In the outer room, copies of the Kevin Shea poster vied for wall space with several different color posters of Mohandas in mid-speech, invariably with one fisted hand held in the air – his trademark.

The afternoon sun was beginning to stream through the plate-glass windows. Newspapers littered the floor and the wide windowsills. A long, folding table had been set up along one wall, sagging under the weight of African Nation literature and cases of bottled water. Reporters, the occasional minicam crew, professional activists, and concerned citizens all ebbed and flowed through the outer doors, speaking – mostly – in low tones.

Out in the street, a late-model green Plymouth pulled to the curb and stopped. An attractive, diminutive black woman, from the looks of her maybe forty years old, opened the driver's door, squinted at the bright facade of the storefront, and started to come around her car.

One of the reporters recognized her. 'My God, that's Senator Wager.' In the back, Allicey Tobain knocked once and pushed open the door she'd been guarding.

'What is that woman doing here?' Mohandas swung his feet to the ground, wiped his face quickly with the damp towel, then stood and let Allicey arrange his coat. 'I have got nothing to say to her. She is in the wrong camp.'

His assistant touched his hairline briefly with a comb, correcting it, then without a word handed him two Tic-Tac mouth fresheners.

Mohandas was frowning, apparently trying to find an advantage in this. 'Did she call?'

'No calls.' Allicey pulled an imaginary strand of lint from his coat. 'No word at all. She's making a play.'

'But what for?'

Allicey crossed to the door and flipped the light switch. A tall, big-boned, ebony-skinned woman with an enormous bust, her hair done in corn rows, she was wearing black pants, sandals, and a black, red and yellow dashiki cinched at the waist by a gold thong.

She straightened his coat again and ran a finger over the side of his face. 'Votes,' she said. 'Don't forget that, Philip. Votes.'

'Senator, how are you? What a wonderful surprise! Welcome.'

Mohandas wasn't big but his voice boomed, cutting through all the chatter. Flanked by Allicey and Jonas, he came forward, his arms outstretched. The front-office crowd parted, television cameras rolled, and the two leaders embraced, only to be interrupted by a reporter.

'Senator, what brings you down here? Isn't this an unexpected call?'

'An unexpected pleasure.' Mohandas held onto Loretta's hand, both of them now turned to face the camera.

'I'm here to help,' Loretta said. 'If I can. Any way that I can.'

Mohandas intoned a deep amen.

'This community has suffered not only the tragic loss of one of our brightest stars, not only the insult of the horrible crime itself, but the far deeper and meaningful loss of abandonment by the very power structure that we are struggling, against great odds, to work within.'

Loretta took a moment to include the crowd in her vision, then raised Mohandas's hand halfway in a conscious imitation of his own trademark gesture.

"This is a time, and I think Philip would agree, that we African-Americans, as well as all people of color, must unite – not only in justifiable anger but to create out of this chaos some spirit of hope and renewal, some sense that now, finally, we are going to make changes that will make a difference in the way we live, how we're treated, the voice we have in how things are done!'

A chorus of 'amen' and 'right on,' through which the senator picked her way, with Mohandas, to the back door, flanked again as though by magic by Allicey and Jonas.

Which closed on their passage inside.

'You want to just make noise, Philip, or you want to get somethin' done here?'

All alone with her in the tiny, hot room, Mohandas didn't feel like he needed to listen to a lecture from an Oreo. 'I get things done, Senator. I haven't sold anyone out.' He jerked his head sideways. 'Those are my people out there. They have heard enough lies, they know who is not lying to them, and that's me, Senator, that's me.'

'I'm not lying to anybody, Philip. I haven't sold anybody out.'

Mohandas showed his teeth briefly, then pulled at his collar. His stock in trade was certainty. He was right and that was the way it was. 'That doesn't seem to be how many of us are reading it.'

'Then you're reading it wrong.' This was the problem she had flown out here to solve. And she wasn't going to succeed facing off against Mohandas, getting into a shouting match. He didn't play on her field, so he couldn't understand. She had more knowledge, and she had to use it. 'Wait. Let's stop.' She stepped closer to him. 'Out there, just now, that was no lie. I came down here to help if I can. And I think I can, Philip. I can help you.'

'I'm listening.'

'Why don't you talk instead. Tell me what you want.'

This, she knew, was the crux. If she could get him away from the generalities that marked his agenda. From the rhetoric. 'You know what we want, Senator…'

She smiled at him. 'How about Loretta, Philip? Loretta, not Senator. And I don't know what you want. I don't know the specifics. If you could have anything you want, what would it be? Because listen to me – now's the time you can get it.'

Mohandas stopped pacing the small room, pulled at his collar again, then sat in the folding chair, motioning Loretta to the couch he'd napped on. 'The African Nation platform is clear.'

'Philip, when you say you want a voice, you want representation, the end of oppression, you want the laws applied fairly – who doesn't? But then you go on to say you want your own separate system, and that just don't fly. Can't you see that? The numbers aren't there, and the numbers drive the dollars. You want to take over a state? Move the people back to Africa? You want a black Israel on some sand in Africa? That what you want?'

Mohandas was sweating as the heat built in the room, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. 'We want it here. We can get it here.'

'You tell me how, Philip.'

'I'm talking about equality under the law, I'm talking about our entitlements, our rights.'

Loretta shook her head in frustration, found herself raising her voice. 'I'm talking money, Philip. I'm talking federal funds. Today, here and now. For this good cause. This situation can get it for us, for you…'

Mohandas walked to the closet door, listened through it, then came back in front of where Loretta sat. 'All right, Senator,' he said, 'talk to me about money.'

Kevin knew he wasn't going to make his meeting with Wes Farrell at USF.

The realization came to him after he had crossed California Street and came out of the trees. Now there was no cover at all, just apartment houses on both sides of the one street in the Addition that didn't appear to have community problems just at this minute. He was halfway down the block when a police car turned the corner up ahead, coming toward him.

Ducking into another apartment building's paper-strewn entry-way, he looked back where he'd come from. Another police car. Two on the one street, closing in.

The door was locked but there were six mailboxes and he pushed all the buttons beneath them. The front door buzzed and he pushed it open as the cars passed behind him.

'Yes? Who's there?'A raspy male voice from up the stairs.

'Sorry. Wrong place.'

Kevin opened the door again, closed it loudly for effect. But he stayed inside the building in the hallway, thinking now what?

Apartment 3, on the ground floor in the back, had its mailbox stuffed with envelopes. The residents were either very popular or on vacation. Kevin had to hope it was the latter. He tried the old credit-card-in-the-doorjamb and, to his amazement, it worked. For the first time that day, he almost laughed. Maybe his luck was turning, but he thought it still had a hell of a long way to go before it got to good.