Sunny slipped into the big burgundy chair on the rostrum shortly after six-thirty Aldermen began to drift back, mopping their mouths with the backs of their hands and resettling their belts, from pools of gossip. Sgt. McNulty came up behind Sunny and placed a hand gently on his shoulder.

“Second shift, sir,” said the sergeant. “We didn't plan for quite so many curtain calls.”

“Neither did I. Sgt. Gallaher is off duty?” he asked, perhaps a little too anxiously.

“Yes, but,” said the sergeant, and when Sunny looked up he thought McNulty looked a little too blank-faced to be sincere.

“Sgt. Butler cadged a seat for her with your daughters,” he explained. “She said the show was so good, she wanted to come back on her own time.”

Sunny looked out into the gallery and picked out Rula and Rita among the bright-colored drooping snow parkas and sagging mufflers. He feigned surprise at the sight of Sgt. Gallaher, smiling alongside Rula.

“Sgt. Mo said that she went over the drill, sir.”

“Yes. We pick a new mayor, and you drop me like an empty candy wrapper.”

Sgt. McNulty rocked back on his size twelve brogues and stuck out his hand.

“If I don't get a proper chance to say goodbye. You ever need a parking ticket fixed, sir, I'm at the First District.”

Sunny took McNulty's hand warmly and rose from his seat to the height of the sergeant's shoulders.

“And if you ever want the biryani of your life.…”

Lewis Karp tugged noisily on the coiled serpentine neck of his microphone. All but a few aldermen seemed to be in their chairs. Sunny nodded, pulled his own chair into the rostrum, and began in a soft voice, holding the scuba diver's gavel in his hands.

“The council will come to order,” he began. “Again,” he added, and soft chuckles wound around the chamber.

“I understand several aldermen have received complaints from citizens who do not appreciate having their favorite shows preempted by this prolonged session. And I am also told that television stations have received even more calls saying, ‘These are the best afterschool cartoons we've ever seen.’” Sunny said in the rising clamor of handclaps and laughter.

“So we will endeavor to continue this important session with spirit, but also with a seriousness to reassure the city.”

From a corner of his eye, Sunny saw Eldad approach and put a small, ivory scrap pad on the corner of the rostrum. Sunny rolled back slightly from the desk on his gilt wheels.

“Mr. Clerk, please resume the roll call,” he said, and Lew Karp looked down into the center of the chamber.

“Kowalski, Twenty-three!”

“Artemus Agras,” Felix called from his seat.

“Booker, Twenty-four!”

Sanford decided to stand, in his light gray suit with a blue stripe, and turn back to the gallery as he revved up an arm.

“Vera Barrow!”

The cheers rose and fell before Sunny could try to quiet them.

“Goo-tee-airrrez, Twenty-five!” trilled Lew Karp, and Alonzo shot up angrily from his seat, flailing his arms so fiercely that his red tie jumped.

“Question! Question Mr. President!” he cried.

“Questions are not usually entertained during a vote unless they are procedural,” Sunny explained in an amiable tone. “But I don't want to stand on procedure.”

“My question is germane, your honor,” said the alderman. Alderman Guttierez had absorbed the phraseology of courtroom procedure from appearing as a witness in robbery cases of his own currency exchanges. “Why does the clerk announce every Spanish name like he's shouting ‘Goooaallll’ at the World Cup?”

Hoots flew up from the aldermen's seats as Alonzo tried to shout above the laughter.

“I don't hear him go, ‘Ko-valll-ski!’ I don't hear him go, ‘Kat-sooo-lis!’”

“He sure has fun with my name,” shouted Janet Watanabe, and Lew Karp steamed and burned above his tight white collar.

“Mr. President. Mr. President,” he stammered, but Sunny was not about to let Lewie return fire. He held him back with a flat, friendly hand.

“I know the clerk. I think we all know that he enjoys every syllable of the immense variety of this city. I am glad to say that a roll call here is as diverse as the United Nations. I enjoy when Mr. Karp calls out, ‘Rrrr-ooo-peee-knee!’ It makes me feel like I'm onstage at La Scala. But I will ask the clerk to tone down some of his artistic impulses.”

Lew Karp began to clear his throat, but Sunny leaned forward into the microphone, and looked directly at Alonzo Guttierrez.

“And I will ask aldermen to keep a sense of humor and an open heart. Mr. Clerk,” he said, gliding his chair back smoothly.

“You say my name just fine, Lewie!” John Wu barked from the second row, and Lew Karp let roars of “Wu ! Wu!” subside before he went on.

“Guttierez, Twenty-five,” he said softly, and Alonzo, who now simmered and slumped in his seat, called out even more softly, “Sandoval.”

“Abboud, Twenty-six!”

Rod polished a gold pencil against his gray vest and called out, “Agras,” as blandly as if he had been asked to choose between mundane condiments.

“Stubbs, Twenty-seven!”

Donald's smooth copper head gleamed above everyone else's.

“Barrow!”

“Llll-ind-strom,” trilled Lewie, and caught himself just as quickly and so articulated “Twen-tee-ayt,” as if an electronic chip had uttered it.

Astrid hunched forward on her elbows and drew a deep breath. “Sandoval,” she said quietly.

“White, Twenty-nine!”

“Barrow.”

“Rodriguez, Thirty,” said Lew Karp in a studious, unaccented monotone.

“San-do-vahl,” Wandy called back, then smiled and shrugged when Linas Slavinskas and Brock Lucchesi turned around from their desks in the front row.

“Zamora, Thirty-one!”

“Agras,” said Luis, and there was a small stirring in the seats around him at the end of the row.

“I love you, Fred,” he called down to the front row. “But Arty's got the corazón today.” Sunny surmised that Luis had also calculated that Arty, even unelected, would be more likely to deliver the appointments Luis desired in the Department of Constructions and Permits than Alfredo Sandoval could in defeat. The roll call moved into the third row.

“Wagner, Thirty-two!”

“Excuse me, Mr. President. Mr. Clerk,” said Emil. His doughboy cheeks burst cherry red with something he couldn't contain. “That's Vahg-ner.”

Sunny let the laughter roll over the chamber. Linas Slavinskas chortled so hard that Brock Lucchesi had to pat his back, as if to bring up an egg roll. Eldad discreetly slid another message pad over to Sunny, who pointedly stayed with his smile even as his eyes played over the few words that Eldad had sketched on the pad. Alonzo Gutierrez looked up from the seat between Sandy Booker and Rod Abboud and announced, “All right, I'm an asshole.” When this set off new whorls of reaction, Sunny leaned forward and began to rap the gavel gently.

“I'm sure the clerk will so note. Does the alderman of the Thirty-second Ward wish to give us his vote?”

“Sandoval,” said Emil.

“Tierney Thirty-three!” said Lew.

“Sandoval.”

“Gregory, Thirty-four!”

Regina removed her black reading glasses and raised them over a shoulder.

“Barrow!”

“Viola, Thirty-five!”

Carlo, wearing one of his signature slouching black sweaters, rolled his thumbs over the Sanskrit green granite mandala around his neck.

“Eternity, unity, and Sandoval,” announced Carlo.

After Keith Horn of the 36th and Vernetta Hyne Griffin of the 37th cast votes for Vera, Sunny caught Wandy's eye in the second row and beckoned him to preside. Sunny slipped back into a conference room. Aidan Ruffino of the 38th voted for Fred Sandoval. Torey del Raso stood when Lew Karp called out his name and hailed back, “Arr-tee! Arr-tee!” Cyril Murphy of the 40th voted for Fred. Ivan Becker of the 41st pretended to nap, jolted awake, rang his head from side to side like a cowbell, and said, “Barrow! Uh, Barrow!” Sidney Wineman was resting his head between his thumb and forefinger when he heard his name, then pulled on his wire-rim glasses to answer, “Barrow, absolutely,” as if making a diagnoses. Kiera Malek said, “Me, too,” which Lewie Karp did not stop to make her clarify. Sunny had returned to the rostrum to hear Lew ring out, “Walker, Forty-four!” when Wandy crept back and whispered to Sunny, “Keith needs a few minutes to recharge.”

“So do we all,” said Sunny, then pulled back to the desk.

“I think all aldermen could use a recess to refresh and restore before we complete this roll call,” he announced. “Our labors may stretch on.” He brought down the gavel hard to say, “Without objection, the council will return at seven p.m.,” he added and set off scattered laughter.

Sunny motioned for the uniforms to hold back so that he could step down and walk to the last row, where Keith Horn had piloted his chair into an aisle.

Keith had a law office on west Belmont. He specialized in settling estates and handling drunk driving pleas. He called his chair, powered by a four-ampere charger, “my Learjet.” When he was sixteen, Keith had fallen during the first steps of a hundred-yard dash at a high school track meet at Winnemac Park; other runners cursed and kicked gravel into his eyes as they stepped over him. He was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. Keith's muscles were now as lean under his slacks as the legs of a nine-year-old. He wore the same black shoes each day—and why not?—that dangled, unscuffed, just above two flat footrests. For the past few years, Keith's optic nerves had been popping and going dark, like old lightbulbs in a dimming hallway.

“Keith, can we make you more comfortable somewhere?”

“I'm fine, Sunny,” he said. “Sarge lets me lie down on a cot. You know what you can do? Send down a couple of hot chicks.”

“Sorry, Keith, the building's locked down. We can't even get hot soup.”

Keith pulled back slightly on the stick that steered his chair until it locked with an electric belch.

“How's she doing?” he asked more softly. Sunny leaned down to answer (which he usually refrained from doing with Keith—it made it seem as if he was stooping to speak to a child).

“You know Vera,” he told him. “Class. Pluck. Stiff upper lip.”

“She'll get a better go at it next year.”

Sunny kept his same, still expression, and answered only, “We can hope.”

Keith's red-rimmed eyes sizzled in his dark brown face.

“You got another plan?”

“Just to think of something else.”

“Too late to think, Sunny,” Keith told him, and began to push his chair forward over the sloping carpet. “You know politics. You have to do all your thinking before the votes are counted. Afterward, all you can do is live with your mistakes. Thanks for our annual conversation, Sunny,” Keith called back sharply over the whizz of his small motor. “You don't have to worry about me again until next year.”