And she was too much in love to care.

• • •

George understood why Bobby was so pleased to be able to send him to talk to King. When Bobby needed to put pressure on the civil rights movement, he had more chance of success using a black messenger. George thought Bobby was right about Levison but, nevertheless, he was not entirely comfortable with his role—a feeling that was beginning to be familiar.

Atlanta was cold and rainy. Verena met George at the airport, wearing a tan coat with a black fur collar. She looked beautiful, but George was still hurting too much from Maria’s rejection to be attracted. “I know Stanley Levison,” Verena said, driving George through the urban sprawl of the city. “A very sincere guy.”

“He’s a lawyer, right?”

“More than that. He helped Martin with the writing of Stride Toward Freedom. They’re close.”

“The FBI says Levison is a Communist.”

“Anyone who disagrees with J. Edgar Hoover is a Communist, according to the FBI.”

“Bobby referred to Hoover as a cocksucker.”

Verena laughed. “Do you think he meant it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Hoover, a powder puff?” She shook her head in disbelief. “It’s too good to be true. Real life is never that funny.”

She drove through the rain to the Old Fourth Ward neighborhood, where there were hundreds of black-owned businesses. There seemed to be a church on every block. Auburn Avenue had once been called the most prosperous Negro street in America. The Southern Christian Leadership Conference had its headquarters at number 320. Verena pulled up at a long two-story building of red brick.

George said: “Bobby thinks Dr. King is arrogant.”

Verena shrugged. “Martin thinks Bobby is arrogant.”

“What do you think?”

“They’re both right.”

George laughed. He liked Verena’s sharp wit.

They hurried across the wet sidewalk and went inside. They waited outside King’s office for fifteen minutes, then they were called.

Martin Luther King was a handsome man of thirty-three, with a mustache and prematurely receding black hair. He was short, George guessed about five foot six, and a little plump. He wore a well-pressed dark-gray suit with a white shirt and a narrow black satin tie. There was a white silk handkerchief in his breast pocket, and he had large cuff links. George caught a whiff of cologne. He got the impression of a man whose dignity was important to him. George sympathized: he felt the same.

King shook George’s hand and said: “Last time we met, you were on the Freedom Ride, heading for Anniston. How’s the arm?”

“It’s completely healed, thank you,” George said. “I’ve given up competitive wrestling, but I was ready to do that anyway. Now I coach a high school team in Ivy City.” Ivy City was a black neighborhood in Washington.

“That’s a good thing,” King said. “To teach Negro boys to use their strength in a disciplined sport, with rules. Please have a seat.” He waved at a chair and retreated behind his desk. “Tell me why the attorney general has sent you to speak to me.” There was a hint of injured pride in his voice. Perhaps King thought Bobby should have come himself. George recalled that King’s nickname within the civil rights movement was De Lawd.