He would not be able to watch anything closely as long as she had her hand on his leg, as long as she was close enough that he could feel her warmth and smell her perfume, but he tried. The woman put the deck down on the table. She told him to cut it, and he took half the deck, set it down, and put the other half on top of it. She shuffled the cards again and held them up and made a fan, the faces in Henry’s direction, and told him to take a card, any card, but not to show it to her. He picked the two of hearts. The woman told him to put the card on the table, facedown, and he did so, and she put the whole deck on top of it and then shuffled it again—once, twice, three times. He watched closely. She asked him to cut the deck again, and he did so, and she took one of the halves, put it between her knuckles, and held it out to him. “Now, slap it,” she said.

“What?”

“Hit it—just slap the cards.”

The others around the table laughed. Alma smiled at him. “Go on,” she said.

It was some kind of joke, he thought, but what the hell: he got up on his knees, so he could reach the cards better, slapped them, and they all scattered and fluttered about the table—except for one, which was still wedged between the woman’s knuckles. “Is this your card?” she said, holding it up.

And it was: it was the two of hearts.

Everyone around the table clapped, except for Henry, who was astonished—really and truly astonished. “That’s incredible,” he said. “Really, how is that possible?”

“I think I caught it that time,” Alma said.

“I will not divulge my secrets,” the woman said.

But how had she done it—really? She’d given him the card, and he held it in his hand like a sacred object.

Alma was enjoying his reaction. “It’s impressive, isn’t it?”

“That hardly says it. You know how she did it?”

She laughed and took the glass from him. “If I tell you, I’m afraid she’ll kill me.” She took a swallow and handed the glass back.

He put the card in his jacket pocket. It would bring him good luck, he thought.