His neighbor went on: “I see that the president of the International Olympic Committee has thrown them out of the games. Damn right.”

“The president’s name is Avery Brundage,” Dave said. “It says in my paper that back in 1936, when the games were held in Berlin, he defended the right of the Germans to give the Nazi salute.”

“I don’t agree with that either,” said the businessman. “The games are nonpolitical. Our athletes compete as Americans.”

“They’re Americans when they win races, and when they get conscripted into the army,” Dave said. “But they’re Negroes when they want to buy the house next door to yours.”

“Well, I’m for equality, but slow change is usually better than fast.”

“Maybe we should have an all-white army in Vietnam, just until we’re sure American society is ready for complete equality.”

“I’m against the war, too,” the man said. “If the Vietnamese are dumb enough to want to be Communists, let them. It’s Communists in America we should be worried about.”

He was from a distant planet, Dave felt. “What line of business are you in?”

“I sell advertising for radio stations.” He offered his hand to shake. “Ron Jones.”

“Dave Williams. I’m in the music business. If you don’t mind my asking, who will you vote for in November?”

“Nixon,” said Jones without hesitation.

“But you’re against the war, and you favor civil rights for Negroes, albeit not too soon; so you agree with Humphrey on the issues.”

“To hell with the issues. I have a wife and three kids, a mortgage and a car loan; they’re my issues. I’ve fought my way up to regional sales manager and I have a shot at national sales director in a few years’ time. I’ve worked my socks off for this and no one’s going to take it away from me: not rioting Negroes, not drug-taking hippies, not Communists working for Moscow, and certainly not a softhearted liberal like Hubert Humphrey. I don’t care what you say about Nixon, he stands for people like me.”

At that moment Dave felt, with an overwhelming sense of impending doom, that Nixon was going to win.

• • •

George Jakes put on a suit and a white shirt and a tie, for the first time in months, and went for lunch with Maria Summers at the Jockey Club. It was her invitation.

He could guess what was going to happen. Maria had been talking to his mother. Jacky had told Maria that George spent all day moping in his apartment doing nothing. Maria was going to tell him to pull himself together.

He could not see the point. His life was wrecked. Bobby was dead and the next president would be either Humphrey or Nixon. Nothing could be done, now, to end the war or to bring equality for blacks or even to stop the police beating up anyone they took a dislike to.

All the same he agreed to have lunch with Maria. They went back a long way.