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the Vice President to depart. Shaking their hands, he reminded Kevin to call him any time he needed a favor.
    Kevin glanced at his beloved, then dropped his voice. But Aurelia’s ears were exceptional. “There’s only one favor we need,” he said—later, Aurelia was adamant that Kevin had said “we.”
    Nixon’s smile faded. “None of my people have turned up a clue.”
    â€œWe would be grateful if you would keep looking, sir.”
    â€œI’ll do what I can.”
    Out on the street afterward, Kevin raised a hand. A blocky yellow cab stopped at once. No Negro could get a taxi in midtown Manhattan, especially at night, everybody knew that, but for elegant Kevin Garland the rules were different. Aurie shivered, though not with cold. Kevin did not ask where she wanted to go. He told the driver they were heading for Brooklyn Heights, where he kept what he called his bachelor pad, but the cabbie had somehow guessed: although a stalwart of the salons, Kevin just didn’t look like Harlem.
    Heading downtown, Aurelia asked how he knew Nixon.
    â€œThrough my father.”
    â€œWhat did he mean about me having fans everywhere? I write gossip in a tiny little colored newspaper.”
    Kevin grinned. “Dick’s a politician. It’s his job to flatter you.”
    â€œI couldn’t do a job like that.”
    â€œDon’t I know it.”
    â€œMeaning what?” she asked, ready to get hot.
    â€œMeaning, you’re not much of a flatterer.” His grin widened. “But I guess I don’t need much flattery. I do my own.”
    Aurelia let this pass. “I heard what you and Nixon were talking about.”
    â€œMmmm.”
    â€œWhat’s he looking for? What’s the big secret?”
    â€œHe used to do business with my father.”
    Her eyes sparkled at this intelligence. “And how does your father know him? Nixon?”
    Kevin was a long time answering. “Remember the big scandal back in ’52? When Nixon was accused of having this secret fund to smear his opponents? Paid for by a bunch of his millionaire friends from California?”
    â€œNo,” said Aurelia, truthfully.
    He patted her hand. “Well, not all the millionaires were white.”
    (II)
    O VER A LATE DINNER, Kevin regaled her with stories of his father’s years in California right after the war, one crazy moneymaking scheme after another.
    â€œSome of them obviously worked,” said Aurelia.
    â€œAnd some of them should have landed him in jail.”
    She spent the night with Kevin—the first time—but was up for hours afterward, weeping. He was too much of a gentleman to ask why. He rubbed her back instead. When he asked her a few days later to marry him, Aurelia replied that she would need time. Kevin hid his disappointment and offered, gallantly, to let her have as much as she needed.
    She returned to Harlem. Eddie took her to dinner. She let him kiss her good night but no more. She compared the two men. Kevin thrilled and pampered her, but Eddie touched a softness that Aurelia had never suspected was there. She sat in the apartment she shared with two other women and looked at the array of gifts Kevin had given her over the past year. The following night, she shooed her roommates away and cooked dinner for Eddie. She dropped every hint she knew how to drop, but all Eddie wanted to talk about was his writing. That was perhaps the largest difference between the two men. Both loved her, but Eddie loved something else just as much: their life together would be a ménage à trois.
    The next afternoon, she surprised Kevin at his office. He left a meeting to welcome her. She could not help wondering whether Eddie would have done that. “Why do you want to marry me?” she asked.
    At first he seemed not to understand. They were in the bullpen, the clerks all watching. “I love you,” Kevin said, hand over his heart, playing to the