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New York himself, was standing less than two feet away from us.
    I had to give him credit. He knew we hated him, and he saw the press as well as anyone, but he appeared as though the situation didn't perturb him at all. He took his time going down the steps, chatting with his aides and exchanging a smile and a word with those who came up to speak to him. He didn't ignore us, either. Just looked to both sides and waved, as though we were some welcoming party. As well he might, I supposed. He was a popular mayor. A handsome, clever dilettante in an age where the creative pursuit of leisure seemed to have become the national aesthetic. Never mind that the infant mortality rates in some Lower East Side tenements and Harlem were enough to make God weep, or that Others and Negroes were routinely treated as less than human. Some people had a great deal of money, and the press was happy enough to pretend that the rest of us had some too.
    He had paused near the two of us, and for some reason when he turned to answer his aide's questions, his eyes locked on mine. Almost as if he recognized . . . Before I could really pro cess what he was doing, he walked past his aide and stopped in front of me.
    The gossip press had nicknamed him the Night Mayor due to his penchant for all-night parties, and he had the pallor of a man not much given to daylight. He wore a navy fedora and a cream silk suit, which I was forced to admit combined to a rather devastating effect. His smile was curious and very self-assured.
    "I seem to recall seeing you before."
    "I . . . you do?" It was the best I could manage, as my wits had taken a holiday. I needed some food, very badly.
    "Last week, was it? Some demonstration about infant mortality? You must like coming here."
    He remembered me? Thank God, that woke me up. "Well, you seem to have difficulty separating morality from financial interests. We thought we'd point you in the right direction."
    He laughed, tipped his hat at me, and walked into the cab of his silver-trimmed Duesenberg.
    Iris was positively jumping in excitement, and several protestors crowded around us as soon as he drove off.
    "Ah, that was excellent, Zephyr. Excellent. They'll be sure to print that in the paper tomorrow. How clever! You're like our own Dorothy Parker!"
    I looked at her and laughed. "The Algonquin has better food."
    "So, how often would you say you demonstrate here?" I looked up. A female reporter, surprisingly enough, had managed to squeeze in beside Iris.
    "Oh, maybe twice a month. Well, once a week, lately."
    The reporter--devastatingly beautiful and impeccably attired, with a mauve silk cloche hat over her perfectly bobbed auburn hair and a low-hipped day dress that must have come straight from Chanel--scribbled in her notebook with a small smile.
    "Aren't you busy," she said, looking back up.
    Her lips were glossy and cherry red, her eyebrows plucked to delicate arches. I resisted the sudden urge to smooth out my own. Iris leaned over so she was directly in the reporter's line of sight--as though anyone could have missed her--and declared, "The injustices of our present mayor's administration are so numerous that we could hold a different demonstration each day of the week without exhausting them."
    The reporter turned to Iris and then beamed. "My, Mrs. Tomkins, you're looking well. And as active as ever, I see. My mother always said you'd tire of these social causes someday."
    Iris paused, and then gave the reporter a hard look. "Oh, Lily Harding, is that you? Goodness, how you've changed, I didn't even recognize you! How is that dear mother of yours? Still gardening?"
    Iris gave Lily one of her patented hugs--the kind that would threaten to strangle an African rhinoceros--and they fell to renewing what appeared to be a lifelong acquaintance. Iris was the godmother of Lily's younger sister and she and their mother had attended the same boarding school. Lily was present in an official capacity as the Other beat reporter