Back in New York, and after having alighted from the Lexington Line at the 34^th Street stop on my brisk way to Monday morning work, I stop in at a newsstand and buy a copy each of The National Inquirer, Star and The Globe.  I figure if there’s a story—and if anyone’s going to cover it—one of these three mavericks will.  Grist for the tabloid mill originating anywhere west of the Hudson is not going to find its way into The Post or The Daily News—unless and until, that is, someone discovers that the grist belongs to one of our own.  Then, of course, she’s suddenly one of ours—so it’s big news.  But I know it’s my duty to Angie to make sure that never happens.  It would be a hell-of-a career boost, no doubt, but Angie can’t really use that kind of boost just now.  I suspect, even before opening any of the three papers I now carry folded under my arm, that her rather short-lived career is all played out.

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