He found the stairs, climbed all four levels toward the sounds of the party. The seventy-degree air-conditioning gave way to a blend of the afternoon’s eighty-degree breeze and the chlorinated scent of a pool holding the giggles and splashes of inebriates.

“Mike fucking Roman.”

Kieran Michelson, tall and athletic, with leading-actor good looks, waved from the trampoline at the other end of the thirty-foot pool, then launched into an irresponsible back flip. He swam his way past a pair of topless blondes floating on either their implants or the pool noodles beneath them. A pale man in a tank top and Rastafarian hat stood behind a DJ setup, tranced out to whatever music idiots listened to.

“Can I get you a drink, sir?”

Mike turned, saw someone in a movie-quality Spiderman costume suspended upside down from the building’s roof, five feet over a portable bar.

“What does your Spidey sense tell you?”

The tiny man let himself down, landed behind the bar. “That you need a cocktail, hero.”

“Sure,” Mike said. “Whiskey and ginger.”

Spiderman went to work.

Michelson slapped a wet palm on Mike’s sport coat. “Mike fucking Roman.”

Mike summoned a smile. “This is quite a place, Kieran.”

“I thought I told you to call me K. Did you get a drink?” Michelson’s words came out cocaine quick. “Spiderman will make you a drink.”

“I got a—”

“Spiderman, get Mike fucking Roman a drink.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Michel—”

Michelson yanked Mike back toward the pool. “Fucking Spiderman, am I right?”

“Pretty cool.”

“I wanted Wolverine, but you know what they told me?”

“The claws?”

“The fucking claws. Badass as they are, can’t make a cocktail with claws. But Spiderman’s the man.” He turned back to the bar. “Hey, Peter Parker, get Mike Roman a rock-tail.”

Spiderman held out Mike’s whiskey ginger.

Kieran grabbed the drink, spilled half the goods on the way to Mike’s hand. “Hells yes, Spiderman. High-five.”

Spiderman left him hanging, but only for enough time to leap up to the overhang’s ledge, flip up onto the roof, then reach down and finish the high five upside down.

“Bet Wolverine couldn’t do that,” Mike said.

“Fucking Spiderman,” Michelson said again, oblivious. He put his hand on Mike’s shoulder. “You’re seriously jacked, bro. We gotta talk workouts.”

Mike watched Spiderman crawl across the roof and hide behind an air conditioner. “Does he just stay there until you call him?”

“Who knows? Grab a bathing suit in the room behind the DJ, then get your ass comfortable so we can talk business.”

Mike found the stack of bathing suits, all bright red except for the words “Rep Repair” in white across the ass, changed, and rejoined the party.

Kieran came and went, sometimes alone, more often arm in arm with a female. The DJ and Spiderman left around six, the ladies at seven.