Friday, Oct. 18, 5:20 p.m.

     No one on 10th Avenue could be faulted for mistaking John Fitzgerald Lopez for a cab driver, what with the casually aggressive way he maneuvered his big beige Checker Marathon up the center lanes, but in truth the big, bearded Puerto Rican in the Yankees cap was preoccupied.   As he passed Lincoln Center he lit a cigaret and rolled the window down, admitting the  evening breeze and the cacophony of New York City, and with a sigh pondered the three-ring circus that was his immediate situation.
     First, there was his sister Cassandra.  After her divorce she'd insisted on moving back to Newark — a source of constant worry for him.  She owed Newark nothing, he'd told her.  They'd grown up there, sure.  But the past was the past.
     In another ring there was their old friend Rom Soriano, also inclined toward a nostalgic view of the blighted city — though to be fair he'd been gone for more than twenty years — who had just completed a busy week transforming himself from priest to masked vigilante, who now had sequestered himself in his "garret" to write his autobiography.  And to be close to Cassandra, no doubt.  Ten to one she was banging him again.  Just like old times.
     As Lopez turned east on 72nd Street and headed for the park, he pondered the woman who occupied center ring: Melody Marven, reporter, shooting victim, dispatcher of scandalous E-mails.  He pictured her padding around her apartment, her  arm in a cast, and a sling, and probably a lot of pain.  She'd sounded tired when she'd called him earlier and asked him to bring her mail from the station.  Christ, he didn't blame her for not wanting to go in.  They'd been giving her the cold shoulder for months, the fickle corporate yuppie bastards, and now it looked like they were giving her the axe — and he was delivering it.
     He lit a cigaret and looked over at the pile of mail on the seat next to him.  Alongside it , two envelopes sat apart.  The top one was a business envelope with the WBLT-TV logo, and "M. Marven" hand-written on it.  He knew — everybody at the station knew — that in it was a letter from station manager Ed Figueroa notifying Melody that when her contract expired at month's end, it would not be renewed.
     The Checker crossed Central Park West and followed a cab on the transverse through the park.  Lopez kept visualizing Melody, and how she would react to the letter.  He supposed she knew, that her agent had told her, but it still didn't make it any easier handing it to her.  It would be an uncomfortable two weeks.  Perhaps a suggestion that she sit out the rest of her contract would be welcome.  Call it sick leave.  She'd just been shot, hadn't she?
      At Fifth Avenue, Lopez continued east on 72nd and glanced again at the second envelope he carried: a larger, manilla envelope bearing the emblem of the N.Y.P.D.  He guessed it was from Ed Litwin, the detective from Midtown South.   Melody often dropped into the precinct on W. 35th, around the corner from WBLT, presumably for help with assignments, although he had seen them at lunch together around the neighborhood.
     Lopez turned south on Madison, then west onto E. 71st Street, where a Mercedes Benz was just vacating a parking space.  "Bingo!" he said.  He parked the Checker, grabbed Melody's mail and briskly walked the half block to a twelve- story whitestone apartment building, where the doorman smiled in recognition and admitted him.  He waited for one of two elevators, then spent the ascent practicing comforting words.  "Ah, fuck ‘em," he muttered.  "Hey, it's their loss."  "Hey, Figueroa does smell like a mule."
     When the elevator opened to the sixth floor, Lopez walked the few steps to Apt. 606 and pushed the buzzer.  As usual, he heard the voice from the other side — "Come in" — opened the unlocked door and walked into the familiar smells of cigaret smoke and take-out food.
     "You know," he called out, "one of these days you're gonna say ‘come in' to a maniac, and he's gonna come in and kill you.  Lock your door, willya?"
     "This is New York," came the answer from the living room.  "Maniacs don't use the buzzer.  I forgot to ask you to bring cigarets."
     Lopez entered the small room facing E. 71st Street and found Melody in her purple chenille bathrobe, right arm snug in its sling, sitting in front of her computer, which she was just turning off.  She turned in her swivel chair and regarded her visitor.  Her blond hair was pushed behind her ears and needed washing.  Her eyes, the color of Kentucky bluegrass, looked tired, and there were bags under them.  Without lipstick, her lips looked thin, and she seemed pale, but still, Lopez thought, there, at her desk, amid the clutter of papers, cups, prescription vials and food cartons, she still carried the kind of natural beauty that even he found attractive.  He smiled and handed her a pack of Vantages.
     "I have foreseen every contingency, oh careless one."
     "You are aces, Fitz.  Remind me to shag you later."
     "I can't wait."  He plopped down onto a small overstuffed love seat next to the desk and unzipped his jacket.  He nodded toward her computer.  "Doin' some work?"
     "Nah," she said.  "Solitaire.  Whatcha got?"
     Lopez gave a tight smile and held the mail out to Melody, who was arranging some file folders on her desk.  "The mail room bundled your fan mail, and there were these two envelopes."
     "Ah," she said.  She took the mail, put the bundle on the desk, placed the manilla envelope with the N.Y.P.D. seal on top of a pile of folders and looked at the smaller envelope.  She groaned.  "Well, I think I know what's in this one," she said.  "Open it for me, would you?"  She handed it back to him.
     "I thought you were getting good at being left-handed," he said.
     "I lied.  Please open it."
     He did so, and handed her the letter inside, then fiddled with lighting a cigaret so as not to be watching her.  Only when it was lit, and she had finished reading the letter, did he look at her again.  Her expression had not changed.
     "Well, how's that for timing?  You probably knew this, but my contract is not going to be renewed."
      Lopez' voice was soft.  "Yeah, I heard rumors.  I'm sorry, Mel.  I really liked workin' with you.  Really."  Melody frowned.  "You OK?"
     Her lips thinned a bit more, and she struggled with the pack of cigarets.  "Yeah, fuck that place."
     Lopez took the cigaret pack, opened it, lit a Vantage and handed it to her.
     "Thanks, Fitz.  That was kinda romantic."
     "Well, you said you'd shag me."
     "Ah, I'm gonna miss you, Fitz."
     "Likewise.  Hey, if you need anything, I'm still your friend, you know.  I mean, you're not goin' back to Kutztown, are ya?"
     "Ha!  When I retire, it won't be to Pennsylvania."  She smoked for a moment, looking out to 71st Street.  "Thanks, Fitz, really.  I'm not going anywhere for awhile.  It took me so damned long to find this apartment."
     "Good.  Any prospects here in town?"
     "Oh,  I may take a PR job for awhile."
     "Ah.  For the cops?"  He nodded toward the manilla envelope he'd brought.
     Melody managed a smile.  "Well, odds are I wouldn't get shot on that job."
     "Thatagirl," Lopez said.  "Hey, you wanna get somethin' to eat?"
     "Oh, thanks, but I had some Chinese before.  Thanks."
     "Sure.  Uh, want some company, or — "
     Melody grimaced a bit.  "Ah, tell you the truth, I took a couple of those pain pills a little while ago, and I feel a little tired.  Mind if I just take a nap before bed?"
     "Ah!  Just what you need."  He rose and waited a moment while she slowly got to her feet and steadied herself on the desk.  "How's the arm?"
     "Hurts like hell, but I'm grateful to the mayor for slowin' down the bullet."
     "Yes, I must send a thank-you note, too.  Hey, you sure you're gonna be OK tonight?  Want me to stick around?"
     "Naw, I'll be OK.  Thanks, Fitz.  Listen, I'll call you in a couple days, OK?"
     "OK.  I'll be home.  Gonna take a few days off as long as you're out."
     "Aw, that's sweet."
     "Hah.  Not really.  I just hate the fill-in crap they got me doin'."  He kissed her forehead.  "Now rest that arm."
     "I will. G'night, Fitz."
     "G'night. Now lock your door!"
     She smiled.  "I will."
     He smiled back and closed the door, and she went over to it and turned the lock.  She heard Fitz's voice from the other side.
     "That's better."
     "G'night, Fitz."  She returned to the small living room, sat down at her desk and stabbed her cigaret butt into a teabag in the big green ceramic ashtray next to her computer.  With a letter opener she adroitly zipped open the manilla envelope — left-handed —  and pulled out a 20-page stapled document. A small, hand- written note attached with a paper clip read "Get well soon, Blondie.  — Ed.  PS You owe me."
     "Yeah, I owe you," she said.  "We'll see how much."  She turned the cover page of  the document labeled NY Metro Missing Persons / Week Ending Fri. 10/18.  "Come on," she said.  "Baby needs new shoes."