Tuesday, Oct. 15
 

     Buzzing.  Something was buzzing.  Rom lifted his head, and with it a sheet of paper on which it had been resting.  He swatted the paper off his face and shook his head.  He was seated at the table.  Yes, he had fallen asleep.  Before him the electric typewriter buzzed, and on the sheet of paper in its carriage an unfinished sentence still waited patiently.
     Rom shut the typewriter off, stood up looked out the window.  It was getting light.  The clock-radio read 6:05, and it was still tuned to WBLT and playing softly.  The Howard Stern Show had started, and Robin Quivers was leading off the broadcast with her news report.  While she expertly sketched the events of the previous day, Rom started the kettle, then went into the bathroom.  His reflection looked tired, but the bruises were healing, and the black eye had softened to a slate blue.  He washed his face and then, as he prepared a cup of coffee, he recollected the hours, those he remembered, following his celebratory stop at Cosmo's Lounge the previous afternoon.

     He had meant to go meet Lopez on the ferry but in his pixilated condition had boarded an uptown subway instead of downtown and had wound up in Times Square.  He'd eaten a couple Coney Island hot dogs with fat crinkle fries at Nathan's, strolled up Seventh Avenue to the park and leisurely walked through, visiting the spot near the reservoir where he'd nearly met his maker.
     At dusk he'd left the park near the Dakota — pausing again in Strawberry Fields — walked west to Columbus Avenue and stopped into a small theater showing The Bank Dick and Never Give a Sucker an Even Break.  Midway through the first film he'd nodded off, and when he'd awakened at about 10:30, all the other patrons were gone, as was the bag with his black clothes.  He'd taken a cab — whose foreign-born driver said something about the mayor that Rom hadn't quite caught — to Penn Station, dashed to a Jersey Transit train to Newark and changed to the City Subway.  He'd nodded off to the swaying baritone rumble of Car 21 but, awakened by the trolley's bell at the Orange Street crossing, had made it off at Park Avenue, the next stop.
     Not until he'd encountered Lopez and Cassandra outside the Norfifth did he know the mayor had been shot, Melody wounded and the "Son of Zorro" lost in the cold waters of the Hudson River near Governor's Island.  It had been then — in the warm concern of his friends, sitting in the big Checker parked outside his shabby apartment — that Rom had finally told them about the clinic results, and about the panic that had followed and, finally, the good news he'd received earlier in the day.
     By the end of his story, Cassandra had been crying and Lopez, who'd been laughing, had offered only the briefest comments.  "You got a good scare, pal," he'd told Rom. "Overall, I'd say you flipped out, then lucked out."  Then Lopez had vetoed Cassandra's too-casual suggestion that Rom spend the night at the Colonnades, the better to drive her to the airport in the morning.  Actually he would be spending the night at his sister's, Lopez had ruled, and would be driving her to the airport himself.  And that had been the end of that.
     After that Cassandra had walked Rom to the darkened lobby door, given him her spare keys, with an invitation to use her apartment in her absence.  Then Rom, out of sight of her brother, and as mystified as she as to what was going to happen to them,  had kissed her.   After a moment they'd heard the squeak of a car window being rolled down, then Lopy's voice: "Don't make me use my horn, Soriano."   And after Rom had watched the big Checker dash up No. Fifth Street,  he'd gone up to his rooms and showered.  Then, his mind racing with the events of the day, he'd set up the typewriter and begun writing in earnest.

     Now Rom stirred his instant coffee and brought it over to the table, pushing aside the small pile of typewritten notes.  He reached over and turned the radio up.
     ". . . so apparently it was determined they'd make better time by stepping on the gas and continuing to Staten Island, so the mayor wound up there in St. Vincent's Hospital with what doctors are calling a minor bullet wound in her side.  That bullet, a 9mm, missed the vital organs, went through the mayor and kept going until it hit Melody, who was standing next to her.  It broke the radius bone in Melody's forearm and bruised a couple of her ribs but didn't penetrate."
     "It didn't penetrate Melody?" Howard asked.
     "Oh, dear."
     "Make up your own joke, people, I'm tired already.  Continue, Robin."
     "Thank you.  Anyway, that's the end of the story.  The mayor is listed  in good condition but will probably stay in the hospital a couple days, and Melody is also listed in good condition, and may be released as early as tomorrow."
     "We're glad they're OK, really we are.  Get well soon, the two of you.  Mazel tov."
     "They could use a couple days off, both of them."
     "OK, so they're throwing in the towel on Zorro or what?"
     "I mentioned that, Howard.  Police called off the search at about midnight."
     "Damn!  Now we'll never know who he was."
     "Maybe not.  I still can't believe this has all happened.  I mean, one morning he's on our show, and the next morning he's dead and lost at sea."
     "We told him, Robin.  He should have quit while he was ahead."
     "We did tell him."
     "No one can blame us.  So that's it?"
     "That's it."
     "Well, maybe now the mayor won't go cutting into line at the ferry."
     "I know you like to look on the lighter side, Howard, but I don't think there is one in this story."
     "Hey, we got another psychotic cabdriver off the streets."
     Robin sighed.  "Well, no argument there, but I'm sorry our new friend had to die."
     "Yeah, I am too.  He was kinda nutty, but I liked the guy."
      "Me, too.  So long, Son of Zorro."

     Rom shut the radio off, put on some jeans and a sweatshirt and went down to his car.  Though other eateries were closer, Rom drove up to the Short Stop again.  The ferry shooting was the topic of the day at the crowded counter, where Rom tried to read the Daily News and wolfed down his sausage and eggs, served up sizzling in a little skillet.  Once back in the gray Datsun, he took Bloomfield Avenue down to where it began, near the Colonnades.  He parked behind Cassandra's building, then let himself into her apartment.  He turned on the TV and sat for a while watching news reports.
     There were no images captured of the figure in black.  Few cameramen, it seemed, had any useful footage of the incident.  Only WBLT's camera had caught any action.  Rom watched as the station played Lopez's footage over and over: first a close-up of Melody Marven giving a big smile to one of the politicians gathered on the rear deck, then as the camera pulls back, the mayor standing next to Melody, with Ruby Riley at the lectern, and next to her, Sgt. Ruiz, just visible.  Then the gunman's voice, and the sight of the mayor trying to reason with him; then everyone looking toward one corner of the rear deck; then the taunts of the gunman, and the sound of his gun.  And then, a second later, as Marven moved behind the mayor and Ruiz unholstered his gun, the mayor banging into Melody, and both falling to the deck screaming, and then the pandemonium of cops and reporters and cameramen.  Finally, as the camera is picked up and brought to the rear deck railing, the dark water behind the ferry and, beyond it, the inappropriate resplendence of Lower Manhattan.
     Rom shut the set off and just stood at the window awhile, looking out over Newark.  Then, with a deep breath, he went over to Cassandra's little hallway table, consulted a card from his wallet, picked up the phone and called Rev. Parisi at the Archdiocese of New York.  He apologized for missing his Saturday appointment and informed the cleric that, for personal reasons,  he would not be going to Rome.   As the agitated priest began to bluster, Rom quickly promised a follow-up letter, apologized again and hung up.  The call took less than a minute.
     When the phone rang fifteen minutes later, Rom was just finishing up in the bathroom.  After the beep, the voice he heard on the answering machine brought him flying into the hall again.  "Yes, good morning.  I'm looking for Father Rom Soriano.  This is Noah McCormick calling, and it's 6:30 in the blessed morning where I am.  Are you there, Rom?"
     Rom picked up.  "Your eminence, uh, good morning."
     "Rom?"
     "Yes, it's me.
     "You know, I've been very patient with you."
     "Excuse me?"
     "Now, just shut up a minute.  I think you've done alright by me.  The night we met I pulled you from grip of Davy Jones himself.  I got you a good posting in Portland, although I couldn't do anything about the rain.  When you threw your friend out the window, I gave you a holiday.  And don't think I don't know about that business behind the warehouse with the strumpet."
     Rom stood, frozen with shock.
     "But this time you've torn it," McCormick continued.  "Why are you tryin' to get out of goin' to Rome?"
     "Well, I— "
     "Is it your hobby, then?"
     "Excuse me?"
     "Your hobby," McCormick said.  "Is it your hobby keepin' you from your post?"
     Rom was afraid to ask but did anyway.  "My hobby?"
     "You heard me, ‘Son of Zorro.'  Have you lost your mind, then?"
     "Uh— "
     "Can't you do better than that?  I'm the one just got up.  Parisi just called me and gave me your number.  I was wondering where you were.  Is this your hideout?"
     Rom stood speechless, his ears ringing.
     "Listen, tell me that wasn't you I saw you on the news.  We have the same tailor, you know."
     Rom took a deep breath and told McCormick the whole story: the clinic, Roseville, Curtis' bicycle, the "Z" on his ceiling, Cassandra, Melody, Howard Stern, the mayor, the copycat on the ferry.  Through it, McCormick asked an occasional question, his tone softening.  Finally he sighed.  "Well, the poor devil tried to steal your act, may God have mercy on his soul."
     Rom sighed.  "Yeah."
     McCormick cleared his throat.  "So now the other shoe drops."
     "About Rome, yes.  Well, I was going to tell you."
     "Parisi was very agitated."
     "Well, I'm sorry about that."
     "Ah, he's a pain in the arse, and he'll have to make do with what he's got.  Hang on, here's my coffee.  Thank you, Mrs. Morales."  After some sipping noises, McCormick sighed.  "Ah, it's too early for this," he said.  "So tell me what you're goin' to do."
     After a long moment, Rom cleared his throat.  "I'm — I'm not sure."
     "Now listen," McCormick said, "you've only been there a couple weeks, and you've been through the wringer, from what you tell me, and you're gettin' your feelings all mixed up.  It's just nostalgia, for your boyhood and all that.  And seein' that girl again, well, that's got to be emotional.  That's only natural."
     "But it's not just that.  I have feelings for her.  Very strong feelings."
     After a short silence, McCormick sighed.  "Well, I think I know where this is goin'.  But do me a favor," he said.  "Don't decide today.  You've had a rough week. Listen.  Parisi says you're in Newark."
     "Yeah."  Rom took the cordless phone to the window and looked out at the city.
     "Right.  Are you close to Sacred Heart?"
     "I'm looking at it."
     "Good.  Go say a prayer in St. Patrick's Chapel.  The good saint has God's ear, don't you know."
     "Yes, I'll do that."
     McCormick sighed again.  "And ask him why I saved your arse that night.  Sure, I'd like to know before I go."
     "I'll ask."
     After a short, painless pause, the cardinal spoke again.  "Have you been writin' that book?"
     "Well, I've started."
     "Good, good.  Don't you wonder how the story will end?"
     Rom, at the big window, watched a cloud glide behind the cathedral's twin towers.  "Constantly, Father."
     After hanging up, Rom stood there a moment and cried.  He went into the bathroom and washed his face, then took one more look out the windows before locking the door behind him and leaving the building.   He drove up Park Avenue to the Norfifth, where he entered his rooms, collapsed onto the bed and held the carved "Z' in the ceiling in focus as long as he could before sleep overtook him.

     Rom slept most of the day, finally rising just after 5:30, and drove to Dickie Dee's for a meatball sandwich with peppers and onions.  He brought it, along with a Coke, to a small table near the window and watched the traffic on Bloomfield Avenue, alternately preoccupied with Cassandra and lost in memories of Roseville, of Barringer High, of cool autumn nights and meatball sandwiches exactly like the one in his hands.
     After finishing it devoutly, he drove home and parked, but instead of going to his apartment, stood for a moment.  From across the dark field behind his building, through the thinning trees of the park, hoist by a cool chocolate breeze, came the chime of the cathedral's carillon, playing "Panis Angelicus" — Bread of Angels.  Rom looked at his watch and started walking through the fallen leaves south to Park Avenue, then eastward over the subway tracks, over the bridge spanning Branch Brook Lake,  to Parker Street, past Barringer High, where his alma mater stood unchanged except for the graffiti and the trash piled around it.  By the time he reached the next block he was on the highest ground in Newark, and at the big polished bronze doors of Sacred Heart Cathedral.  At this spot, his Uncle Vinnie had told him, the gypsies had cursed his family 40 years ago and more.  He paused and looked up at the twin, floodlit towers and thought of the gypsies, of Ziko, whose life he had taken.  And his son — where would he be seeing him again?  The world had become a very small place.
     A sign in front of the doors read "Confessions 6 PM to 9 PM" and directed traffic to the side entrance, and as he walked there, Rom now noticed that, for all the graffiti on the buildings around it, the church bore not one mark of spray paint, as if in this part of the urban jungle it was acknowledged as sacred ground.  He entered the side door, near the rear of the church, and walked through a hallway, then through the sacristy, into a semicircular, vaulted hallway that ran behind the main altar.  The first of several small chapels was St. Patrick's, and Rom entered and  knelt before the green marble altar, beneath the now-dark stained-glass image of the saint, and he prayed — not for guidance but for the strength to conduct his unfinished business.
     After a moment he rose and walked into the immense nave of the church, toward the ornate oak-and-velvet confessionals tucked into the transepts.  He paused in front of one with a small green light over the door, then entered the dark closet.  He knelt in front of the opaque screen and in a moment heard the panel behind it slide open.  "Go ahead," said a voice behind the screen.  It sounded confident, Rom thought.  And young.
     "Bless me, father, for I have sinned," Rom began.  "It has been — a few weeks since my last confession."  He paused a moment.
     "What are your sins?" asked the voice.
     Rom took a deep breath.  "Hold on to your hat."