There’s something about the anonymity of hotel rooms, with their promise of possibilities, that always cheers me up. I don’t know what that says about me, but it’s probably not good. I took a long, hot shower, got dressed in my snazzy clothes, took the elevator downstairs, and had a big breakfast consisting of fresh-squeezed orange juice, two fried eggs, a toasted English muffin, home fries, bacon, and three cups of coffee with cream while I read the New York Times in a coffee shop not too far away from the hotel. I was finishing my last cup when Paul called me on my cell. “How’s it going?” “It’s not.” I took a last sip and pushed the cup away. “I’m just about to get started.” “Do you know what time . . . ,” he began before I cut him off. “Hey, feel free to jump in whenever you want.” There was silence on the other end of the line. “I’ll call you when I have some news.” I pressed the off button and motioned for my check. The sun was out and the temperature was in the high thirties.
