“Two for the penthouse,” I said.

“Let’s see the invitation.”

“We have none.”

He shook his head and dropped the half-smoked cigarette between my feet. It sizzled. A burnt odor tickled my nose. He lit another.

“Perhaps, if you aren’t too busy, you could pass a message up to Mr. Aiken. Tell him it’s . . .”

“Tell him it’s who?”

“The daughter of Virgil Carr.”

“I don’t like bothering Mr. Aiken, you know. Not while the party’s swinging.”

“Please,” I said, and there was enough hurt in my voice that the young man was moved. Wearing black had its advantages. He put in a call to the penthouse. It rang for a long time before someone upstairs picked up the phone. Through the receiver, the party blared like a packed house at the Garden.

“Virgil Carr!” screamed the redcap. “I said the name is Virgil Carr!”

There was another long pause before the redcap replaced the receiver.

“Well?” said Max, hopeful as a little boy on Christmas morning. The redcap sighed, shook his head at the lowering of standards that threatened to destroy high society as we knew it, and jerked his thumb toward the cage.

The ride was swift. Music echoed down the elevator shaft like far-off guns—intoxicating, dangerous, and impossible to resist. At last, truly hot jazz.

The elevator opened directly into the penthouse—a touch that nearly overwhelmed Max. A couple was leaning on the elevator doors when they opened and fell into the operator’s lap. He pushed them back toward the party with a practiced shrug, and I dragged Max across the threshold.

The penthouse appeared only slightly smaller than Grand Central Terminal. A few dozen couches formed the party’s main drag, where hundreds of the city’s most beautiful drunks shuffled like the exhausted finalists in a dance marathon. Half the couches held coupling couples; the rest were occupied by guests who had given in to the need for sleep. The band was howling at the far end of the room, and there I saw Aiken, sitting close enough to put his head into the trombone. I snatched a highball from a passing waiter and began the long journey.

“The ceiling,” said Max.

“What about it?”

“It’s not there.”

It was, but only barely. The roof was green glass, held up by nearly invisible latticed steel. Surrounding the bubble was a wide terrace, where a few dozen had stepped to catch their breath. The setting sun could not compete with the stem’s blazing lights, which were corrupted by the penthouse glass and lent a jaundiced tinge to the faces of Aiken’s guests.

“Ain’t that just the most gorgeous thing you’ve ever seen?” said Max.

“All I can see is cigarette burns on the carpet, grime on the windows, and unidentifiable stains on every hundred-dollar dress.”

“It must be awful.”

“What?”

“Living in that sour head of yours.”