“Barry!” The gossip reporter from New York 1 got his attention. “How did you choose this church?”

“It’s all Samantha Acton,” he answered. “She’s a genius.”

The reporter turned to Clarice. “And who are you dressed as tonight?”

“My daughter Venice said to say, ‘I’m Super Mommy.’”

Barry looked at her and tried to cut her losses. “Let’s go, Clarice.”

“Back. Back.” The police began pushing back a group of teenagers who were trying to get a look at Denzel Washington.

“Fuck you!” one kid screamed. The cop pulled him aside.

Barry grabbed Clarice. “I said let’s get the hell inside!”

Inside the church, waiters circulated the pews with pinkie-sized ribs glazed with cassis, grits on endive with blue cheese, foie gras hamburgers on mini buns, shrimp curry on watermelon slices, bags of fried chicken fingers with french fries, endless flutes of Perrier Jouët champagne, and diet Dr Pepper.

While 50 Cent was rapping, “We’re gonna party like it’s ya birthday / We’re gonna sip Bacardi like it’s ya birthday,” the A-list was getting down. Adrienne Strong-Rodman demonstrated her best moves from the Reebok Gym’s aerobic hip-hop class.

Judy ran up to Samantha. “I swear, it’s the best party I’ve ever been to. I’m going to have my daughters’ next birthday here.”

“I just hope our car doesn’t get broken into.” Albert winked at his wife.

“Oh Albert, stop it!” Judy gently pushed her husband. “And even if it does, this is such a magical night. I don’t care.” She turned back to Samantha. “Only you could pull this off. I mean it. This city has been dreary ever since September 11th. This is the only time it seems like fun again and you should really congratulate yourself.”

A young African-American man in wire-rim glasses and leather jacket approached the podium underneath the crumbling altar.

“Hey, I’m Trevor Stokes and I just want to thank you all for coming tonight. We have raised one-point-five million dollars for the independent filmmakers’ fund, and another anonymous donor has just pledged five hundred thousand dollars specifically for young African-American filmmakers from this neighborhood.”

“I’ll match it,” Paul Rodman shouted from the balcony.

The room broke into whoops and applause.

“That is so dope!” Trevor clapped his hands in appreciation.

“Did he say dope?” Judy whispered to Grey Navez. “’Cause we’re leaving if there’s any dope. I have a very good relationship with the New York Post.”

Trevor pounded his heart with his fist. “You guys are money! Thank you from the bottom of my heart. And now, the man of the hour, Barry Santorini.”

Barry walked up to the stage.