People came up to him, said a few words, smiled harder at him than he did at them, and were gently pressed away by others. The man's name was Roger Karp, called Butch by everyone, and he was the chief assistant district attorney, the operational leader of the six hundred or so lawyers who prosecuted criminal cases in the County of New York.

Taking advantage of an interval in which no one was in his face, Karp walked over to a window and peered out into the gathering gloom. It was snowing harder. Fat white flakes descended from the dust bunny-colored sky, obscuring the dun buildings across the street. This was why the governor was late.

Karp checked his watch. Clearly the goddamn thing would not begin at two, as scheduled. As if answering his unspoken desire to know when it would start, someone dinged on a glass. The governor's advance person, a thin redhead in a bright red suit, announced that both Teterboro and La Guardia Airports were socked, JFK was iffy, and so the governor's plane had been cleared for MacArthur Field, farther out on the island. He'd be landing shortly and would then come into the city by car. Regrets. The weather. If you'd all reassemble at four…

Murmurs and sighs from the crowd, which began to move toward the door, the juniors swiftly, the elders with more stately pace.

"He'd better use the Batmobile," said a voice at Karp's elbow: Murrow, his special assistant. "Can you imagine what the express-way's going to be like in this weather?"

"He's the governor, he'll find a way," said Karp, casting an eye over the man's outfit and frowning. "What is that you're wearing, Murrow?"

"This? A Harris tweed jacket, whipcord slacks, a Brooks shirt and tie. Why?"

"I mean that," said Karp, pointing.

"Oh, you mean this plum-colored velvet waistcoat, with gilt buttons. It's seasonal."