Gretta pranced around the end of the bed and over to her dresser. Arny watched through half closed eyes. He never ceased to be amazed at her beauty and the fact that they were a couple. He wondered if that would ever become a legal arrangement with ceremonies and certificates. She selected panties and a bra and dressed quickly, running her fingers through her hair, which she had cut short recently; the judgment on that was still out.

"Up you get, lazybones or you'll miss a visit to Pinky Stiltz."

"Omigod, my life would never be the same." Arny rolled over the edge of the bed and stood, stretching.

"Sorry, lover, I just meant get up out of bed." She winked and left the room.

"You should have waited for the encore," he hollered after her.

The Haggler's Haven stood between a florist and a Muslim music shop in a popular stretch of retail shops, all with cutesy names or garish décor, or both. Streetcars rumbled past at regular intervals and the traffic crawled because of the street parking. Gretta and Arny found a side street and squeezed the car into a spot beside a driveway.

"CONGA doesn't exactly spend large on automobile transport." Arny complained.

"Would you rather have to buy your own? Stop whining."

"I'm not whining. You always accuse me of whining."

"Because you always whine." She punched his arm and gave him one of her smiles that wiped away every cloud and left him in glaring sunshine.

"There's Pinky's Palace." Gretta strode down the sidewalk and pushed open the old wooden door, stepping into a cool interior lit with ceiling fluorescents, hanging from a pressed tin ceiling. The little chime on the door alerted a man, who, because of his startling complexion, could only be Pinky, and he stood from his stool behind the counter and greeted them.

"Hi folks, come to do a little hagglin'?"

"You might say," Gretta answered, a smile comparable to Pinky's own.

"Came to the right place then. What's your interest, comics, sports cards, games...?"

Gretta leaned on the counter and looked at him, still smiling. "Stamps." Pinky's smile froze and Arny considered renaming him Whitey.

"Stamps? I don't deal in stamps; that's a richer hobby than any of mine."

"But very lucrative as a business, eh?" Gretta said, still smiling.

"I uh- I suppose..."

"So then, stamps."

"I told you, I don't—"

"Oh, c'mon, Pinky, how about something like the twelve cent Niue airmail stamp for example; I bet that's an item you could haggle for."

For sure, his new name is Whitey, Arny grinned. He moved to the counter beside Gretta and Pinky sank back onto his stool, perspiration beading on his forehead.

"Please, I don't know what—"

"Sure you do. Mr. Tomambou gave us your name."

"Toma- he wouldn't..."

"Gotcha." Gretta's smile widened and she and Arny gave Pinky their full bore pitying attention.

"Look, you have to understand, I'm just- I only- Mr. Tomambou just uses me as a post office. Honestly."

"That's okay, Pinky. We just want to pick up the mail; no bigee."

He groaned and cast about for some imaginary help, his shirt beginning to feel like a hot compress on his back.

"I can't- I don't- he would—"

"Kill you?" Gretta stood up and put her hands on the counter. "I don't think so. Mister Tomambou is dead, Pinky."

The news made him even whiter if that was possible and he began to visibly shake on the stool.

"Hey, take it easy. That's not good for your blood pressure." Arny looked at Gretta.

"He's right, Pinky. Why don't we close up and go out back there and relax. Maybe chat about comic books or cards for a bit."

Arny turned the sign over in the door and they led/followed Pinky to the rear of his shop. The quarters were cramped, furnished with an old, overstuffed armchair and a stained, grey painted, two-drawer filing cabinet that served as a shelf for heaps of faxes and printed e-mails about the collecting business. A filthy, oriental rug covered most of a dark hardwood floor and the whole room was lit by a ceiling fixture with a sixty watt bulb.

"Boy, no expense spared, eh, Pinky?" Arny ran a finger over a stack of books and grimaced.

"Okay, Pinky," Gretta began. "Let's just catch our breath and then come clean about the whole deal you have- had with Tomambou."

--------------------------

"The whole lot of them! What a friggin' botch up that was." Gravestone punched the back of his chair and swore loudly. "What about the broad? Is she still there or what?"

"She's in the hospital still, recovering. Gretta Lawrence and her friend are already back here and the investigation in Niue has been taken over by the New Zealand authorities. It seems they aren't all that interested in a big splash. Tomambou has always been a bit of a thorn and they are happy to be rid of him. As for his man Cecil Teacher, they are thrilled he's gone."

"What about my guys, they written off too?"

"In a word, Bishop. Three North American thugs; who really cares? They called it a robbery gone bad." The aide stepped aside as Bishop stormed past him, still cursing his luck.

"What happened to the goddamn stamp?"

"A source at CONGA hinted that it was sent here as a precaution."

Bishop skidded to a halt and spun around. "Here? Canada?"

"Actually, Toronto."

"What?" He marched back and stood right in the aide's face. "You're telling me that the stamp is right here in my city?"

"Yes." The presumptuous remark made the aide smile but he quickly hid it with a cough.

Bishop's faced turned red and he leaned closer, rising up onto his toes. "Do you know where in this city?"

"I have lines out as we speak. I expect to hear something soon."

"How long have you had this information?"

"I wanted to ensure I had something solid before bothering you, Bishop."

"You enjoy these little secret surprises don't you, Bryce." Bishop relaxed and walked away, hands in his pockets.

"I was only considering your time, Bishop."

He air in the room evaporated and in the vacuum the two men faced one another, each taking the other's measure. Bryce Deadmarsh had joined Bishop's entourage as his aide shortly after the Viking Seal fiasco, another plan wrecked by the pesky Gretta Lawrence and the Congress of International Antiquities.

His positive side was an efficiency that missed very little if anything and a skill for organization that made Bishop's days a pleasure. The down side was his penchant for hoarding information until using it served his own purpose and this was one of those times.

"What are you up to, Bryce?"

"Up to, sir?"

"That confirms it. You only call me sir when you're plotting something."

Bryce permitted himself an indulgent smile. "I have located a collector who, if you succeed in getting the stamp, is interested enough to mention a figure quite close to a million dollars."

Bishop stared at him, his eyes going in and out of focus as he first considered the sum of money and then the balls of his aide to presume the stamp would be for sale at all without consultation. He held his tongue and wandered to his desk, wondering just how far Bryce could be trusted.

Would he really tell him the truth about the money? Maybe there's a lot more and Bryce is figuring on a nice cut for himself. The sound of the clock stirred them both and Bryce coughed politely, asking for further instructions.

"Yeah. You call me the minute you find out about the stamp. Me, Bryce, not your collector friend, got it?"

"I never considered anything else, Bishop." Bryce turned on his heel and demonstrated a military step out of the office.
"Smug little bastard." Bishop sank down into his desk chair and stared at his phone. Did Jenner have wind of this, he wondered, or was he in the cat bird's seat this time. He needed to know.