“A. P. Aiken Invests In Shipping Firm,” it said—a short little item beneath a grainy photo of Aiken and his new partner, Galen Copeland. Between them stood “an old friend”—a “leading light of the NYPD,” whose eyes shone as brightly as the medals on his chest.

“Say, this fellow’s name is Carr, same as you,” said Max. “Now ain’t that a funny thing?”

Seven

The Hyperion Hotel may not have been the city’s most fashionable, but it was certainly the gaudiest. Clumsy jazz poured out of its grand entrance, loud enough to disturb the sleep of the pigeons in Madison Square. A pack of drunks clogged the front steps, unsure if they were coming or going. Max and I hugged the left side of the steps, easing around the crowd. A man whose gut looked like it was trying to escape his tuxedo tried to climb two steps and instead went down three. He swerved toward me, arm swinging, his cigar nearly scraping the side of my cheek. I plucked it from his fingers, drew a long puff, and blew the smoke back in his face.

“My Monte Cristo!” he cried. “Boys, this damned widow snatched my Monte Cristo!”

“If you can catch it,” I said, “it’s yours.”

I tossed the wet butt into the air. It spun, the glistening chewed end catching the thousands of white bulbs in the Hyperion’s block-long sign, and fell through the gentleman’s fingers into the gutter. Max ushered me through the Hyperion’s famous swinging doors, the drunk screaming epithets all the while.

The lobby was decorated with all the subtlety of the Titanic ballroom. Cocktail-sodden couples clung to each other as though the floor were sliding out from under them. Men and women competed to laugh the loudest. In the corner, the four men—game, but untalented—of the jazz combo punished their instruments in an attempt to be heard. Beneath my feet, a carpet the color of spilled red wine seemed to stretch for miles. It was deep enough to swallow a baby.

“Where to?” I asked Max.

“Back there, behind the palm fronds? That’s Aiken’s private elevator. Takes you straight to the penthouse in fifteen seconds flat.”

“You’re a regular guest here?”

“Only in my dreams. But I read about the parties every day.”

A redcap leaned on the elevator, a cigarette pinched between thumb and forefinger. He took a long, last drag and flicked it onto the carpet. It sank like the Maine. He was monstrously fat, with skin the color of raw kielbasa. He looked around, saw nothing worth looking at, and lit another cigarette.

“Just tell ’em your name,” said Max, “and we’re golden.”

“My father’s name.”

There was a little bit of money in my bag. There was also a loaded gun. I could bribe the elevator operator. I could threaten his life. Or I could do it the hard way.