True love on my mi . . . ind.

Monday mornin’ good ’n soon,

White man’s got me gwine . . .

Alston smiled. “White man’s got me gwine . . .” he said softly.

Hawkins drank and listened to the song. The woman’s voice was full and sweet and more guests stopped talking to listen.

Blue Jay pulled a four-­horse plow . . .

Sparrow, why can’t you . . .

’Cause my legs is li’l ’n long

’N they might get broke in two . . .

Nonsense, Hawkins thought. Some old, tribal song that no one remembered the real words to. But Alston was enchanted; he closed his eyes and swayed to the music. He was much shorter than Hawkins, and thinner. His shirt was still crisp, his tie sharp, and his jacket hung on him the way it was supposed to. Hawkins envied him for a second. His own shirt was wrinkled and starting to come out of his pants; his jacket felt so tight he thought if he moved his arms forward too far, the fabric would split up the back, exposing the vest ties that didn’t meet in the back.

“White man got you goin’ too, Roger?” Alston asked him.

“Sometimes,” Hawkins said.

“Don’t let ’em. We’ve got power in this town.”

“Blacks, cops, Democrats? Who, Joe?”

Alston laughed. “All of the above,” he said. “A high-­echelon cop like you could do some real good. You look good, you’re reasonably articulate . . . what college did you go to?”

“None,” Hawkins said.

“Really?”

“Well, in some circles that’s a disadvantage,” Alston said. “In others . . .”

They went to the buffet in the palace-­sized dining room. Alston talked while Hawkins made a thick, fold-over sandwich of pâté and French bread.

“College or no college, you’ve got currency. The mayor likes you; the governor asked me who you were last month at the commissioner’s. You could help, I mean you are a Democrat. . . .”

The butler interrupted to tell Hawkins he had a phone call and the caller said it was important. He left Alston, and nodded at Julie Kassin in the hall. She shrugged delicately, as if they had an assignation he was delayed in keeping. The butler led him to an empty room where a Degas pastel hung on a paneled wall. The pastel was of a dancer bending to tie her shoe ribbon, and she looked alive enough to straighten up any second and move out of the picture. He wished Jacob were here to see the pastel. Jacob had probably never been in a house like this. The butler left him alone and he finished his sandwich and picked up the phone.

“Roger . . .” It was Mo Ableson from the precinct in Brooklyn. He sounded terrible. “Roger, it’s Mo. Rog, sit down.”