A factory town. Smoke. The smell of the river. Of rust. To a steady pulse, the city dances to music, to drugs, to desire. And to murder. It's the pulse of a hot-jazz race opera played in 5/4 rhythm to the tune of a .45 automatic. If he were just another dead black man, who would care? But he's not. He's Eddie Devine. The sexiest man on God's green earth. He marches for equality. He screws women. He sings. That most of all. He could have been at the top. Instead, a maid finds him on the bottom, on the floor of a hot-sheet motel. A bullet in his heart. It's 1963: a president just had his head blown off, people are taking to the streets to protest. To die. In a city of too many murders, this is one too many. As long as Devine's killer remains on the loose, rumor and suspicion feed a growing fire. The police scramble. The people simmer. Any second now, the entire city will explode. Until then, the city continues its dance to the Downbeat of Death.