The party had one of the most pretentious atmospheres that Gerry had ever experienced, although Gerry couldn’t decide whether that had more to do with the guests or the liberal amounts of white powder being inhaled. The air was stuffy with smoke, as most of the windows had been shut tight to keep the blasts of rain and wind from spilling in, and the balcony was useless in the downpour. There were few things as miserable as November rain. As much as Gerry didn’t miss the snow that was probably already falling back in Jersey, at least it would look nice.
They were in the VIP suite which, as they’d been told three times by the tallest of their glassy-eyed hosts, spanned two-thirds of the top floor of the tower, was forty-seven levels from the street, and had a two-hundred-and-seventy degree
