Whatever the case, Igor could drink, although, according to him, he was simply cleansing his liver in the Russian way—using vodka.

Yes, there was no denying that Igor was smart as well as very ambitious, although, more than anything, I got the distinct impression that what he reallywanted was to possess the ultimate doomsday weapon to hold the world hostage. And why? Not for money or power or, for that matter, even sex! All Igor wanted was for everyone to shut up and agree with him.

It was a little after eight p.m., and we had decided to celebrate New Year's Eve at the twelve-foot-long dining-room table, which like the rest of the furniture was grand, solemn, and comprised of black Italian lacquer. The room was just off the living room and shared the same spectacular view of Midtown Manhattan. At this hour of night, the lights of the city rose up behind us in a dazzling display.

In spite of me being the theoretical master-of-the-house, it was Igor who seemed determined to hold court tonight, while Chandler, Carter, and myself—all sporting glittering New Year's Eve hats shaped like dunce caps—pretended to listen. KGB wore a dunce cap too, although she was hanging on Igor's every word. It was nauseating.

From across the dining-room table, Igor said to me, “ Understand! I, Igor, with one snap of finger”—and he snapped his finger, as Chandler and Carter looked on, confused—”can make fire impossible!”

Now KGB chimed in. “He can; I have seen this.”

And now Chandler chimed in. “You should call Smokey the Bear, then.”

And now it was my turn: “She's right, Igor. Smokey the Bear would be all over you if he knew you could make fire impossible.”

Carter said, “Why is your name Igor? It's a monster's name.”

KGB, who had somewhat rebonded with Carter via Crash Bandicoot, said, “Igor is like Gary. It is Russian name.”

Carter shrugged, unimpressed.

Igor asked Chandler, “Who is this Smokey Bear you speak of?”

“He's a bear who fights forest fires,” she replied happily. “He's on TV.”

Igor nodded in understanding, then lifted a $250 Baccarat brandy snifter filled halfway to the top with 80-proof Stolichnaya vodka and downed it like it was air. Then he put the snifter down with a determined thud. “You must understand!” he declared. “Fire—may—not—exist—without—oxygen. So—he—who—control-oxygen—control—fire.”

After a few moments of silence, Chandler picked up a noise-maker, stuck it in her mouth, stared down Igor, and then blew into it as hard as she could. Igor clenched his jaw and cringed. Then he poured himself another glass of vodka and downed it.

Later that evening, before he left, Igor promised to give me a demonstration of his fire-controlling abilities, but not now. First he needed to know me better; then he would prove his point to me. And with that, New Year's Eve came to a close.

The next morning, the problems started when it was time to say good-bye. In truth, I had planned on having a private talk with each of my kids before they left, but I just couldn't seem to find the words. Carter, I figured, would be easier; his age, his gender, his genetic makeup—for whatever reason, things seemed to slide off his shoulders with no ill effects.

Chandler, of course, was the opposite. She was a complicated young girl, wise beyond her years. I knew that saying good-bye to her would be difficult and that tears would be shed. What I hadn't counted on, though, was how many.

I found her upstairs in her bedroom, alone. She was lying on the bed facedown, her nose pressed deep into the pink comforter. Unlike when she arrived, when she had gotten herself all dressed up for Daddy, she was now dressed more practically, in light-pink sweatpants with a pink hoodie.

With a heavy heart, I sat down on the edge of the bed and reached beneath her sweatshirt and began stroking her back gently. “What's wrong, thumbkin? Gwynnie told me you're not feeling well.”

She nodded without speaking, her face still pressed into the comforter.

I kept rubbing her back. “Are you too sick to fly?”

She nodded the same way, although a bit more forcefully.

“Ahh, I see,” I said seriously. “Do you have a temperature?”

She shrugged.

“Can I feel your head?”

She shrugged again.

I stopped rubbing her back and placed the back of my hand against her forehead. She was cool. “Well, you feel normal, thumb -kin. Does something hurt you?”

“My tummy,” she muttered, in the tone of the infirmed.

I smiled inwardly. “Ohhhh, your tummy. I see. Well, why don't you turn over and let me rub it for you, okay?”

She shook her head no.

I placed my hands on her shoulders, and, with great care, I gently turned her over. “Come here, sweetie; let me take a look at you,” and I brushed back her hair and took a moment to regard her. What I saw I would never forget: the utterly anguished face of my daughter, her eyes red and swollen, her lower lip still quivering. She had been crying into her pillow, because she didn't want me to see.

Fighting back my own tears, I whispered, “Oh, Channy, it's okay. Please don't cry, my love. Daddy loves you; he'll always love you.”

She compressed her lips into a tight line and shook her head quickly, trying to fight back the tears. But it was no use. Little streams began trickling down her cheeks. And that was when I lost it. “Oh, God,” I said softly. “I'm so sorry, Channy.” I grabbed her forcefully and held her close to me. “I'm so, so sorry. You have no idea, sweetie; it's all my fault. Please, don't cry, honey.” I completely broke down, unable to get any more words out.

After a few seconds, I heard her tiny voice:

“Don't cry, Daddy; I still love you. I'm sorry for making you cry,” and then she broke down too, shaking uncontrollably in my arms.

And just like that we collapsed onto the comforter, father and daughter, crying in each other's arms. I felt like the world's greatest failure, the ultimate cautionary tale for a man's life. I was born with all the gifts, all the advantages. I could have had it all, yet I destroyed everything. My own greed and excess had gotten the best of me.

After a few minutes, I was finally able to collect myself. I said, “Listen to me, Chandler. We need to stay strong for each other. We can get through this—we can!One day we'll be together again all the time. I promise you that, Channy. From the bottom of my heart.”

Through tiny snuffles, she said, “Come back to California with me, Daddy; pleasecome back. I'll live with you there.”

I shook my head sadly. “I can't, honey. As much as I'd like to, I can't.”

She started snuffling again. “Why not?I want it the way it used to be.”

I hugged her gently, gritting my teeth and shaking my head in anger. I had to make this right somehow. There was no way I would allow my children to grow up without me. I would figure out a way to move to California. That would be my sole mission in life, nothing else.

I took a deep breath and steeled myself. “Listen to me, Chandler; I want to tell you something.”

She looked up.

I wiped the tears from her cheeks with the back of my hand. “Okay, sweetie; now, a lot of what I'm going to say might not make sense to you right now, but one day it will, when you're much older.” I paused and shook my head, wondering if it would be better if she never realized what a scumbag I'd been. “A long time ago I did some things in my business that were very bad, and people lost money because of it. That's where I was over the last few months: I was busy paying them back. You understand?”

“Yes,” she said softly. “But how come you can't move to California now?”

“Because I'm not done paying them back yet. It's gonna take me some time, honey, because there were a lot of people who lost money.”