I HAD GOMEZ DROP ME OFF in Harvard Square so I could eat birdseed and tofu with a reporter from The Weekly. Ditched my cigar. Then I went in to this blond-wood extravaganza, just off the square, allowed the manager to show me her nostrils, and finally picked out Rebecca sitting back in the corner.

"How's the Granola James Bond?"

I nearly unleashed my Toxic Spiderman rap but then remembered that some people actually admired me, Rebecca among them, and it was through admiration and James Bond legends that we got things like free cars and anonymous toxic tips. So I let it drop. Rebecca had picked the sunniest comer of the room and the light was making her green eyes glow like traffic lights and her perfume volatilize off the skin. She and I had been in the sack a few times. The fact that we weren't going to be there in the near future made her a hundred thousand time-oops-more than twice as beautiful. To distract myself, I growled something about beer to a waiter and sat down.

"We have-" the waiter said, and drew a tremendously deep breath.

"Genesee Cream Ale."

"Don't have that, sir."

"Beck's." Because I figured Rebecca was paying.

"The specialty is sparkling water with a twist," Rebecca said.

"I need something to wash the Everett out of my mouth."

"Been out on your Zode?"

"Zodiac to you," I said. "And no, I haven't."

We always began our conversations with this smart-assed crap. Rebecca was a political reporter and spent her life talking to mushmouths and blarney slingers. Talking to someone who would say "fuck" into a tape recorder was like benzedrine to her. There was also an underlying theme of flirtation-"Hey, remember?" "Yeah, I remember." "It was all right, wasn't it?" "Sure was."