She wore a skintight red leather bodice to complete or complicate the effect, her ass fat and fertile as a harvest moon, so the suits downstairs, who were ginned up, and everyone upstairs, all weeded out, could do nothing but fall under her spell. Downstairs it was to screw her, because she was hot, or because they were freaks and it was something different. She knew that about them, of course; you heard it in her voice when she sang, saw it in the thrust of her hips. She knew everything there was to know. She had been here before. And she teased the crowd, promising any minute now to come down from the stage and fuck us all. If she ever got half a chance she would fuck the whole world.

She never would get her big break, the world is unfair; you suffer that and do not complain. But we were fortunate to be in the room and hear her. Those who were not and knew only what had been put before them by those who did not create, lost out on the chance to know how beauty can overtake you unexpectedly. That is how this world works. It does not give you what you deserve. It gives you part of what you work for, and halfway what you want. Beyond that it gives to you randomly some part of goodness, and all you can take of pain. That is what it was like for her too: somewhere in between. She was still blessed with that sanctified voice, though, and that irreligious fire she copped for herself.

When the set ended I noticed my friend Nell sitting with an animated group at one of the tables, and made my way over. Their laughter was light in the darkness, radiating fellowship, and, as I sat down, a tall, winsome girl in a halter and shorts that showed the long line of her perfect legs saw me notice her, and we traded smiles.

“Oh, you need to friend her up,” Nell said, catching the exchange, as we cheek kissed. “Come on, I’ll introduce you.”

“Do you know her?”

“I will in a second.”

Nell was already in motion, homing in on the other edge of the sofa, where she struck up a conversation. Nell was like the pope’s confessor, people divulged their secrets to her in order to protect larger secrets, until she was one of the few people who knew how the city — and the people who ran it — truly operated, and could draw the hidden, unlikely connections between all its self-contained worlds. Whether through charm or guile or toughness, she was impossible to resist.

“Fats,” she exclaimed, when she had penetrated to the center of the group. At the far corner of the sofa, sitting like a pharaoh, was Clinton Stone, a record producer, who had once been a musician, then president of a label, where he invented a whole new sound. It had made his stars famous, and given him what stars never get to possess, which is power. Nor did he get it by mistake. He knew what a throne was for, and when the suits finally examined the books and realized they had put an artist in charge of the business, it was too late. By the time they separated him from his chair he no longer needed it.

In the years since, he had become impresario to half the town. He knew all the gods, and all the demigods, and all the beautiful, young ones who burned to be gods and demigods. He could tell at a glance who had it to make it, and who did not. Those who had it, he taught to manage it. Those who did not, he taught how to manage that too, until he had aided so many people on their paths he was known around town as Yoda — though never to his face. He was sensitive about his looks.

Nell introduced us, and he asked what I did. I told him I had written the film with Davidson, and he nodded his approval. “He used to sleep on my sofa in Alphabet City, back when we were young and New York was cool. What are you doing next?”

Most conversations about work in the city were a side-winding way to talk about money, but Yoda had the supernal curiosity of the brilliant, and was as fascinated as a child new to the world, which drew me out, until I had told him everything about my worries, and after that how I’d quit my old life.

He nodded inscrutably, asking what had led me to quit, which was simply that I had learned there was nothing unique about suffering, and nothing I could do to stop it, and nothing more I had to say about it. I had asked myself how my life connected to all those others, and the theoretical questions evaporated, and the truth was too much to speak, until I was back at the place I’d started, which was simply: who are you and what do you know?

“It’s not just black people they give black lives,” he deadpanned, after my brain had flooded through my mouth. He put a hand on my shoulder to shut me up, and told me not to get so weighed down — half my fear was projection, and the other half I created as well.

I asked what he was working on, to change the subject.

“Same as always,” he said coolly. “Getting back for what they took from the Africans.”

He sent Davidson a text message, telling him to come join us, and ordered another round for the table.

“I bet you date a lot of complicated women,” he said when the drinks arrived. “You should meet Estella.”

“Because you think I need complications?”

“Because I know you need fewer.” He whispered close to my ear. The one you think you like is a hot mess. Estella is grounded. Maybe not a supermodel, and maybe not a supergenius, just real good people, which is its own special thing. If I were you, I would take her out and get to know her.”

I was horny and did not want to be alone, but I did not want a relationship and had my eye on the long-legged one who looked like fun. He was talking loudly enough that they both pricked up their ears, laughed, and flowed over to where we were seated. Yoda made introductions, and soon after slipped away and began politicking with Nell about something in next week’s newspaper.

The one I liked was called Anna. She was originally from Texas, had studied psychology, and had just moved East for a new job in branding. She had the wholesome, fresh-faced look of people new to the city, and seemed like a nice girl to know.

“I’d love to see you again sometime,” I said to Anna, after we had been talking awhile.

“Next week,” she answered, over the noise of the club. I promised to call, and looked at my watch, and cheeked her goodbye.

“Or tonight,” she said, wrapping an arm around my neck, and pulling me in to kiss me on the mouth. “You’re not leaving, are you?”

“I have an early morning,” I wavered over whether to close the deal.

She leaned in seductively. “Are you certain?”

“Do you want me to take you seriously, or take you home tonight?”

“Why can’t we do both?”

I debated with myself between how much to trust affection that sprang so spontaneously into existence and my desire not to go home alone. I agreed to stay a while longer.

“Yoda was right,” I said, getting up to go to the bar to freshen our drinks. “You’re trouble.”

“Did he say we should be lovers?” she asked.

“I did not ask him.”

“What do you think?” she reached up and pulled me to her again. I had not dated anyone since Genevieve, and had not been looking for anyone — but the feel of her taut body was undeniable. It felt good to have anybody in my arms.

“Maybe.” I wanted to be careful with myself. “I’ll call you.”

She turned her head and smiled as she walked back to her friends, and I returned to the bar.

“That was hot. Did you get her number?” Nell asked, coming over as I waited for the bartender.

“I’ll go out with her next week,” I answered.

“Next week? Honey, that’s a lifetime. Take her home with you. What’s the harm?”

I was fairly lit by then, and as Nell voiced her approval I knew she was just trying to cheer me up, but I was still thinking about what I could not hold, and did not wish to be with someone I did not know. Still I did not want to be alone.

“She is still trying to figure out what the world is about. I do not know if I feel like playing.”