"Ten-four on that. And now I truly am gone."

"Here's some mail."

"Thanks. But it's all junk."

"Don't I get to kiss the departing warrior?"

"Feels too weird, in a room that's bugged."

Threw my bike into Bartholomew's big black van and we headed west. Before going to work this morning, he'd had enough foresight to stop by our living-room canister and fill a couple of Hefty bags with nitrous, so I moved back behind the curtain and jackhammered my brain. Bart bragged that he could pass out on the stuff, but when that happens you let go of the Hefty and it all escapes.

He turned down the stereo a hair and screamed, "Hey, pop those suckers and we can have another Halloween party."

Last Halloween we had rigged up nitrous and oxygen tanks in one of our rooms, sealed the doors and windows, and created, shall we say, a marvelous party atmosphere. That was the first night I ever slept with a nonprint journalist. But it was an expensive way to seduce someone.

By the time we'd poked through Harvard Square, I was up in the front seat again, watching the colonial houses roll by.

"Yankees," Bart said.

Translation: "The Yankees are playing the Red Sox on TV tonight; let's stay at the Arsenal for the entire duration of the game."

"Can't," I said. "Have to do dinner with this frogman at the Pearl."

"French guy?"

"Frogman. A scuba diver. He's going on the Blue Kills thing. Don't worry, you hold down the fort and I'll ride over on my bike."

"You got a light on that thing?"

I laughed. "Since when are you the type to worry about that?"

"It's dangerous, man. You're invisible."

"I just assume I'm not invisible. I assume I'm wearing fluorescent clothes, and there's a million-dollar bounty going to the first driver who manages to hit me. And I ride on that assumption."