It was a stupid idea, thought Melody Marven.  Evening rush hour was the wrong time to make a campaign trip on the Staten Island Ferry.  The motorists lined up at the entrance to the ferry docks at the Battery agreed.  They honked and swore as the small procession of limos and news vans was waved through the front of the line onto the ferry John F. Kennedy, filling 10 of the 36 vehicle spaces available
     Next to her, driving the WBLT-TV van, Lopez echoed her thoughts.  "Think she'll get more votes in Staten island than she'll lose here?"
     Melody lit a cigaret.  "She's out of her fucking mind."
     Lopez pulled the van into the left-most lane of the three that took up the ferry's lower deck.  He stopped a few inches behind the Manhattan borough president's car and shut off the engine.
      "Where's the setup?" Peng asked from the rear of the van.
     Melody wearily consulted her clipboard.  It had been an exhausting day, and it wasn't over yet.  First the early call for the ride to Gracie Mansion.  Then the Howard Stern Show and the Zorro business.  The ridiculous ceremony in the Blue Room.
     She remembered the look on his face when she called him "Father."  And the shirt — hadn't that been a priest's shirt on Saturday?  And the mouth.  That was the surest part.  She remembered that mouth from the fire station.  How she'd wanted to kiss him there.  What a crazy thought.  But it had helped her to place him.  Was he really a priest?  Well, who cared?  She wanted this story.  Badly.  Something like this could save her job, or at least help her get another decent one.
     Dimly she realized that someone was asking her something.
     "What?"
     "So where's the setup?" said Lopez.  "You been lookin' at that freakin' clipboard long enough."
     "Sorry.  I was daydreaming.  It's on the rear deck, upper level."
     Peng grabbed his sound equipment and headed for the stairs.  "Meetcha there, guys."
     Melody watched Peng walk away.  "Hey, Fitz?"
     Lopez had moved to the rear of the van and was unpacking his camera.  "Yeah?"
      "Tell me about your friend, the priest.  You know, the one you introduced me to the other day?  In the firehouse in Newark?"
     Lopez tensed.  "Who, Rom?"
     "Yeah, that's him.  Rome who?"
     "Soriano.  We grew up together in Newark.  He lived with us after his mother died."
     "Oh.  Has he been a priest long?"
     "Uh, about five, six years, I think.  Why do you ask?"
     "Just curious.  What was he before?"
     Lopez stepped out onto the metal deck.  "Well, he sold stereos or something before he went to college and did the seminary thing.  Melody, you know all about him.  Remember that tabloid I showed you last spring?  About the priest who defenestrated the gypsy?"
     "Defenestrated?"
     Lopez feigned irritation.  "Defenestrate. Defenestrate. To push someone or something out the window.  Like I feel like doing to her honor the mayor right now."
     Melody's face lit up.  "That's the same guy?  Your friend Soriano?"
     "Yeah."
     "Yes.  I just didn't make that connection."
     Lopez shut the door and locked it.  "Some reporter you are sometimes, Mel.  I'm goin' up.  Wanna know anything else?"
     Melody got out of the van and turned to Lopez. "Oh, I don't know.  He just seemed interesting.  Someone I'd like to have coffee with or something."
     "Yeah, he's interesting alright.  But like I told you, he's just stopping over a couple days on his way to Rome."
     "Hmmm, What's he doing there?"
     "He's runnin' for pope.  Let's go, huh?"
     "Hey, just asking.  I enjoyed meeting him at the firehouse.  Did you say he's staying in that neighborhood?"
     Lopez checked his watch.  "Uh, he told me he checked into the Gateway Hilton.  You know, the one across from Penn Station Newark."
     "Hmmph."  She took a drag on her cigaret, searching his face.  She exhaled, dropped her cigaret to the deck and stepped on it.  "I gotta use the bathroom.  See you upstairs."
     "Mention my name.  You'll get a good seat."
     Melody snorted.  "If you think I'm sitting on any of those seats, you're crazy."
     "You gonna stand?"
     "Of course not."
     "Oh, gonna squat, eh?"
     "Don't you have some setting up to do?"  Melody hoisted her immense handbag onto her shoulder and clacked down the deck toward the stairwell.  Lopez heaved a sigh of relief.  He gathered his equipment and climbed the narrow stairs to the upper level.  Although it was cool, he was sweating.  That's it, he thought.  Rom's little game was about to blow up in his face.  Should he tell Melody what he knew and ask her not to spill the beans?  No.  She smelled a big story.  The worst thing he could do was try to talk her out of it . No, he would play stupid and hope Rom got out of town Wednesday without encountering Melody in full investigative bore.
     On the upper level, most of the hundreds of commuters who'd transfered from buses and subways or walked to the ferry from their Lower Manhattan jobs had found seats among the rows of benches that ran down both sides of the upper cabin, like pews in a church, from bow to stern.  Already it was three deep at the snack counters.
     Outside the cabin, policemen had roped off the small rear deck, and news crews were setting up.  Peng was chatting with a cameraman from another station.  A few politicians had already reached the area.  There was to be a short speech by the mayor, plus remarks from the borough presidents of Manhattan and Staten Island — who couldn't stand each other — and a quick transit of the upper deck for some gladhanding and baby kissing.
     Lopez checked his watch.  Six-twenty.  The ferry transit would take 25 minutes.  Then the drive to the rally at the Skyler Yacht Club, another setup, maybe an hour there.  Then back to Manhattan for another campaign rally, and finally back to Gracie Mansion.  It would be an 18-hour workday before it was over.  Damn Melody!  Damn whoever had resurrected the old "day in the life" idea.  It made for a good ten-minute feature, but was it worth it?
     Lopez heard the blast of the ferry whistle and felt the squat craft move out of its slip. Sunlight touched only the top floors of the World Trade Center now, and the lights of Lower Manhattan came blinking on.  It was, as always, one of the very best sights in New York, this view from the back of a ferry.
     Preceded by a couple uniformed cops and a half-dozen aides, Mayor Fazio arrived on the rear deck, followed by Ruby Riley and Sgt. Ruiz.   In a few moments Melody — whose main concern seemed to be that the wind was wrecking her hair — appeared and went over to the mayor.
     Lopez set his camera on its tripod and adjusted the focus as a press aide carried what looked like a large suitcase to the middle of the deck and snapped open a portable lectern, like a butler popping a top hat.  After a minute all the politicians had gathered, and the TV lights went on.
     Ruby Riley came to the lectern and rapped one of the microphones, as Lopez knew she would.  He looked at Peng, also smiling.  "Are these working?  Are these working?" she asked, squinting into the lights.  Behind her, Fazio was introducing Melody to a fat assemblyman in a bad suit.  Lopez started taping, snickering.  He'd save this for his collection of Melody's Phoney Party Faces.  He had nearly an hour of these.  After a few seconds he pulled back to a shot of the lectern.  Then, from behind him, he heard a scream.
     "He's got a gun!"
     Lopez whirled around and saw the man — he was over six feet, very thin, with big eyeglasses and thin blond hair, about 30 — advance toward the lectern, holding a big handgun in front of him.  Lopez recognized it as a Smith and Wesson 9mm. He had one at home like it — it held fourteen rounds in the clip, one in the chamber.  This was bad.
     "Are you comfy?" screamed the man.  "Are you having a nice party?  Why don't you invite some of us poor fuckin' slobs who have to wait until your fuckin' highness gets on the boat first?  I'm sick of this shit!"
     For a supercharged second, no one moved.  Not the mayor, not the politicians, not the cops, not the cameramen.  The gunman, dressed in blue jeans and a brown leather bomber jacket, braced himself against the bulkhead separating the cabin and the rear open deck, and as he did a uniformed cop reached slowly for his holstered gun.  "Don't do that!" the gunman shouted.  "Or I'll kill everybody!"  The cop's hand stopped.
     For a moment, all that could be heard was the whistle of the wind and the roar of the water churning in the ferry's wake.
     "Sir, what do you want?" asked Fazio.  Her voice was quiet, strong.
     "I want to show you that you can't cut in front of me, mizz fucking mayor!  You and your fat scumbag friends!"
     Lopez wanted to turn the camera to catch the gunman but rejected the idea.  It looked like Mayor Fazio would get herself shot tonight; Lopez didn't care to join her.  Had the camera moved on its tripod?  Would it catch the mayor's expression as she took the bullet?
     "I'm sorry about the trouble," Fazio said evenly.  "Let's you and I talk and let these other— "
     "Shut up!  I'm sick of you tellin' everybody what to do!"  Spittle flew from the man's mouth, and the vein in his neck stood out like a rope.  "I didn't vote for you, you big fuckin' dyke!  You don't tell me what to do!  You don't cut in front of me, you cunt!"
     A sudden scrabbling sound came from the iron rail on the starboard side of the rear deck.  Everybody looked over, including the gunman.  Someone was climbing up from the car deck!  Two hands appeared on the top rail, and then a head — with a black scarf and mask! Lopez' heart stopped.
     Now the figure, all in black, stood on the very edge of the upper deck, outside the railing. He opened his mouth to speak.
     The gunman spoke first.  "Hey, Zorro! Fuck you, too!"  He pointed the gun and fired. The figure in black dropped toward the churning water, half his head blown off.
     Then all hell broke loose.  Cops went for their guns; onlookers hit the deck.  The gunman quickly pivoted and fired a shot at Fazio.  Behind her, Melody screamed.  Sgt. Ruiz, standing just beyond the mayor, was the first to fire back; he dropped the gunman with two quick shots to the chest.  The uniformed cops added a bullet each, and Ruiz yelled  "Cease fire!"  Fazio and Melody had collapsed to the deck.
     Lopez snapped to and raced over to the rail.  He knew he must find Melody, must get back to his camera, must keep filming, but he couldn't move.  He searched the dark waters, his hands frozen on the rail.  Behind him shouts of chaos and calls for paramedics filled the air.  Beside him others now crowded the rail.  Peng pushed in next to Lopez.  "Fitz!" he shouted, "Melody's hurt!"
     Lopez still scanned the dark Hudson.  "So go help her."
     "The cops are helping her.  Get your camera!  C'mon!"  Lopez didn't move.
     Peng frowned and made his way past a knot of photographers now surrounding the dying gunman.  After a moment one of them came over to the rail and peered into the ferry's dark wake.  "Well," he said to Lopez, "they ain't gonna be pinnin' no more medals on that guy."