Marked Cards

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"Ms. Davis, I promise you that I take the concerns of the jokers very seriously. I will do whatever needs to be done."

Gregg Hartmann ushered the attractive and intense blond woman from his offices, sliding her out the door with a perfect blend of smile and frown. Yes, I understand the importance of what you've just shown me, his expression said. You've made the right decision. Really, you have ...

"Hold my calls, Jo Ann," he said to his secretary after the outer door closed. A soft, strangely inflected "Gotcha, boss" followed him as he closed the mahogany doors to his private office. The way she said it made him look back, but Jo Ann only smiled at him. Jo Ann was a minor joker, a woman whose only visible affliction was that her skin was as green and warty as a fairy tale witch's - and her tongue as sharp. Gregg had always had joker secretaries; it was expected of him.

Gregg sank into the leather caress of his chair and contemplated the cardboard box of transcripts, tapes, and photos Hannah Davis had given him. His right hand throbbed achingly, but when he looked down there was only the dead plastic mockery of the prosthetic resting on the chair's arm - a dead weight whose ironic, crude symbolism didn't escape him. The inner voice that had begun to nag him more and more over the last several months spoke again.

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