“Why don’t you go find yourself a story to report?”

“Here?”

“We just passed the water commissioner, three of Broadway’s least reputable leading ladies, a pair of known killers, and half the starting lineup for the New York Yankees. Surely even you can find a story.”

I left Max to goggle and found Brass Aiken slumped against the bandstand. The man had been pickled by good gin and loud jazz. He was long and bony, with a razor-thin moustache and lime-green eyes. His tuxedo was cut slightly too tight, and it strained as he rocked to the music, tapping his pipe on his knee to keep time. His eyes were shut. He was in rapture. He didn’t seem to know he had guests.

I waited until the band finished scorching their way through “Tiger Rag” and tried to grab Aiken’s attention. His head spun around and his eyes rested on me dreamily.

“You’re the one who knows Clubber,” he said.

“I’m his daughter.”

“I wonder if you have a name.”

“Gilda.”

“Gilda Gilda. Gilda Carr.”

I took his hand. Like a broken-down circus pony, he didn’t object to being led. The door swung shut behind us, and the ringing in my ears began to subside. From the terrace, the penthouse glowed like a firefly’s tail. I arranged him on a deck chair and lit a pair of cigarettes.

“Eventually, everyone comes to Brass,” he said. “Want tickets to the fights? I know every boxer in town. Or are you interested in box seats to the new production of Tosca? I have friends at the opera, the ballet, and half the legitimate theaters along the stem—and almost all the illegitimate ones. It is within my power to fix parking tickets, trade stock tips, acquire rare animals, reroute highways, and set fire to tenements. I help those who ask, but I do not love them, not like I loved Clubber Carr. For him, for his kin, tell me what I can do.”

“In 1903, you partnered with a man named Galen Copeland.”

“With Galen? Did I? Oh, that’s right. I did. His firm had run into some trouble, and he asked me to bail him out. I took a third of the company and sold it back to him a few years later, once he’d found his footing. Not a very interesting story, is it?”

“You saw him the day he died.”

“That’s not precisely true. We had plans to dine together. The kitchens here produce wonders untold. It was going to be a fine evening, but Galen never arrived.”

“Do you know why he wanted to speak with you?”

“He’d telephoned a few days before. He sounded lost. Depressed. A man in that state can do all sorts of inadvisable things, including wallowing in nostalgia with old friends.”

“Would you please stop whistling?”

“Was I whistling? I didn’t notice.”