In spite of the windows open to the river, the guests at the mayor’s birthday party sweated in the tuxes and long gowns. Roger Hawkins’s stiff shirtfront had gone limp; his collar was damp and he longed to unhook it. But he kept smiling and circulating. He stopped at group after group, listening, talking, laughing at the other men’s jokes. He had a fine deep laugh, husky and rich. He was well liked and hadn’t stood alone yet that evening.

He was black, medium dark, and he had high, wide cheekbones and a long Masai nose with flaring nostrils. He was tall like the Masai, but heavier-­boned, massive. Between his size and the aristocratic cut of his features, people would turn to look at him.

Julie Kassin, who owned this house on Beekman Place, was watching him now. He had a glass of champagne with the mayor, another with the commissioner, keeping as far away from her as possible. But she went on staring as she talked to her guests. She stared at his mouth, then into his eyes. She was over forty, but still handsome; her dress was cut deeply at the neckline and he looked at her smooth pale crease of cleavage before he could stop himself. She saw where his eyes went and smiled at him, and without wanting to he saw himself making love to her in front of the mirrored mantel under the elegant Renoir after the guests were gone. But she was white, and rich, and if anyone found out, he’d be done for. He watched her for a second, wondering if she’d talk about it, then knew she would. Maybe to Sally Barnard or even to the mayor’s fat little wife. He could almost hear her: Darling, it was almost rape. And he’s enormous . . . but gentle, terribly gentle. There’s something about black men, don’t you think? The chief would hear about it, they’d find some way to break him, and in a few months he’d be back in Brooklyn where he’d started. He smiled back at her, and almost imperceptibly he shook his head, then looked around for someone else to talk to.

Joe Alston was standing under a Matisse on the far side of the room, and when Hawkins saw Julie Kassin heading for him, he crossed the room and started talking to Alston. Alston was black too. He was the Democratic party chairman, and he seemed to like Hawkins.

Alston got two more glasses of champagne from the circulating waiter and gave one to Hawkins. “We need to talk,” he said, sounding significant.

At the end of the long room, in front of big windows that looked out over the East River, a black woman was singing on a small platform. She was at the piano, without a mike, and her voice came through the room softly, blending with the talk.

Saturday night ’n Sunday too . . .