Cocktail jazz wafted over the Anchor Hotel Ballroom, and dozens of Hudson City’s elite tried to waft along with it. From his perch at the corner bar, Edison discreetly sneered at some of the particularly clumsy couples. It was beyond him what the unspectacular spectacle of these fine citizens punishing the parquet had to do with breast cancer research. Or Somalian refugees or dyslexic puppies or whatever the hell this event was about.

Wasn’t there something in the Bible about doing good works in secret? There were no answers floating in the Scotch and soda he’d been nursing. Reply hazy, try again.

The charity game, he reflected, was just that – a game. People couldn’t just write a check, oh, no. They had to make a show of it and spend money on renting venues and hiring bands and paying big salaries to directors and publicists. What percentage of the money actually went to the people in need?

Well, zero percent of Edison’s. He’d sweet talked some of his artist acquaintances into donating canvases to the auction. The works would be described as donations from the Palmer-Melville gallery. There was no one here with anything to teach Edison about putting on a show.

“Blue Moon” staggered to a wan conclusion and he cast his eyes across the dance floor. The lighting was lower at the bar and if he didn’t turn his head Beth wouldn’t realize he was watching her. Sure enough, she was looking his way with a look of comic uncertainty on her face. She frowned and turned back to her dance partner. Her banker, he believed.

Edison had been ignoring Beth most of the night. That was partly out of practicality – her husband’s disinterest would only stretch so far – and partly out of spite. She was older than him, not much to look at, lousy in bed and dumb as a bag of hair. He had to amuse himself with her somehow, even if it was with petty games. The affair had been a bad idea from the start. But she’d come on to him, practically begging to be used, and he’d had one hand up her skirt and the other in her purse before he had time to think about it.

Not literally, of course. He was playing a long game now and that meant he couldn’t make a mess and run. So he’d petted her and coaxed her for weeks, cursing the habit, until he’d maneuvered her into admitting that she liked spending her husband’s money on him. Then there had been dividends, suits and watches and vacations. He only had to pay for the occasional motel. She could be counted on to buy something at the gallery’s next opening, maybe some of her bitch friends too. Then he would maneuver her into breaking it off. Perhaps then he’d resume his campaign to get Umberto into bed. At least that was a challenge.

There were a lot of boring weeks to get through first, starting with this long boring night. He wished the young woman at the other end of the bar would screw up her courage and enliven the evening. She’d been trying not to stare at him for a good fifteen minutes. Even if she’d been more subtle, he would have caught the little flares of anxiety coming off her. She looked to be college age, and she must come from wealth to be at this bash. What possible problems could she have that she broadcast so much distress?

Screw it. He slid off the stool and sauntered over to her. He felt another spark of anxiety as she registered his approach, but her lovely features remained placid. She was plump and pretty, poured into a green velvet dress that showed off her curves and a precisely calculated amount of cleavage. Even the rebellious daughters of the wealthy make sure to look just so. Perhaps especially, the rebellious daughters.

“There are no stupid questions,” he said as he sat down next to her. Confused, she ran a hand through her dark hair as she looked at the man everyone loved to gossip about. He wasn’t all that fearsome. He was fairly handsome, in a Central Casting sort of way, and his broad face had kind eyes and faint laugh lines. With his shaggy blond hair, he looked more like a surfer than someone with “intimate knowledge of other realms,” as her aunt had floridly put it.

“You’re Edison Palmer, aren’t you?” she smiled. It wasn’t really a question. “I’m Vanessa Carson. I’m sort of a friend of George’s.” Edison nodded slightly at the mention of his business partner, but said nothing. She plunged on. “I’m also related to Abby Wells. She’s my aunt.”

“And you want a reading,” he said slowly, stung by the memory of Abby and his first clumsy attempts to break into Hudson City society. Too many rumors had come out of that association. Still, those rumors sometimes led to interesting conversations. And interesting conversations could lead anywhere at all. Anywhere profitable.

“I’m not looking for a party trick, Mr. Palmer,” Vanessa said urgently. “My aunt says that you can read people like a book. I need to know…I need to know if I can trust someone.” She began mangling her cocktail napkin as she stared at him earnestly.

Ed didn’t register the irony of asking a stranger about trust. All his life, people had put their trust in him. It wasn’t the strangest of his gifts, but it was the most important. And the most fun.

“Does this have something to do with your pregnancy?”

Her eyes widened. “How did you…,” she whispered.

“Sometimes I just know things, Vanessa,” he said softly, slipping into the old routine. He’d done a thousand variations on wonderment and sincerity. His eyes, and the slight cadence of his deep voice, held her spellbound.

“I don’t know how it works, or why," he continued, "but sometimes it’s useful to people. I’d like to be useful to you, if I can.”

“I haven’t told anyone,” she said miserably. “Just Dave. That’s my boyfriend.” She looked down at the tattered wad that had been her napkin and carefully set it aside.

“Go on,” he said soothingly. “You'll feel better.”

“I just don’t know what to do,” she sighed. “We’re both still in college, and Dave…Dave used to have a problem with drugs. If I knew I could depend on him…” Her eyes were wet now. Edison reached into his pocket and handed her a handkerchief. She smiled gratefully and dabbed at her eyes.

“Why don’t you introduce me to Dave,” suggested Edison. “Your aunt has exaggerated my abilities, but it's true that I'm a good judge of character.”

“He’s not here. He goes to Amherst now. We talk on the phone but it’s not the same.”

Edison observed his mark carefully as Vanessa chattered on about their history, working herself into a high pitch of self-pity. It was easy as pie: figure out what she wanted to hear, feed it back to her, and bask in her awed gratitude.

If Dave was on the other coast, was the baby even his? Or was that what Vanessa wanted to know? He closed his eyes and felt the edge of something complicated, something about Vanessa’s sorority sister who had to drop out of school, but it was gone before he could unravel it.

“Vanessa,” he said in his calm, reasonable tone, “do you happen to have something of Dave’s? Some personal item.”

“Sort of,” she said eagerly, and began fishing through her purse. Obviously her aunt had prepared her for this. She pulled out a ring. He assumed it would be Dave’s class ring, but when she handed it to him he saw it was a simple band of gold set with a small stone. An engagement ring?

He smiled encouragingly at the useless girl. He was well practiced at keeping contempt from his face. She had perhaps the biggest decision of her life in front of her, and she wanted someone else to tell her what to do. Pathetic. People like that deserve what they get.

“Please be quiet for a moment,” he said. He closed his eyes and curled his fingers around the ring, hoping it would tell him something he could use. That was the routine. The room receded as he slipped into someone else's memory. A tang in the cool air, the smell of salt and suntan oil and tuna sandwiches left in the cooler too long. Dave must have proposed on the beach. A romantic proposal for his knocked-up girlfriend. Dave was starting to seem like a pretty stand-up guy.

Dave was a sucker.

The music had stopped. Edison opened his eyes and saw Beth scanning for him again. With Beth and Vanessa both in his sightline, he suddenly felt disgusted with himself. Why was he wasting time with these shitty little games? That was the old Ed. He didn't need to fleece pikers for beer money. He was made for better things.

He laid the ring on the bar and slid it towards Vanessa. “I don’t think I can help you,” he said sorrowfully. “But perhaps you’d like to take my card. The vibrations are often stronger in a more tranquil environment.” He made no move to find a business card.

Vanessa hastily stuffed the ring back into her purse, sadness turning to resentment on her face. He looked past her and waved at Beth. When he caught her eye, he held up his arms and swayed back and forth, dancing with an imaginary partner. She positively beamed. Pathetic.

“Will you be all right?” he asked Vanessa with the barest solicitude, already standing up and adjusting his tie.

“Fine,” Vanessa sulked. “It was stupid to think you could answer my question.”

Edison turned to her, his smile unwavering. “You never asked me your question. But I’ll answer it anyway.” He leaned in and whispered in her ear.

“You should get the abortion.”

Her mouth popped open, but if she made a sound it was covered by the band, which was starting a particularly funereal version of “Is That All There Is?”

“Excuse me,” he said, “but they’re playing my song.” Without a backwards glance, he strode towards the dance floor.