Paul LeBarre's voice was much louder in here, eve through the hubbub. Workmen were setting up round banquet tables for the party, and moving the everyday tables into stor age. Cleaning crews were polishing the floors, the long curved bar, and the magnificent art deco chandeliers that gave Aces High so much of its ambience. The wide doors to the Sunset Terrace had been thrown open to air out the room, and a stiff New York wind was blowing. Dimly, from far below, Hiram could hear the sounds of traffic and police sirens.

Curtis, his maitre d' and good right arm, came up to Hiram Worchester with a dozen stiff pieces of posterboard under one arm. He was a tall slender black man with white haft Tonight, in his tuxedo, he would look splendid, elegant, even i bit austere. Right now, dressed in a flannel shirt and a pair d worn dungarees, he just looked harried.

"The kitchen is in chaos," he announced briskly. "Paul insists that Miriam has ruined his special hollandaise, and he's threatening to throw her off the Sunset Terrace. We had a small fire in the kitchen, but it's out, no damage. The ice sculpture are late. Six of our waiters phoned in sick this morning. Car nival flu, I call it, complicated by the fact that no one ever tip at these private parties. A larger bonus might effect a sudde remission. The usual rumor about Golden Boy has made th rounds, and I've had three calls from guests anxious to let u know that if he was coming, they weren't. Oh, and Digger Downs phoned up to tell me that if he isn't admitted tonight, Aces! magazine will never mention the restaurant again. An how are you this morning, Hiram?"

Hiram sighed, ran a hand across his bald head in a nervous gesture left over from the days he'd had hair. "Tell Diggei I'll let him in if his editor promises in writing that we'll neve be mentioned in Aces! again. Get me six temp waiters-no, make that ten, they won't be as good as our regular people. I'm not worried about Paul. He hasn't thrown anyone out a window yet." He strode toward his office.

Curtis matched him pace for pace. "There's always a first time. What about Golden Boy?"

Hiram made a rude noise. "We get the same rumor every year, and Mr. Braun has yet to show up. If he ever does, I'll deal with the question of his dinner. Who's threatening to cancel?"

"Sparkle Johnny, Trump Card, and Pit Boss," Curtis said.

"Reassure Shawna and Lou," Hiram told him, "and tell Sparkle Johnny that Golden Boy is definitely going to be here. Are those the seating charts?"

Curtis handed them over. "I'll call Kelvin and check on the ice sculptures," he said as Hiram unlocked the door to his private office.

"Out the window!" Paul LeBarre was screaming in the kitchen. "All the way down ou can think of the proper way to make hollandaise. Perhaps it' will come to you, before you hit!"

Hiram winced. "Do that," he said. "And please have someone do me up a small breakfast. An omelet, I think. Tomato, onion, crumbled bacon, cheese."

"Cheddar?"

Hiram raised an eyebrow. "Of course. Four eggs. With pomme frites and a carafe of orange juice, a little Earl Grey. Are there biscuits?"

Curtis nodded.

"Good. Three, please. I'm weak with hunger." Using his powers always left him famished. Dr. Tachyon said it had something to do with energy loss. "Anthony will be back soon with a clean suit. I had a bit of an altercation down on Fulton Street. Send someone to the lobby to wait for it. If Anthony tries to bring it up, the Bentley will probably be towed." He closed the door.

A 26-inch color television was mounted in the wall above his desk. Hiram seated himself in a huge, custom-designed leather executive's chair that smelled like the inside of a very old and very exclusive British men's club, turned on his builtin back massager, spread the seating charts out across the black walnut, and flicked on the television with a jab at the remote control. Willard Scott and Peregrine appeared on the screen. Willard was wearing moose ears, for some reason. Peregrine was wearing as little as she could get away with. They were talking about the Jokertown parade. Hiram hit the mute button. He liked to keep the television on as he worked, a sort of video wallpaper that kept him plugged into the world, but the noise distracted him. After a final glance at Peregrine's admirable costume, he began reviewing the charts, initialing each in the lower right-hand corner after he'd looked it over.

By the time Curtis returned with his omelet, Hiram had finished the charts. "Two changes," he said. "Put Mistral over by the terrace. If it gets too windy, she can take care of it for us."

"Switch Tachy and Croyd. If we put Tachyon at the same table with Fortunato, we'll have innocents killed in the crossfire."

"Excellent," Curtis said. "Six tables for the at-the-doors?" Formal invitations were sent out annually to the Wild Card Day Dinner at Aces High, and RSVPs were expected, but there were aces who carefully kept their names secret, and others who'd yet to come out of the deck. The party was open to all of them, and each year the queue of those hoping to win admission by demonstrating an ace talent at the door grew longer and longer.

"Eight tables," Hiram said after a moment's reflection. "This is the fortieth anniversary, after all." He glanced up at the television screen again. "One more thing." He took back the top chart, made a notation. "There."

Curtis studied it. "Peregrine next to you. Very good, sir."

"I thought so," Hiram- said, with a quiet smile. He felt rather pleased with himself.

"The ice sculptures will be delivered within the hour."

"Excellent. Notify me when they arrive."

Curtis closed the door behind him. Hiram leaned back in his chair, glanced up at the TV set, changed the channel. On the steps of Jetboy's Tomb, Linda Ellerbee was interviewing Xavier Desmond. He watched them mouth silent words for a minute. Then a news bulletin interrupted their conversation. Something about the Howler, whose picture flashed up on the screen, wearing his yellow fighting clothes. A nice fellow, but his color sense was almost as bad as Dr. Tachyon's.

Hiram frowned, and steepled his fingers thoughtfully. Everything was under control. The party would be a smashing success, the social occasion of the year. He ought to be feeling elated. Instead, he was troubled.

The business down at the Fulton Street Fish Market, that was it. He couldn't get if off his mind. Gills was in some kind of trouble. He needed help. Hiram was fond of the old joker.

They'd been doing business for a decade, and Aces High had even catered his son's graduation.

Someone ought to find out what was going on, Hiram thought. Not him, of course; he was a restaurateur, not an adventurer. Still, he knew all the right people, and many of them owed him favors. Perhaps he ought to use his contacts.

Hiram found Dr. Tachyon's number on his Rolodex, picked up his telephone, punched out the number. He let it ring a long time. The Takisian was a notoriously late sleeper.

Finally he gave up. Wild Card Day was always a trial for Tachyon. As often as not, it set him off on binges of guilt, selfpity, and cognac. This being the fortieth anniversary, the doctor's angst could be particularly acute. Oh, Dr. Tachyon would be on time for dinner, no doubt of that, but Hiram wanted to get someone working on this immediately.

He thought for a minute. His good friend Senator Hartmann would lend him the services of some Justice Department ace, undoubtedly, but involving the government was time-consuming and messy. Fortunato might help, but then again he might not.

He turned his Rolodex, looking at the names, and of course it was right there, on the very first card:

JAY ACKROYD Confidential Investigations and Sleight-of-Hand

Smiling, Hiram Worchester picked up the phone and dialed.