.
      "Doing OK," he said, using the Vespuccian expression. It almost made her smile – she hadn't heard it in a while.
      "That's a nice suit," she said instead.
      "Thank you."
      "Must be expensive."
      "Oh, you know…" he said.
      "And that watch. Gold?"
      "This old thing? Nah. Just looks like it."
      "It certainly does. Looks new, too."
      Tom Thumb stared at her, expressionless. "You a copper now?"
      It was said less as a question – more an accusation.
      "We've all got to make a living," she said. "Don't we, Tom?"
      "I'm making a living," he said. "I sell tobacco."
      "So I see."
      "Well, it was nice seeing you," he said, " Milady . Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a lot of work to–"
      She reached across the counter and picked him up. He said, "Wha–"
      "I'll dismiss you ," she said. "When I'm done with you. OK , Tom?"
      She dropped him. He glared at her, smoothed his jacket where she had grabbed him. Suddenly he grinned again. "Come see the ferocious Dahomey Amazon!" he said. "Remember? I used to love your act. Got your publicity poster right there–"
      "I know, Tom. I saw it."
      "Yes, well, we're old friends, you and I, aren't we? There's no need to get rough."
      "I hope so, Tom."
      She waited him out. He stood, watching her – she could see him thinking. She didn't hurry him. At last he said, "Sit down, I'll make us a brew."
       Sit down, I'll make us a brew . As if they were back at the circus, and the last show had finished – everyone winding down, but not yet ready to let go – the rush still there, the shouts of the crowds, the smell of sweat, and smoke from the torches, roasting peanuts and piss from the animal enclave… sawdust. Sometimes she really missed the smell of fresh sawdust.
      It always became less and less fresh as the evening progressed.
      She said, "OK."
     
 

SEVEN
    Imports & Exports
     
 
    Tom Thumb made coffee. He put a coffee set down on the counter between them – sugar cubes, small jug of milk, a couple of pastries, cups and saucers and spoons.
      She took hers black and drank it through a sugar cube. "It's not bad," she said.
      "It's from–" he said, and then he hesitated.
      She said, "You selling coffee now?"
      "Amongst other things."
      "What sort of things?"
      "Cleo–" he said, then checked himself, almost saying her full name, the way she was billed back in the show. "Fine, fine! Milady, then."
      She waited.He said, "Is this going any further, or is this between us?"
      She thought about it, said, "It depends."
      "On what?"
       On a corpse that was no longer there… She said, "I don't care what you do. I'm just trying to find something that's missing."
      "What sort of something?"
      "I'm not sure yet."
      He shrugged, letting it go. "Fine," he said. "What do you want to know?"
      "I want to know who bought that box of matches from you."
      Tom Thumb looked exasperated. "How the hell should I know?"
      "He was Asian."
      She saw him noticing the was . And now his eyes narrowed, and his hand played with the pocket watch, releasing and closing the lid, working it.
      "An Asian man who needed a place to hide out in…" she said, "Where did you say your coffee comes from again?"
      "I didn't."
      "But you were going to."
      "Was I?"
      Open, shut, open, shut. She took another sip of her coffee. "Leave that alone," she said.
      "Lots of Asians in