"Why'?" Jennifer asked with a sinking feeling.

"You look like someone who robbed the home of a prominent citizen this morning."

Jennifer looked at the fragment of cracker she still held in her hand. She hadn't even begun to take the edge off her appetite.

"Damn," she said, and the cracker and champagne glass slipped through her hands as she ghosted through the floor. Ray moved like a cat on speed. He leaped upon her, but only grasped her shirt which was crumpling to the floor. "Ah, Jesus, Worchester," Jennifer heard him say before she slipped entirely through the floor, "you should've let me coldcock the bitch."

Tachyon's small form had vanished into the milling aces in search of alcohol. Alcohol she badly needed. The rumble of voices, the tinkle of ice in crystal glasses, and the energetic efforts of a small combo all combined to form a drill that was digging ever deeper into her head.

Ice sculptures of various of the more prominent aces dotted the room. Peregrine had taken up a position near her statue, and her beautiful wings threatened to overset the frozen replica.

Captain Trips, a glass of fruit juice clutched in a bony hand, tried to negotiate the room, but his amazing stovepipe hat kept tumbling to the floor. The Harlem Hammer, looking decidedly uncomfortable in his best suit,. retrieved the hat. The contrast between the immensely powerful black ace, his bald pate shining under the lights, and the weedy Captain was startling.

The Professor and Ice-Blue Sibyl lounged near the bar. Sibyl with her blue, sexless naked body could have doubled for one of the ice sculptures. She even gave up a faint chill to those standing near her. Her companion created a stir by his own peculiar sense of style. With his whiskers, balding head, wirerimmed spectacles, and belching pipe, he looked like someone's kindly old uncle. But no uncle of Roulette's would ever have worn a sky-blue tux with scuffed sandals.

Fantasy, the ABT's prima ballerina and one of New York's more public aces, waved a rose before Pit Boss's nose while Trump Card looked on indulgently.

So many, and which of you will survive this night? Not many, I think, with my master seeking you.

The problem with being a genial host was the necessity to be polite to boors. Hiram sipped at a champagne glass full of Vernors ginger ale (he liked to have a drink in hand, to promote the atmosphere of conviviality, but he had too many responsibilities to allow himself to get tipsy) and tried to feign a great interest in what Cap'n Trips was saving.

"I mean, its like elitist, man, this whole dinner, on a day like this it ought to be aces and jokers all getting together, like for brotherhood," the gangling hippie with the long blond hair and weedy goatee told him.

The Aces High staff' had barred a dozen groupies and pretenders, including the fishwoman with her bowl of telepathic goldfish, an elderly gentleman in a cape who time-traveled in his sleep, and a two-hundred-pound teenaged girl who wore only pasties and a G-string and claimed to he immortal. That one was tough to disprove, admittedly, but Hiram had turned her away nonetheless. He found himself wishing he'd been similarly resolute with Trips, whose powers seemed equally elusive, if in fact he had any at all. If only Dr. Tachyon had not arrived just when he did.-..

Hiram sighed. It was spilt milk now. He'd admitted the Captain, and a few minutes later, while making his rounds of the party, mingling and smiling, he'd made a second mistake and asked Trips how he was enjoying himself. Since then he'd been trapped by the ice sculpture of Peregrine, while the tall man in the purple Uncle Sam suit explained earnestly that, like alcohol was poison, man, and he really ought to be serving some tofu and sprouts because the body is like a temple, you know, and wasn't the whole idea of the Wild Card Dinner like, uh, politically incorrect.

It was no wonder Dr. Tachyon had vouched for him, Hiram thought, gazing at Trips's prominent Adam's apple and purple top hat: they obviously shopped at the same boutique.

Hiram's smile was so frozen he hoped that frost wasn't forming in his beard. His attention wandered across the room and he noticed a number of diners taking their drinks out onto the balcony, where the sun was sinking behind New Jersey, turning the sky a deep, robust red. That gave Hiram an inspiration. "It looks to be a magnificent sunset tonight, Captain," he said. "That's a sight you really shouldn't miss, since you don't get to visit us too often. Sunset from Aces High is quite special, I'm sure you'll agree. Quite, ah… quite far out."

It worked. Cap'n Trips craned his head around, nodded, and started to take a step toward the balcony, but somehow those long pipestem legs managed to get tangled up in each other, and he started to trip. Before Hiram could step forward and catch him, Trips had thrown out a hand to steady himself, grabbed hold of the ice sculpture, snapped off the end of Peregrine's wing, and fallen flat on his face. His hat flew ten feet and landed at the feet of the Harlem Hammer, who picked it up with a look of disgust, carried it back to Trips, and pulled it down firmly onto the Captain's head. By then Cap'n Trips had gotten to his feet, an icy wingtip still in his hand. He looked very abashed. "I'm sorry, man," he managed. He tried to fit the missing piece back on the end of Peri's wing. "I'm real sorry, it was beautiful, man," he said, "maybe I can 6x it."

Hiram. took the ice away from him and gently turned him around. "Never mind," lie said, "just go watch the sunset."

Jack leaned heavily against Bagabond as they carne up out of the subway. Rosemary followed, scrutinizing the crowd. She took Jack's free arm tightly, lending support as the trio negotiated 23rd Street toward the Haiphong Lily.

No one paid any heed to them as the three moved slowly down the sidewalk. "In here." Bagabond steered them into a dark, narrow courtyard, ill-lit by two flickering streetlights on the block.

"I smell something good," Jack said miserably, raising his head.

"Rosemary, this is your scene." Bagabond helped Jack support himself against a bent steel railing leading up to a long-unrestored brownstone. She turned back toward the assistant district attorney. "How do you want to play it?"

Rosemary peered down the street toward the next dim pool of light. "What I want to do is use the notebooks to exert some control on the Gambiones. From there, maybe I can reach the rest of the Families." The regret was evident both in her look and in her voice. "Sorry to put you through this, Jack, but unless we de-escalate this war among the crime powers, the city will be in a state of siege." Her voice firmed. "By holding onto the books and releasing just enough information to maintain the balance, I want to influence the selection of the new don and his attitude toward the Families and the new gangs.

"

"Piece of cake," Jack said through gritted teeth.

"You really believe you can do that?" Bagabond was unconvinced that Rosemary could carry of the farfetched plan. "Hell of a nice speech," said Jack.

"Rosa Maria Gambione can do that." Rosemary faced Bagabond.

"But what will they do when they find out who the assistant DA really is?" Bagabond frowned at the other woman. "You might as well step in front of an IRT"

"It's my choice. It's my heritage." She shrugged eloquently. "How else will I be able to make up for my father's acts?"

"A hundred Hail Marys," Jack said, weaving slightly. "Sorry about that."

"Your father chose to be what he was. You are not guilty of his sins." Bagabond grasped Rosemary's upper arm hard enough to hurt. "Your responsibility is to yourself."

"I don't see it that way." She pried Bagabond's hand from her arm and held it for a moment. "What I don't like is putting you and Jack into danger."