Let's grab a late bite.

I see Tina still in the emergency room waiting area, her sleeves rolled up, finishing her shift report. Her bodybuilding didn't show up...much, with her uniform on.

In the full waiting area, nobody was sitting next to her. Even though her blonde hair was long, and loose, she still had her duty face on, and no one was going to ask her to move her uniform cap off the seat next to her. "The judges like a girl to look a little feminine," she said to me once about her hair. I didn't say anything then, but something must have showed in my face. "What?" she had asked.

Woolgathering again. It's been a night for that. I step up.

"I didn't know you were still stuck on me, Witkowski", I say.

"Didn't want to leave a frail like you to find his way home after midnight," Witkowski says. She stuffs her report in an envelope and stands. "Ride?"

"I never got my dinner," I say. "And I'd say I owe you one. You hungry? Can I stand you to a midnight snack?"

She shrugs. "This way to the car."

Outside, she asks. "So what is it with you and the Sullivan girl?"

"Honest?" you say. "I just ran into her on the bridge. I hadn't seen or heard from her in months, since she got sent upstate."

"Give me a break, Clark. Just be straight with me," she says.

"I'd had a bad day. I'd left my usual bar when it was clear that it wouldn't help to hit the bottle and the music was just getting me down. I headed out to the river to watch the moon on the water. I got hungry and was crossing the bridge to get a late dinner. I look round and there she was at the rail. Something about her looked familiar, so I stopped. She looked like she was going to jump, so I ran across. I didn't even know who it was until I got there."

"That sounds like you," she says, and snorts. Then sniffs. "Except for one thing. You haven't been drinking."

"I was talking with the bartender," I say. "I never did have that first drink."

Witkowski cracks a smile. "Will wonders never cease." She gets in her cruiser and cracks the passenger door for you. "Sure, let's get a bite."

"Can I take you to Pico di Bono?" I say.

"There goes my reputation," she says. "What the heck, it never did me much good." She starts the car.

"What's new?" I ask. I eye the newly bare ring finger on her left hand.

"Nothing to write home about," Tina says. "Oh. Picked up a silver in the state finals last August." She smiles again. Two smiles in five minutes, heck, two in a day. Witkowski? Would wonders never cease, indeed.

Tina waits across from Pico Di Bono until the late night street cleaner gos by, then nabs a legal spot right in front.

"The park-anywhere plates are wasted on you, Witkowski," I say.

"I need all the good karma I can get, Clark," she says. "Even if I am Catholic."

"When did I ever hear you say a good word about the Pope?" I ask. Though it occurs to you that she does wear a cross and a little medal round her neck.

"Well, he's Polish," Witkowski says. "Looks good on skis. But you've put your finger on the question, Clark," she says. "Is the Pope Catholic?"

"Search me," I say.

We get out and close the doors. The cold damp air sets my head to throbbing. Faintly, compared to an hour ago. "God I feel good. Motrin beats aspirin all to heck."

Witkowski squints at you. "Delirious much?" she asks. "Let's check those pupils." Before I can turn away, she's up with her pocket MagLite.

"Ow!" I say. My left eye swims with purple afterimages and the flashlight is red through my right eyelid.

"Open up," Witkowski says.

I do. Better than standing all night with my eyes closed. "You're a bulldog, Witkowski," I say.

"Equal and reactive," she says. "Good. Probably meens you're not bleeding into your brain. Much."

"You're all heart." I say.

"You should take better care of yourself, Clark," she says.

"After you," I say, holding the door of Pico Di Bono open. The strains of opera drift out into the damp night.

"I'm never sure when you're joking with me, Clark," Witkowski says. She coughs. "Thank you," she says carefully, and lets me hold the door as she enters.

Valentina orders Zuppa di Pollo with double crackers and the meatloaf with a side of potato dumplings. I look at her face and restrain myself from joking about going to a Jewish deli instead.

I have to order something soft myself. I don't think any teeth are loose, but my earlier plans for a late steak dinner are right out. My jaw has felt worse, but it is not up to any aggressive activity tonight.

We chat about the police department, the city, my old cases. The food is good, and my head decides not to hurt any worse.

As we are finishing, the table next door, full of red-faced drinkers ending their evening, orders a brace of Joe's Specials with fried calamari alongside. When the egg-hamburger-and-spinach scrambles pass upwind, Witkowski's face turns white, and she stands up. "Gotta get some air, Clark," she says. "See you outside."

What a way to end a nice dinner.

I pay and find Witkowski standing unsteadily against the wall. She looks pale, a little green almost.

"What is it?" I ask.