Illustration by Peter Karpick

A funny thing happened recently during a book launch party in lower Manhattan. I had just received word from one of my seedy underworld contacts about an assignment for PLANET° magazine concerning the adventures of Marco Polo and the brilliant new biography by Laurence Bergreen, Marco Polo — From Venice to Xanadu. There I was, trying to remember everything I could about the Polo expedition, busily stuffing my face with the rather good assortment of canapés and attempting to erase the effects of the day by tossing back an inordinate volume of red wine that was both disappointingly cheap and encouragingly free. By then the roving servers were starting to avoid me (like surfers who’ve spotted a shark), and I was forced to make my way through the crush of people toward the bar to beg for booze like an inebriated Oliver Twist. Halfway there I was halted in my tracks by a rather stunning redhead and her equally arresting blonde companion. “Wait!” she said with a dramatic hand to my chest. “You’re Anthony Smith, aren’t you?” They were clearly too pretty to be trusted so I made a quick survey to see if they were concealing weapons or FBI badges around their necks before I hedged with a cautious, “Maybe yes, maybe no…” The redhead turned to the blonde and insisted, “Oh my God! This is that guy I was telling you about…”