I watch a lighted necklace of cars moving to and fro overhead, their lights diamond white and blood red. And below, the water is sluggish, greenish black and rippled. I don’t see any boaters out. Most of them will have gone in at sunset. On the opposite shore, Boston’s Back Bay is softly illuminated by the glowing windows of old brownstones and row houses. In the distance, the downtown skyline sparkles, and the night sky is a lighter shade of black, a deep charcoal over the harbor and the ocean, which I can’t see from here.

Marino turns off the engine, and we open our doors. No interior lights blink on because he’s always kept those switches off for as long as I’ve known him. It makes no difference what he’s driving. He doesn’t want to be an easy target, a deer in the headlights as he puts it, and we never have been in all of the miles I’ve ridden with him. Most vehicle-related mishaps when we’re together occur because I can’t see where I’m stepping, what I’m sitting on or exposed to when I’m in and out of anything he pilots.

But to give him credit, he’s much more meticulous about his cars, trucks and motorcycles than he ever was when we first started working together. I’ll never forget his tricked-out Crown Vics with their monster engines, and their long looping antennas bobbing like fishing poles. The ashtrays overflowed, the windows and mirrors at times were opaque from smoke. There were fast-food bags and chicken boxes everywhere, and usually I was sitting on salt that looked like sand everywhere. If you didn’t know what it was you might think Marino lived near a beach.

Overall he’s become more highly evolved. He still smokes but nowhere near as much, and when he does the great outdoors is his ashtray. He wouldn’t think of dirtying or stinking up his car, not that this is anything to brag about. When he eats while on the road he doesn’t rip into the packets of salt and ketchup the way he used to, and he’s much better about cleaning up. Nonetheless I prefer to see what I’m climbing into when he rides me around after dark.

I’ve earned my share of purple hearts from grease and various condiment stains on pants and skirts. I’ve banged my lower extremities against riot guns stored between or under seats, and slipped on running boards that are slick with Armor All. I’ve snagged my hose on a deer antler and hooked my thumb on a fishing lure in the glove box, which also is never lighted. Once we bumped over a bad pothole, and a Playboy centerfold fell out of the visor and into my lap. It was several editions old. Marino had forgotten it was there, I guess.