I took it, flashed a quick “thanks” smile, ignored the folder, and searched again for Floon. Perfect—he was standing alone by a leafy potted plant looking at the crowd. For a moment I thought of Jay Gatsby standing at the top of the stairs of his Long Island mansion watching his party guests. But those people wore what they wanted to Gatsby’s and behind his carefully created facade he was a nice man. Having seen what Caz de Floon just did to Mrs. Jutts, I knew instinctively that he was not a nice man, no matter what people said about him.

He appeared content to stand alone and watch. Once in a while he smiled at someone or raised a hand to wave, but the aura around him said stay away. No one made any attempt to approach. I started looking around the room to see how his guests responded to him from a distance. It was easy to distinguish us from the other people in the lobby because we all wore the same clothes. The silliness of the idea of the outfits became dark and perverse when I thought of how he had humiliated the fat woman. Most of the people kept sneaking glances at him. Some seemed eager, others simply curious to know where he was. When he greeted someone, their face lit up like they’d been blessed. If his eyes passed over someone and they saw, it was a blow, a moment’s small defeat. They wanted him to know they were there. His small waves gave them stature, when they received one they lit up like torches.

It was only a matter of time before our eyes met. When that happened, I felt my heart clench like a cramp in my chest. I didn’t know the man but his gaze still jolted me. I pushed on a smile and raised the folder in my hand in greeting. Out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of the front page. Cramp number two hit. Embossed on a shiny white background were two things—the name FLOON in large black letters. Below it was a painting of that feather.

My mind snapped its fingers and all at once I remembered where I had seen this image before in this time: while walking to the cafe with Gus to meet Susan, I had seen a large poster on a wall amidst a bunch of others. On it was printed FLOON and below it the feather. That’s all—no tag line like “Where do you want to go today?” or “It’s the real thing!” Just that strange last name and the rainbow colored feather on an otherwise empty white poster. Seeing it hadn’t registered on me then because I was simply too thunderstruck by everything else happening at the moment.

“Terrytoon Circus.” That was the first thing Caz de Floon said to me when the flashbulb burn of recognition faded from my head and I realized the man was now standing next to me.

“Excuse me?”

“Terrytoon Circus. Who was the emcee?” Now his smile was authentic. I had no idea what he was talking about.

“Sorry, Caz, but you’re going to have to create a context for me on this.”

The smile evaporated and his mouth set in a thin grim. “Play fair, Frannie. I admit you won last night with Cocoa Marsh and Mighty Manfred the Wonder Dog but give credit where it’s due. I think Terrytoon Circus is a great one. So tell me who was the emcee.” He spoke with the faint accent of a European who’s lived in America a long time. “Terrytoon” came out sounding like Terror Ton.

“Are we talking old television shows here, Caz?”

“TV shows, advertisements, anything from the fifties and sixties. You know it’s my passion so answer the question.”

He was messing with the wrong guy. As a kid I must have watched four hundred years of television combined. My TV career started back in the days when there was no color and no remote control. A rabbit-ears antenna sat on top of a set. When the picture was bad you fooled with those ears or smacked the side of the box with your hand. There were only seven channels, all in black-and-white. Every day programming began with a U.S. Army propaganda show called The Big Picture and ended with a religious one called Lamp unto My Feet. I know. I was there.

“Are you serious, Caz? You really want to go one on one with me about old TV shows? You’ll lose.”

“You’re stalling for time. Answer my question.” His voice had a strange ability to sound mean and joking at the same time.

“Okay. Claude Kirschner.” Now I was relaxed. I could play this game asleep and still beat his ass. “That’s too easy. How about this—who sang the theme song to Wyatt Earp?”

He tossed one busy hand in the air. “The Ken Darby Singers. Who was Yancy Derringer’s sidekick?” People were watching us. Floon was playing to them.

“Pahoo. What actor played the part?”

“X. Brands. Who played the Cisco Kid’s sidekick?” I crossed my arms.

“Leo Carrillo.”

Smug. Smug. I wanted to slap him in his smug smile. He didn’t need mountains to climb—he could have rappelled off his own ego. At his suggestion we moved from TV to sports trivia of that time. He was damned good at it. When we’d come up even on baseball, football, and basketball, I decided to raise the trivia stakes. “How about pro wrestling, Caz? Back in the days when Ray Morgan was announcing at Uline Arena?”

Floon opened his arms in a sweeping, theatrical gesture for me to begin.

“Name the Fabulous Kangaroos.”

“Roy Heffernan and Al Costello.”

“Who was Moose Cholak’s tag-team partner?”

“The Mighty Atlas. Please, Frannie, give me some credit.”

“Skull Murphy’s?”

“Brute Bernard.”

“Where was Skull from?”

“Ireland.”

The questions and answers got faster, our voices louder. I’m sure we looked and sounded ridiculous: Two old men in identical ten-thousand-dollar suits yelling at each other about Skull Murphy, Haystacks Calhoun, Fuzzy Cupid. This nonsense went on until he introduced Corn Bob.

I smirked at the stupid name. “Who?”

Mr. de Floon wasn’t used to being ridiculed. His mouth did a little tight dance. His hands stopped dancing altogether. “Corn Bob. He had a submission hold called the corncob.”

Usually I like liars because they make life more zippy, but Floon had already rubbed me so much the wrong way that he could have passed for a piece of sandpaper. “You’re full of shit.”

Our corner of the universe suddenly got exceedingly quiet. Floon’s eyelids flared but he said nothing. The only thing in my mind was how was I going to discover anything here if I keep pissing people off?

He rubbed his nose. “You don’t believe there was a wrestler named Corn Bob?”

“No.”

Silence.

“Do you know why I like you, Frannie?”

“Why?”

“Because you’re the only one who talks back to me. The only one who has the balls to do it.”

The tension went out of his voice and out of the air. People in our group who had heard looked at me with either admiration or envy.

“What was the name of Buster Brown’s dog in the shoe ad?”

He wasn’t going to quit, but I’d had enough. “Tyge. Look, I’ve got a question about something else—where did this feather on your logo come from? I see it everywhere.”

“Ha ha. And I’m supposed to address that question seriously?”

“Yes, I’d like to know.”

“You’d like to know where the Floon feather comes from?” He waited long enough to realize I was serious. “Frannie, you’re kidding, right?”

“No.”

To my surprise, instead of answering he snapped his fingers a few times to catch someone’s attention. Quickly a very pretty young woman in the gypsy dress appeared. “Nora, I think Mr. McCabe is feeling a little floaty this morning. He’s having some trouble remembering. Perhaps you can help. Frannie, you’ve met Nora Putnam? She’s our resident doctor on this trip.”

“Do you feel dizzy or light-headed, sir?”

“Floon, answer my question: Where does the feather come from?”

“You know where it comes from.”

“Remind me.”

Dr. Putnam reached out to touch me but thought better of it and dropped her hand. “We can go right over there and sit down, Mr. McCabe. The Viennese John wind is blowing today and sometimes that affects people physically in strange ways.” “Leave me alone. Floon—”