Invasion of Privacy

absence of my briefcase?”
    “That’s what I meant.”
    “I have an attempted murder starting tomorrow, but the remaining pretrial motions and impaneling the jury will kill the whole day. So, tonight, no work for a change.”
    “Just ‘something different.’ ”
    “That’s right. Come on.”
    We stayed quiet in the elevator, Nancy slipping her arm into mine once we were outside again. A mime wearing chalky makeup and a black costume trudged toward us, parodying the walk of the tired commuter in front of him. Nancy said, “Never liked mimes.”
    “Leave me speechless too.”
    We walked to her car, a red Honda Civic, and she began driving, the traffic worse than ever because of the “Big Dig.”
    Nancy said, “You think they’ll ever finish it?”
    “Not in our lifetimes.”
    The Big Dig was what Boston called the attempt to drop the elevated “Central Artery” (which separates downtown from the waterfront) and to add a third harbor tunnel to Logan Airport . The project, thanks to something the late Tip O’Neil! worked out with then-President Ron, began as a two-billion-dollar effort; I’d stopped reading about the cost overruns when they’d hit $10 billion the prior summer. The demolition and reconstruction already had transformed rush “hour” into a 6:00 a.m. to 10:00 p.m. phenomenon, and the predictions were for round-the-clock problems and helicopter shuttles as the city slouched toward the new millennium.
    When Nancy swung into the North End, I said, “We’re not headed for Harvard Square .”
    “You know anybody who’d drive to the Square when the Red Line’s almost door-to-door by subway?”
    “Only you.”
    A measured pause. “I did that just once, and I’ll never do it again.”
    “Glad to hear it. So, where then?”
    “Be patient, John. Enjoy the scenery.”
    I looked out the window. Pile drivers, cement dust, and tarring crews. “No wonder we’re knee-deep in tourists this time of year.”
    “You’ve just become blind to the city’s charms.”
    The Civic crossed the Charlestown Bridge by North Station and another construction site, this one for the new Boston Garden , the stonework crowding one of the ramps not so far changed by the Dig. On the other side of the bridge, Nancy turned left and then right onto the Monsignor McGrath Highway before turning left again for Cambridge Street .
    I said, “Busman’s holiday.”
    “What?”
    “We’re going to the Middlesex Courthouse.”
    “Negative.”
    Continuing west on Cambridge Street , we passed the Middlesex County jail and court building. A mile or so later, Nancy parked across from a bright stucco restaurant.
    The sign read CASA PORTUGAL . “I hope I know what this means.”
    “Only the beginning.”
    “ ‘Only just the start,’ ” I sang softly.
    Nancy canted her head. She’s a lot younger than I am, and sometimes it shows.
    “Old Chicago tune, Nance.”
    “ Chicago being a band?”
    I cleared my throat. “Right.”
    We crossed the street and stepped up into the restaurant, a cozy, low-ceilinged room that seats maybe forty people. The tables are small and comfortably separated, the walls covered with colorful frescoes of what I’ve always taken to be Portugal . The former owner sometimes had guitar players and singers perform in front of the fireplace, but the establishment was always more restaurant than cabaret, and the music was too much sound. His successor has members of his own family waiting on tables, the place pretty successful since it’s changed hands only once in the twenty-some years I’ve been going there.
    The current owner welcomed us at the door and provided escort to the candlelit table for two in the window looking onto Cambridge Street . We opened the big menus, but really only for something to do, since we always have the same entrees there: the marinated pork cubes for Nancy, the veal marsala for me, both accompanied by the house’s kale soup, homemade bread, and Portuguese french fries, the last like thick, deep-fried potato chips.
    Nancy asked me to pick a wine. After the owner left us, I said, “You were kidding, right?”
    “Kidding about what?”
    “About not recognizing the name of the band.”
    A smile tweaked the corners of her mouth. “I don’t know what you mean, John.”
    “Nance, everybody’s heard of Chicago . I mean, they had a dozen hits in the—”
    “John, John, I was kidding, all right? What’s got you so touchy?”
    The owner arrived with our wine, a