All right, the guy was me. The bar was the always luxurious Max Stein’s in the wealthy suburban town of Lexington. The weight was of the whole world — or at least it felt like it at the moment. Max Stein’s, though, represented something of a respite, a place to gather with legendary Record reporter Vinny Mongillo during what felt like an uneasy calm before a particularly nasty storm. Or maybe it was the eye of the hurricane. I’m trying to think of other suitable weather-related clichés, but none come immediately to mind, except maybe that it was raining trouble, so with sincere apologies, we’ll leave it there. As I walked through the double doors, the appropriately named Richard Steer, the ever hospitable general manager who I’d known since what felt like the beginning of time, gave me a long, two-fisted handshake. “I’m betting this one’s driving you crazy,” he said. I only needed to nod for him to know that he was as on-point as usual. Vinny was already at the bar, two glasses of red wine in front of him and one in his hand, which he happened to be holding nearly sideways, peering through the glass, saying to my favorite bartender, Nam, “It’s got terrific legs.”
