The Barrister of Incomparable Commerce was the founder of Americamart, a mighty chain of retail stores that sold discount merchandise. He lived on the Upper East Side, on a street of whitewashed stone towers that overlooked Central Park, in a mansion that rose from the pavement like a gargoyle-encrusted cathedral.

My disguise featured a phony handlebar moustache, and my alias was "Salvatore Siciliano. Mags had given me good advice. She'd smiled and said, "Don't screw it up."

I parked my Harley on the street, and then I rang the Barrister's bell. I was greeted by a huge guy named Ed. He escorted me through a marble entry area, and then into the home. The place was steeped in spacious modernism with a medieval flare. There were Picassos in the parlor and satellite dishes strewn across the battlements. The culinary arsenal in the kitchen was fantastic, and included a Viking stove with ten burners, top-of-the-line Corning Ware, three ovens, and a center-island large enough to dock a cruise ship.

Ed said, "So, you're the new cook? What's your specialty?"

"Six-pack flambe. Don't touch the cans until they're cool."

A cute little Haitian woman walked in and began sweeping the floor. She had eyes like pinto beans and teeth like sugar cubes. She said, "Hello, you're the new cook? My name is Julia. I'm the maid."

"Yeah, my name is Sal."

"Oh, I never remember the names, hee-hee. The cooks here get fired so fast."

"Really?"

"Yes. The Barrister has very particular tastes. The last guy broiled the salmon a little too long and he was out. So watch your salmon, Sal. Hee-hee."

"Salmon? That's a fish, right?"

"Hee-hee, you're funny, but you better get serious about your seafood."

She scurried out of the kitchen, and I called Mags on my cell phone.

"Mags, what do you know about cooking salmon?"

"It's easy. Use fire."

"Thanks, honey—I'll nominate you for a Nobel Prize. Look, I'm probably not going to last too long on this job."

"Well, try to find out something first."

"What am I going to find out before dinner? Hey, I see they have a brand new flax seed grinder. I guess that's something."

I saw a guy coming and had to hang up. He was a crinkled butler who spoke with an obligatory accent, and he said, "Hello, you must be the latest culinary master. I am Jonathan."

"Hey Johnny, nice to meet you. So what's happening? Anything strange going on around here?"

"Strange? Why, yes, it's always strange around here. This place is haunted, you know. And this weekend there will be a special dinner. The Overlord of the Overgrown will grace us with his presence, and you will be expected to prepare something worthy of your gourmet expertise."

"Uh, haunted? You mean by a ghost?"

I knew Jonathan was the disgruntled butler Mags had mentioned. Obviously he knew a few things, and I'd have to come up with a clever way of getting more information from him. I figured I'd get him drunk. But first, I'd better come up with tonight's meal. I got on the phone and called my brother, Al, who owned a restaurant on Bleeker Street called The Republic of Pizza.

"Al, you gotta get a couple of Sicilian pies ready, with peppers and onions. Mags will pick them up. I'll pay you later."

"Pay me later? You always say that."

"Listen, Al, the whole world could be at stake."

"You always say that, too—when you're trying to get laid. I'll get'em ready."

"Yeah, great, and throw in a couple of slices on the side, too." I was hungry, and it was going to be a long night.