effectively hawking his secret sauce algorithm) and invest up to $5 million with each. (Epstein’s advantage here, over traditional investment firms, is that he was proposing to do this without needing to own the algorithm itself, the manner in which many firms operate to the disadvantage of the quants.) I knew paltry little about this and so rather found myself identifying with the young women to whom Epstein was explaining the basic math and mechanics. (Epstein demands a certain amount of pedagogical attention in return for a wealth of information.) Hefnerian prurience becomes quite businesslike: poised young women in a mansion on the Upper East Side with various office responsibilities— really not that different from any of the art galleries in the surrounding neighborhood. The Epstein house/office is, not unlike many nearby galleries, an ultimate club, a private reserve, a place of shared and valuable information—indeed, the kind of place, that, even for the most ardent conspiracists, might seem a little too movie-like. And while it’s hard to explain why, given the radio-active nature of Epstein’s disgrace, the rich and powerful still beat a path to his door, it’s also notable in the fixed hierarchy of who comes to whose turf, that everybody, when they went to see Epstein, comes to him. A week in late September, U.N. week as it happened, began, on Sunday, at Epstein’s house with a colloquial for billionaires—Gates, TK, TK, TK. Epstein, preternaturally responsive to both the price of oil and to the politics of the middle of East, entertained that evening a delegation from Qatar, including Sheikh Hamad, the foreign minister. Hamad, indeed, lives across the street in a similarly furnished house—he and Epstein have the same decorator. Epstein, in his relaxed and amused demeanor, kept prodding: “Why are you financing the bad guys? What do you get out of that?” The Qatarians, in some mild diplomatic discomfort, seemed most worried that their bid for the World Cup