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I liked meeting young black Republicans. It meant that some part of the younger generation was thinking. Who cared if they were wrong?

“Mr. Acres, please.”

“The congressman is not in yet.”

The campaign receptionist had a fortieth birthday party a year or two before. Hers was the kind of plain face that promised something deeper than transient beauty. The blue chemise was silk, and from the thread-like gold chain around her neck depended a yellow diamond that was at least two and a half carats.

“I didn’t think Republicans needed to lie,” I said.

“Excuse me?” she said in a tone that could have easily turned to anger.

“I was coming here from down the block when I saw Bobby walking through the front door. That would bring him right here to you. Now, I guess you could have been somewhere else, but I find it hard to believe that the first face you meet at a campaign headquarters doesn’t know when the candidate is in the house.”

“What is your business with the congressman?” she asked coldly.

“Tell him that the man he almost ran into in Jersey the other night would like a few words.”

“I’ll need a name.”

“Believe me when I tell you, sister, that’s the last thing the congressman would want.”

Five minutes later I was walking into the broom-closet-size office that the candidate had commandeered. There were larger offices, but these were for volunteers who had to spread out and work hard. All Acres needed was a chair to sit in and a phone to yak on.

He ushered me in, closing the door on the blue-bloused woman.

I sat in a simple oak chair and he went around to his seat.

“I never expected to see you again,” he said as he sat.

“I’m not here to cause any trouble,” I said.

“Okay. Then what is it?”

“I need you to call an NYPD inspector and ask him to meet me at the English Teacup off Broadway, in the nineties, around, um, let’s say, two forty-five.”

“And why?”

I took a sealed envelope from my pocket and handed it to the candidate.

“Mimi Lord told me that you got in touch.”

“Yes.”

“I want you to tell Inspector Dennis Natches that I gave you a sealed envelope to register with the Library of Congress.”

“Should I read it?”

“I wouldn’t suggest it. In your position, ignorance is better than the apple.”

“And who shall I tell Mr. Natches that he’s meeting?”

“A man named Nigel Beard. You can say that you have no idea what the letter contains but that I said to say it had to do with Detective Second Class Adamo Cortez.”

“And this won’t cause me any trouble?”

“It will not. And you have my e-mail address, Congressman. If you ever need my kind of help, just drop a line and I will be there.”

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