The ceremony took four minutes. In front of a bank of TV cameras in the Blue Room, a large, cheerful room in the southwest corner of City Hall used for press conferences, the Son of Zorro was first deputized as an honorary N.Y.P.D. inspector, then retired from the force.
     Under a huge oil painting of Martin Van Buren, Mayor Fazio praised the vigilante's bravery as she pinned the ceremonial badge onto his black shirt, then thanked the police commissioner for declining to press charges.  The commissioner sat off to one side, looking like he was having a bad day.  Then the mayor urged "our masked friend" to go back to his neighborhood and "join your neighbors in supporting our fine police forces that work so hard to keep our cities safe."  She closed with a short proclamation naming it "Son of Zorro Day" in the five boroughs of New York City.  Reporters began to shout questions, but Fazio smiled and thanked them, then nodded to Sgt. Ruiz, who took Rom by the arm and led him into the adjoining press secretary's office, with the mayor, Melody, Lopez, and Peng following.
     "I don't know how I get talked into these things," the mayor muttered.  "Good thing for you the Mexican trade ambassador was delayed."
     "It was a nice ceremony, your honor," said Rom, who was dying to remove the bothersome mask.      "And I do appreciate the trouble you've gone through.  I really do."
     "Don't mention it.  Send me a postcard when you get to Jersey.  But do me a favor."
     "Name it."
     "Get a life, Zorro," she said.
     A busy-looking black woman in an olive wool suit, wide black belt and pearls came up to the small group and handed Fazio a sheaf of papers.   "This," said the mayor, "is Ruby Riley, our assistant press secretary.  She'll help you get out of here in one piece, so be nice to her."  Rom looked at Ruby.  She looked at him with a mixture of contempt and amusement and handed him a Macy's shopping bag.   Inside were a Mets windbreaker, an "I Love N.Y." baseball cap and a large pair of sunglasses, women's style, with bright red frames.
     "Thought you might want to change out of your work clothes before you left," said Ruby, deadpan.  "You can do it in here," she said, opening a door behind her.  "And don't take all day.  We got work to do."
     Rom entered the room, a large closet stacked with document boxes.  He'd just started taking off the mask when someone entered the room.  He quickly put the mask back on and spun around.  It was Melody.
     "Sorry about this, but I just wanted to get a word with you before you slipped away again," she said.  Rom smiled and looked at her, waiting.  She looked carefully at him.
     "Hey," Rom said, "sorry about the sword.  One of the other guys grabbed it in the elevator."
     "Oh, forget it."
     "Forget it?  But your grandfather— "
     "Oh, my grandfather was a drunk.  I got that sword in a junk shop."
     "A junk shop?"
     "Sorry.  I thought it would make a good bit."
     "Well," Rom said, "I guess it did at that."
     "Say, the mayor likes you, I think."
     "Yeah. I hope so.  She's a very impressive woman."
     "I like you, too."
     "Thanks.  I like you, too."
     "No," said.  "I mean, I really like you."  She smiled an unmistakable smile.  Before Rom could answer, she pressed a business card into his hand.  "My address is on the back. I should be back from Staten Island tonight by about ten."
     "Uh, look, I'm very flattered, but, uh— "
     "But what?  Don't tell me socializing is against your religion."  She winked.
     Rom cleared his throat.  "I, uh, can't just keep wearing my party clothes around town," he said.  "I mean, the mask is killing me as it is."
     "Oh, that's all right.  Just come in your civvies."
     "Nice try.  But then you'd know who I am."
     Melody leaned closer and whispered in his ear.  "I've got a confession to make."  She stood back and checked his reaction to her choice of words; outwardly, there was none.  She leaned back toward him.  "Father."
     Rom held his breath.
      "Didn't mean to shock you, but I think I know who you are."
     Rom's chuckle took effort.  "Look, you may think you know, but I've never seen you before Saturday."
     "Oh yes, you have.  At the fire station in Newark.  You were there with Fitz.  I can't remember your name.  Dariano or something. You have a funny first name.  I'll remember it."
     "You're making— "
     "No, I'm not.  I remember thinking what a sexy mouth you had for a priest.  Then at the radio station I remembered that funny shirt you were wearing in Columbus Circle, not like the one you have on now.  It looked strange because the white collar was missing from it.  Ingenious, really, the way you could quick-change like that."
     "Really,  you're mixing me up with someone else."  Rom felt like screaming.
     "Nice try, padre.  Assuming, that is, that you're really a priest.  I'll have to ask Fitz about that.  Is he in on this?"
     Rom just looked at Melody.  She wore the classic shit-eating grin.  "No comment, Father?"
     She moved close to him, stood on tiptoe and kissed him at first playfully, then passionately.  Rom began to put his arms around her but she slipped out of them, then took a compact from her bag and began adjusting her makeup.
     "Meet me at ten, and you can try to convince me some more," she said.
     "Melody, I don't think I should go to your apartment, and I'm not— "
     Her eyes became hard.  "Look, Zorro, I saved your ass today, and you owe me.  And I'm gonna collect."
     "What do you want?  My story?"
     "That'll do for a start."  She turned and headed toward the door.  "Gotta go.  The mayor's waiting.  See you at ten.  She stopped at the door and looked back.  "And bring the mask."

     Wearing the blue windbreaker, baseball cap and ridiculous sunglasses, Rom stepped out of the storage room.  Sgt. Ruiz took him by the arm and rushed him out of the office, past a few TV cameras, down the hall, back through the metal- detector portal and down the broad stone steps of City Hall. To his left Rom caught a glimpse of the Brooklyn Bridge.
     Ruiz ushered Rom past more TV crews and deposited him in a yellow cab that wheeled quickly out of Steve Flanders Square, heading west across Broadway onto Murray Street, then north on Church Street.  The driver, a nervous-looking Arab, drove his cab like a pinball, and in a few minutes Rom was climbing out gratefully into Washington Square Park.  He made sure he hadn't been followed, then mingled with joggers, street people, nannies with carriages and students shuttling among the N.Y.U. buildings that lined the square.
     It was just after 11, and the cleanup crews were still sweeping and rinsing away the debris of the previous night's good time.  A few shabby figures lay inert on the grass here and there.  In the center of the park, inside the immense fountain basin, now dry, a street magician worked a small crowd.  Two acoustic guitarists had attracted another audience not far away.
     Rom looked around.  A patrol car slowly worked its way around the fountain.  He noticed how certain Jamaican-looking men, their dreadlocks corralled into huge wool hats, shifted away from the fountain as the car approached.  Dealers, he thought.  Probably just smoke.
     Rom kept walking through the Monday-morning sunshine.  He attracted no attention, even with the goofy sunglasses. He passed a hot dog cart and remembered how hungry he was.  He'd only eaten a corn muffin so far that day, and had thrown that up.
     He continued northwestward through the park, up MacDougal Street to Waverly Place, where he stopped into a small deli-cafe named LaFong's.  He joined a line at the counter and ordered a hot pastrami on rye with mustard and a cream soda.  When he sat down at a small table against the paneled wall, he removed the sunglasses and gingerly felt his eye.  It still hurt a bit. God, it had felt good to get that mask off!  Another five minutes and he would have gone crazy.
     The pastrami sandwich measured up in every way to the high standard New Yorkers have for such a staple, and after devouring it he sat back and allowed himself to feel good for a moment.  He'd emerged from the interview — just as he had from his adventures — bloodied but not beaten, and he considered the show a triumph.  Howard had landed a few shots, but Rom saw that, as pure entertainment, the interview had worked.  Perhaps he would call Howard and apologize for his quick exit.  He wondered what Howard had said when he'd discovered his guest gone.
     But what of Melody Marven?  She had saved him, then nailed him.  There seemed no doubt that she knew who he was.  He had admitted nothing, but what had his eyes said?  His body language?  Clearly, she was a problem.  Had she interrogated Lopez already?  How would he handle it? Perhaps his escape hadn't been so clean, after all.
     Then there was Cassandra. Where had she gone?  Lopy's apartment?  Home?
     He spotted a pay phone on the far wall and made his way there.  At Lopy's number he reached an answering machine but left no message.  He dialed Cassandra's number, but when the phone computer asked for $3.10 he hung up and called again, collect.  When Cassandra answered, Rom apologized for reversing the charges, but she cut him off.
      "I'm just glad you're OK," she said.
     "And why wouldn't I be?  I live a charmed life."
     "I just got home 10 minutes ago.  What happened to you?  Howard said you just took off."
     "Yeah, well, I figured I was pushing my luck, and I got cold feet."
     "I understand luck is still with you."
     "Have you heard?"
     "Hector left a message on my machine and told me what happened.  I was in the coffee shop when you bailed out."
     "Ah, the coffee shop.  I couldn't see you anywhere."
     "I was drinking my fourth cup when I heard the commotion down the block, but by the time I got out there, the party was over.  Hector says the mayor stopped for you!"
     "I would've taken a ride with the devil himself at that point.  Did he tell you how they came after me?"
     "How did you even get out of the lobby?  I hear it was surrounded by cops."
     "Remember that Zorro who was slouching?"
     "Ugh!  He gave me the creeps.  I don't know why."
     Rom laughed.  "That's the one.  We came down in the same elevator, and he grabbed the sword from my hand, yelling that he's the real Zorro.  So the cops grabbed him.  I just walked to the street."
     "You got some luck.  And you looked smashing on the news a few minutes ago. BLT just ran a teaser for the noon news.  They showed a clip of you at City Hall."
     "I'll show you my tin badge when I see you."
     "You coming back, or do you have a date with the mayor tonight?"
     "No, I've about had it with the beautiful people.  I'm catching a train."
     "Oh, before you go, there were some messages for you.  Wait a minute.  Some clinic."  Rom froze.   "Yeah, here it is.  The Savarin Clinic.  Nurse Rosano wants you to call her.  Want the number?"
     "Uh, no, I've got it, thanks."
     "What's that for, your shots and stuff?"
     Rom fought to sound normal.  "Yeah, usual stuff."
     Cassandra chortled.  "Jeez, what could you catch in Rome that you can't get in New York?"
     Rom felt the blood drain from his head.  Cassandra's voice sounded faraway.
     "And some reverend somebody left a message, something about missing an appointment Saturday?  I wrote his name down.  He sounded pissed.  Here it is, Rev. Parisi."
     "Yeah, that was — um, yeah, thanks.  Listen, I'll make that call and I'll see you later."
     "Great.  Will you be back by suppertime?"
     "I'm — not sure."
     "Well, OK.  You're a big boy."  She sounded disappointed.  "I leave for Orlando in the morning, you know.  I'll be gone for three days."
     Rom tried to concentrate on what she was saying.  His heart was pounding, his mind racing.  The clinic had said Tuesday.  This was only Monday!
     "OK.  Can I call you later?"
     "Sounds like you have unfinished business.  Did Melody slip you her phone number?"
      "Yeah, that's funny.  Listen, I'd better go.  I'll call later.  I promise."
     "OK, OK.   I better see you before you go off to Rome."
     "You will."
     "Hey.  You did great today."
     Rom smiled.  "Thanks.  Bye, Cassandra."
     "Bye."  It was a whisper.  She hung up.
     Rom put down the phone and stood there a moment.  When someone behind him cleared her throat, he moved over to the counter.  After a moment he realized he'd already paid, and he plucked a toothpick from the dispenser and went out to Waverly Place.  He got his bearings and turned toward Seventh Avenue.

     For the third time in two weeks, Rom went through the smudged glass doors of the Savarin Clinic and into the reception room.  Again the smell hit him, but now he recognized it: fear.  Rom checked in, found a seat, stuck his bag under it and sat down.  He looked around at the dingy walls, the medical charts supplied by pharmaceutical companies, the safe-sex posters, the worn and dingy linoleum.  It shouldn't be like this, he thought.  What kind of place was this to get your last dose of bad news?  Shouldn't there be a garden somewhere for this purpose, or a solarium or a chapel?  Anywhere but this.
     He looked up and slowly scanned the people waiting with him.  Most had their eyes glued to the TV mounted high in one corner.  Some were still looking at the newcomer.  Some sat looking at nothing.  Here's where I spend my last few minutes of hope, he thought.  How will the nurse break it to me?  She's had plenty of practice.  How many times a day does she have to tell someone he's going to die?  How does she start?  It wouldn't matter; he would know when he saw her eyes.  How would he take the sentence?  With a shrug?  With a scream?  His shirt, beneath the jacket, was soaked with sweat.  Now that he was here, he wanted to get it over with.
     He fiddled with his sunglasses, then stuck them in his pocket and folded his hands. He closed his eyes and bowed his head and tried to pray.  What kind of deal could he make with God now?  He'd barely prayed and hadn't been to church or said his breviary for a week, since he'd gotten his first test results.  Why had his faith been so weak?  Wasn't faith supposed to cover things like death? He'd certainly been believing that these last 10 years, and teaching it in class and telling it to parishioners on their deathbeds.  But now it was his turn to hear it, and he wasn't buying it. What was faith?  It was something you told yourself.  He'd believed once that God had saved his life, had sent one of His own on a pleasure cruise under the Golden Gate Bridge at just the right moment.  But why had he been saved?  For this?
     "Soriano?"
     Rom snapped to.  It was the receptionist.  She repeated his name, and Rom jumped out of his seat, surprised to have been called so quickly.  He started for the reception window but went back for his shopping bag when it was pointed out.  She led him through the door into the hallway and to the same small room he'd sat in the week before.  The bad news room.
     "You look like you were in a fight," said the young hispanic woman.
     "Yeah, I was."
     "Awww."  She smiled knowingly, and Rom felt a wild flash of love for this beautiful stranger.  She would never have to sit in this room and listen to the bad news.  Good.
     "OK," she said, "the nurse will be right with you."  She shut the door. Rom sat in the less comfortable-looking of the two chairs and nervously scanned the pamphlets and info sheets on the small metal table.  He'd read them last week.
     Rom made a mental note to call the archdiocese office and tell them he wasn't going to Rome.  If they asked why — well, he didn't know what he'd say.  He'd have to call the apartment manager and tell her his plans had changed and he'd be keeping the apartment for a while.  Why shouldn't he stay in Newark?  Now he was as sick as the neighborhood he once loved.  He doubted he'd run into Cassandra.  Of course, he wouldn't tell her.  She'd wonder whatever happened to him.  He felt his throat tighten.
     What would happen once he became sick with pneumonia or an infection or skin cancer?  Would he fight it?  Or just end it?
     He thought of his Uncle Vinnie, who'd told him, when the old cop had come to Portland, about his parents' wedding at Sacred Heart, and how the gypsies had waited at the cathedral door and, when the couple came out, had cursed the Soriano family.
     Yes, Rom thought, this is how the story ends.  The gypsies win.  Wasn't it clear?  His voodoo just hadn't been as strong as theirs.
     He looked up at the door as he heard footsteps approaching.  He watched the doorknob turn, and in came Nurse Rosano, wearing her professional smile.  She consulted the manilla folder in her hand.  "It's Reverend Soriano, isn't it?"
     Rom stood.  "Yes. Rom Soriano."
     "Please sit down."  She scrutinized his face.  "You look like you've been in a fight."
     "I was, but I'm OK, thanks."
     As she sat, Rom searched her face.  Nothing.  She took several sheets from the folder and read silently for a moment.  Rom felt faint, clammy.
     "First," she said, her eyes on the pages, "I'm very sorry."
     Rom banged the table.  "What?  What is it?"
     The nurse jumped, then quickly reached over and put her hand on his fist.  "Take it easy.  Your re-test came back negative."
     Rom blinked.
     "You were given inaccurate results last week.  This doesn't happen very often.  We really are very sorry"
     Rom put his other hand on top of hers.  Tears welled in his eyes.  "Negative?  That means I'm OK?"
     "That means you're OK."  She smiled a real smile.  "Would you like a tissue?"
     "Yes," croaked Rom.
     "Well, if you'll let go of my hand I'll get you one."  Rom sat back and sobbed.  She handed him a few tissues from a box on a cabinet and sat down again.  She made a few notes on a sheet of paper.  "It seems some labels may have gotten mixed up that day, and we had to retest everyone who came in that morning.  I wish everyone I had to see today could get the same good news I just gave you."
     Rom sat crying, barely registering what the nurse was saying. He vaguely remembered the impudent technician who'd taken his sample.  What was his name?  Now he couldn't recall.  After a minute he blew his nose.  "I'm OK now," he said.  "Sorry about that."
     "Don't be silly.  You must have had some week."
     Rom shuddered.  "You can say that again."

     Four hours later, Rom sat unsteadily at the bar in Cosmo's Lounge on W. 23rd Street, a long, narrow tavern with red brick walls and a black-and-white tiled floor. In front of him sat a nearly empty mug of beer and his VISA card.  He had bought three rounds for the house here, and three at the Workers' Club on Seventh Avenue.
      The bartender, a skinny, middle-aged man wearing a white waist apron, appeared before him.  "Another round, cuz?"
     Rom drained the mug.  "Yes!"  He stood and comically raised his pointed hand.  "And another round for all my friends in the bar today!"  A cheer went up in the smoky lounge, and immediately Rom found a fresh, icy mug before him.  Rom drank deeply.  God, life was great! Beer was good!  How he loved this bar, these people — not strangers, just friends he hadn't met before.
     He set the mug down and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.  He belched loudly and laughed in pleasure.  "Gesundheit!" called the bartender.  A patron in a Yankees cap came toward the door.  He stopped and gave Rom's shoulder a pat.
     "Thanks for the beers," he said.
     "My pleasure."  He held out his hand.  "Rom Soriano, of the Newark Sorianos."
     "Mike Rodriguez, Sheepshead Bay.  Pleas'ta meetcha. Whatcha celebratin'?"
     "Whattaya got?" asked Rom.  "I'm celebrating it."
     The man laughed and moved on, and Rom returned to his beer.  He wanted to keep celebrating.  The pastrami sandwich that had sat in his stomach like a brick for that awful hour had long since been burned up, and he was hungry again.  Whom did he know in New York?
     He asked the bartender for a phone book and looked up WBLT-TV.  He brought the massive book to the pay phone and dialed the station.  He reached the production studio, where Janet the intern told him Fitz Lopez was still out on assignment with Melody Marven and would be all day.
     "No way I can get ahold of him?"
     "Hmmm.  Well, you might find him if you're following the mayor around today like he is.  Let's see.  You might catch him at the ferry at about six.  Some kind of campaign thing on Staten Island."
     "Ah, Staten Island!  We used to go there to get drunk."
     "Excuse me?"
     "Back when we were kids.  The drinking age was 21 in Jersey but 18 in New York.  We were only 16, but we got served anyway."
     "You a friend of Fitz?"
     "Yeah.  Hey, try calling him ‘Hector.'  It bugs the shit out of him."
     He hung up, then settled his bill and walked out onto W. 23rd Street.  He paused in front of the tavern, belched again, as loud as he could, laughed, and headed for the subway entrance.