I knew the porter there. As I came through the revolving doors, he said, “Rough night, Jack?” “Yeah.” “None of us getting any younger.” I palmed him a few notes, said, “Get us a pint and a half one.” The Southern, of course, is not an early house. Good Lord, God forbid. It does have a huge lobby with secluded corners. If you need a cure in tranquil seclusion, you won’t do better. Had just slunk down in a vast armchair when a man appeared. I thought it was my drinks. No . . . Brendan Flood. He said, “I saw you come in.” “Not now . . . OK?” “I have the information you require.” I was about to tap the envelope and say, “Me, too.” But he sat down. What I most didn’t want was him seeing me on the booze and first thing of a morning. Everything was down the toilet. The porter came and seemed surprised I’d company. All our eyes locked on the tray of drinks. Before I could launch into some half-assed lame story, Brendan said, “Same for me.” The porter gave us a look of confusion, asked, “You guys celebrating something?”
