“And it wasn’t achieved by waiting patiently. It happened because they threw rocks and started fires.”

“The situation has changed.”

“Martin won’t cancel the demonstration.”

“Would he modify it?”

“What do you mean?”

This was George’s Plan B. “Could it become a simple law-abiding march, rather than a sit-in? Congressmen might feel less threatened.”

“I don’t know. Martin might consider that.”

“Hold it on a Wednesday, to discourage people from staying in the city all weekend, and end it early so that the marchers leave well before nightfall.”

“You’re trying to draw the sting.”

“If we must have a demonstration, we should do everything possible to make sure the occasion is nonviolent and makes a good impression, especially on television.”

“In that case, how about stationing portable toilets all along the route? I guess Bobby can get that done, even if he can’t fire Hoover.”

“Great idea.”

“And how about rounding up some white supporters? The whole thing will look better on TV if there are white marchers as well as black.”

George considered. “I bet Bobby could get the unions to send contingents.”

“If you can promise both of those things as sweeteners, I think we have a chance of changing Martin’s mind.”

George saw that Verena had come around to his point of view and was now discussing how to persuade King. That was half a victory. He said: “And if you can persuade Dr. King to change the sit-in to a march, I think we might get the president to endorse it.” He was sticking his neck out, but it was possible.

“I’ll do my best,” she said.

George put his arm around her. “See, we are a good team,” he said. She smiled and said nothing. He persisted. “Don’t you agree?”

She kissed him. It was the same as the last kiss: more than just friendly, less than sexy. She said thoughtfully: “After that bomb smashed the window of my hotel room, you crossed the room barefoot to fetch my shoes.”

“I remember,” he said. “There was broken glass all over the floor.”

“That was it,” she said. “That was your mistake.”

George frowned. “I don’t get it. I thought I was being nice.”

“Exactly. You’re too good for me, George.”

“What? That’s insane!”

She was serious. “I sleep around, George. I get drunk. I’m unfaithful. I had sex with Martin, once.”

George raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

“You deserve better,” Verena went on. “You’re going to have a wonderful career. You might be our first Negro president. You need a wife who will be true to you and work alongside you and support you and be a credit to you. That’s not me.”

George was bemused. “I wasn’t looking that far ahead,” he said. “I was just hoping to kiss you some more.”

She smiled. “That, I can do,” she said.

He kissed her long and slow. After a while he stroked the outside of her thigh, up inside the skirt of her tennis dress. His hand went as far as her hip. He had been right: no underwear.