In O'Lunney's Bar — into which he'd turned, quickly affixing his Roman collar — Rom sat savoring his second excellent martini.  The bartender, a tall, dark-haired young man in a crisp white shirt and narrow black knit tie, had smiled warmly at Rom when he'd walked in, and had gone immediately to the spot halfway down the elegant mahogany bar where the perspiring priest had sat.
     After asking which vodka the Father would like, the bartender had set a perfectly chilled medium-dry Stolichnaya martini with lemon peel in front of him.  "To your health, Father," he'd said in a confident brogue.
     Rom had raised the sweating glass.  What was that Irish toast Father McDermott always made on St. Patrick's Day?  "The health of a salmon to ye!"
     The bartender had chuckled and finished the couplet.  " ‘May your mouth always be moist!'  That's an old one.  Are ye from Ireland, though I doubt it?"
     Rom had finished his first delicious sip, put the glass down and held out his hand. "Rom Soriano, of the Newark Sorianos, and this, my friend, is the best martini in New York."
     "All of New York, Father?"
     "All five boroughs."
     The bartender, while pulling two pints of Guiness, had identified himself as Liam Connor of Macroom, Ireland, on the River Lee, then moved down the crowded bar again to leave the slightly scruffy priest to his thoughts.
     Rom sat and sipped.  He had just about caught his breath.  His head still hurt.  He fingered the lump on his head raised by whatever had hit him.  Must have been a bottle.  He checked the mirror behind the bar and ran a hand through his hair.  He spotted some dirt on his jacket arm and brushed it off.  Not too bad, he thought, considering he just as easily might have been stuck with a knife or shot.
     He took another sip and reconstructed his afternoon.  After leaving Lopez he'd taken the Seventh Avenue subway to Times Square, walked over to Fifth Avenue, then up to St. Patrick's Cathedral.  He'd found it pretty, but rather small compared to Sacred Heart.  He'd wandered up into the park, passing by the pond, and he'd thought back to The Catcher in the Rye, and young Holden Caulfield, who wondered where all the ducks went when the pond froze over in the winter.   He'd still been pondering that as he'd approached Columbus Circle and heard the unmistakable cacophony of a trouble-making crowd.  He'd looked around for Lopy and for Melody, seen the garbage start to fly and almost without thinking removed his collar and opened his shirt a few buttons.
     Approaching the action but still anonymous in the fringes of the gathering, he'd quickly tied the scarf onto his head.  When the crowd had shrunk around a frightened Melody, he'd quickened his pace and whipped on the mask.  He'd had to start elbowing and shoving toward the center and in a moment of nerves and fear had begun to bellow.  How the crowd had parted for him!
     His recollections made him nervous, and he drained his drink. He looked down the bar; Liam was walking toward him with another martini. "Compliments of Mr. O, Father.  The owner."  Rom looked over and saw a nattily dressed, silver-haired man give a quick wave and smile, still talking rapidly into a wall phone at the end of the bar.
     Rom lifted the drink toward him and sipped, then glanced at the big TV over the bar just as the weather guy, a blow-dried, toothy young man, sent it back to the anchor desk.
     It was, as the superimposed graphic said, Chuck Becker, Channel 6 News, who seemed to have even more hair and teeth.  Then Rom started paying attention.  His picture was on the screen.
     It was a videotape frame of the Son of Zorro in Central Park.  Rom's jaw dropped as he studied the full-screen image of the man in black emerging from the pack of demonstrators and troublemakers.  The arms were flung wide, the mouth open in midroar.
     The anchorman, seated before the monstrous image, was speaking.  Through the ringing in his ears Rom strained to hear.  "If you're just joining us, here again is that sensational footage from Melody Marven's Columbus Day report from Central Park just a short time ago.  An ugly crowd turned an interview into a free-for-all during which Melody became the target of bottle throwers.  But before the live feed from Columbus Circle could be cut, the quick-thinking cameraman caught an unusual bit of action."
     Rom cleared his throat and looked around.  There were perhaps 30 patrons spread out among the tables along the other wall and at the bar.  All of them had stopped to watch.  Rom felt his face redden.  He lifted his drink and watched as the tape started and Chuck continued.
     "This is Dr. Seamus Tormey, an author, reacting angrily to being hit on the head with a thrown bottle during Melody's interview.  The occasion was an anti-Columbus rally of people who dispute Columbus' claim of having discovered the New World.  Now you can see the crowd getting out of control.  Several are closing in on Melody, and you can see she looks quite, uh, concerned.  The cameraman, Fitz Lopez, kept the camera going.
     "Now from the right of your screen, there he is, an appearance by the so-called Son of Zorro, apparently, a vigilante who has appeared in Newark twice over the last couple days. He comes to the aid of Melody, as you can see, but is also struck by a bottle and is soon set upon.  The footage ends there because at this point, the cameraman stopped filming and went to Melody's aid, just as police arrived on the scene.  The crowd dispersed and police say there's no sign of the masked man, who ran into the park after the incident, apparently not seriously hurt."
     The big freeze-frame appeared behind Chuck again as he continued.  "Melody's OK, too.  She declined medical attention and will fill us in tonight on the News at Ten."  Chuck turned to his co-anchor, a sleek Asian woman in a red suit with a black velvet collar.  "That was some action over there in Columbus Circle, Mae Lin.  Melody needed a little help from the Son of Zorro."
     She oversmiled.   "Well, she's always complaining it's hard to meet nice guys, Chuck."
     A roar of laughter rose in the bar, and suddenly Rom felt like sinking through the floor. He was a joke, and probably a mental case.  God, had anyone there recognized him yet?  It was just too obvious!  He leaned on the bar and sipped his martini. Now he couldn't taste it.  He must casually pay up and slide out.
     As Rom reached into his pocket he saw in the mirror a man at a table behind him, middle-aged, with a nice suit and tie, get to his feet, glass in hand.  "A toast to Zorro!" he shouted.
     "Son of Zorro," a woman at his table corrected him gleefully.
     Rom turned and looked into the room.  Patrons were raising their glasses, cheering the TV set.  A few people were applauding.  "Good for him!" said someone.  "More power to him!" yelled another.  "He's welcome in Bay Ridge!"  "Should be more like him!"  "God bless him!"
     Rom felt the smile spread across his face.  He turned back to the bar again and sat back in the comfortable stool.  After a moment, Liam materialized.  He nodded toward the TV and grinned.  "What d'ye think of our new boy?"
     "Very impressive.  What do you think?"
     Liam shook his head appreciatively.  "Sure, he must be Irish!"
     While Liam went to mix Rom another martini, the priest looked toward the door.  As he watched the yellow taxis whizzing past down W. 44th Street he quietly began whistling "O Danny Boy."