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know—truth, justice,
the first amendment, the fourth estate. We're not suppose to
be cheerleaders, going ‘Rah-rah-rah, give us the
ball.' We're the goddamn watchdogs, the only ones
who care if the city is getting a good deal, or being used by some
scumbag."
    He swayed a little as he spoke, and his
words were soft, virtually without consonants, but he wasn't
as drunk as she would have been on five martinis. His melancholy had a
stronger grip on him than the liquor.
    "Feeney, what do you want me to do about it?" Tess wasn't the best audience for
a speech on the glories of journalism.
    "Why, drink to the end of my
career!" he roared, toasting the room with his now empty
glass. The crowd, mostly regulars, raised their glasses back in fond
relief. This was the Feeney they knew, acting up for an audience.
    "What are you so happy
about?" a white-haired man called out from the bar.
    "Am I happy? Am I free? The
question is absurd! For it is a far, far better thing I do now than I
have ever done before!"
    Feeney smashed his ratty cap onto his head
and swept out of the bar, the tasseled ends of his plaid muffler flying
behind him, martini glass still in hand. Tess was left behind with a
half-finished martini, Feeney's tab, and no company for the
tortellini she had planned to order. Feeney knew how to make an exit,
credit him that. Only the Tale of Two Cities allusion was the slightest bit off—too recognizable for
Feeney's taste. He preferred more obscure lines, like his
penultimate one, Am I happy? Am I free ?
It was tauntingly familiar, but she couldn't place the source.
    It wasn't even eight
o'clock and she was now alone, as well as ravenously hungry.
And Tess loathed eating alone in restaurants. A character flaw, she
knew, and a reproach to feminists everywhere, but there it was. She
finished her drink, took care of Feeney's staggering bill,
along with her own, then left. She could stop at the Eddie's
on Eager, grab a frozen dinner for herself, maybe a stupid magazine to
read in the bathtub. Damn Feeney. Her big night out had been reduced to
no company, one gulped drink, and a frozen low-fat lasagna.
    But when she reached her apartment thirty
minutes later, the fragrant smells in the hallway came from her own
kitchen, not Kitty's. Her nose identified lamb, hot bread,
baking apples. She took the steps two at a time, leaping as wildly as
Esskay had that morning.
    Crow met her at the door, wrapping his lanky
frame around her before she could take off her coat or put down the
grocery bag.
    "I didn't expect to see
you here," she muttered into his scratchy wool sweater,
hoping he couldn't see how pleased she was. "I left
a message on your machine that I was going out with Feeney
tonight."
    "I closed for Kitty tonight, so I
figured I'd let myself in and make some dinner. Worst case
scenario, you'd come home from your drinking date all giggly
and fun, I'd tuck you in, then eat lamb stew and apple pie
for lunch tomorrow."
    "Trust me, Feeney was neither
giggly nor fun tonight."
    Crow wasn't really listening. He
was kissing her brow and her ears, patting her all over, always a
little surprised to see her again, even in her own apartment.
    "Your face is cold,
Tesser," he said, using the childhood nickname she had given
herself, a blending of her two names, Theresa Esther. A name reserved
for family and very old friends. Crow was neither of those things, not
in five months' time. He was twenty-three to her twenty-nine,
a happy, careless twenty-three, with glossy black hair almost as long
as hers, although usually with a green or red stripe, and a bounce in
his walk. It still surprised her that she had to look up to see his
thin, angular face, as if their age difference meant he must be
shorter, too.
    "What do you think of the new
addition?" she asked, pointing with her chin toward Esskay,
who was staring at Tess as if trying to place her.
    "She's cool. Kitty and I
took her out for a walk earlier, then made her some rice and