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Jillian.
    â€œYou bet I am!” Jillian teased back.
    â€œYou can drink like an Irish potato digger, cuss like my pa, and trust in me to see that you’re okay.”
    â€œAye, and that I will,” Jillian agreed, putting on the appropriate accent. She was good with accents and loved the theater. She still played with the idea of heading out to audition for Broadway one day.
    â€œAll righty, then. Jillian and I are on our way out, Mother.”
    â€œToast me, ladies.”
    â€œWe will,” Jillian promised, as Connie dragged her out the door. They flagged down a cabdriver, who, despite the absurdities rife on the street that night, kept staring at them in the rearview mirror.
    â€œSee?” Connie teased. “He’s watching you.”
    â€œHey, you’re the princess tonight.”
    â€œSad but true, everyone loves an evil woman best,” Connie advised.
    In a few minutes they reached Hennessey’s Pub, down in the Village. Though the place was rocking, it was doing so in the nicest way. The music was loud, but not too loud. The band was Irish-American, playing mostly rock, some folk, all with a wee bit of the Old Country thrown in. Drinks had been flowing, but not to the extent that too many drunks were weaving around. For the most part, the clientele was in a good mood. Many people were in costume, from the group dressed as the different colors of M&M’s to the brawny exercise guru in the Carmen Miranda skirt, bra, sandals and fruit headdress. He greeted Connie by name right away. Connie introduced him to Jillian—no last name—as Sergeant Tip Guyer of New York’s finest. Connie did the introductions, and the cop instantly offered to treat them to a couple of beers while telling Connie that she could find her “old man” just inside by the bar, watching ESPN.
    â€œCan you imagine? A party—and they’re watching sports,” she said with disgust. “Tip, if you think you can reach the bar, we’ll take you up on those beers.”
    Tip nodded, flashing an appreciative smile at Jillian.
    â€œHe can’t believe his good luck,” Connie said, when the man had gone.
    â€œHis good luck?”
    â€œGetting to hang with you.”
    â€œOh, Connie, please.”
    â€œNot because of who you are—just because he wants to bask in your gorgeous nearness.”
    â€œConnie…”
    â€œAnd there’s good old Joe, not even noticing us, just watching the game.”
    â€œI’m sure he can’t hear too much, with all the music, so he has to study the TV closely,” Jillian teased. There was a tap on her shoulder. A giant leprechaun was asking her to dance, but she wasn’t ready for that quite yet, so she declined politely and asked him to come back in a while.
    â€œDancing is fun, and you’re out to have fun,” Connie reminded her.
    â€œI intend to dance. But you’ve asked Carmen Miranda to bring us drinks, remember?”
    And then she saw the tarot card reader.
    â€œHey, look, there’s a fortune-teller.”
    â€œA fortune-teller? What fun!” Connie said.
    â€œShe’s great.” Tip had rejoined them, bearing glasses of ale. He passed them over as he went on. “She’s interesting. She has you lay out the cards, then she tells you what they mean and how the future might affect you. I have a confrontation coming in my future.”
    â€œHow unusual—for a cop,” Jillian teased.
    He shrugged. “A nonbeliever. So many are. But she’s really good. It’s not just hocus-pocus. Maybe she’s a psychologist by day, desperate for more interesting characters by night. She told me to watch my temper. Can you imagine?”
    â€œYes, Tip,” Connie said thoughtfully, “I’m afraid I can.”
    As Tip and Connie started discussing the idiocies he saw on the streets of New York every day, Jillian had the strangest feeling. It was as if she knew