He circulated among his guests, always smiling and joking, knowing that no one in the room understood why he smiled, not one of these so-called friends or business partners or social acquaintances had any idea who he was. They knew him as Ari, not as Pasha Sorokin, and defi- nitely not as the Wolf. They had no clue about the pounds of illegal diamonds he bought from Sierra Leone, the tons of heroin from Asia, and weapons and even jets sold to the Colombians, or white women purchased by the Saudis and Japanese. In south Florida, he had a reputation for being a maverick both socially and in business. There were more than 150 guests tonight, but he'd ordered food and drink for twice that number. He had imported the chef from Le Cirque 2000 in New York, and also a sushi cook from San Francisco. His servers were dressed as cheerleaders and were topless, which he thought a cheeky joke, guaranteed to offend. The famous surprise dessert for the party was Sacher tortes flown in from Vienna. No wonder everybody loved Ari. Or hated him. He gave a playful hug to a former pro running back for the Miami Dolphins and talked to a lawyer who'd made tens of millions from the Florida tobacco settlement - exchanged stories about Governor Jeb Bush. Then he moved on through the crowd. There were so many ass-kissing social climbers and opportunists who came to his house to be seen among the right, and wrong, people: self-important, spoiled, selfish, and, worst of all, boring as tepid dishwater. He walked along the edge of an indoor swimming pool toward an outdoor pool more than twice the size. He chatted with his guests and made a generous pledge to a privateschool charity. Not surprisingly, he was hit on by somebody's wife. He had serious conversations with the owner of the most important hotel in the state, a Mercedes-dealing mogul, and the head of a conglomerate who was a hunting "buddy" of his. He despised all of these pretenders, especially the older used-to-bes.