"Bill, fasten your seat belt. Bumpy weather ahead."
That captured his attention in a flash. What in hell, he inquired, was I talking about?
"We need to get together, tonight." I continued.
"Where?"
"How about your place? Matter of fact, there's a real question just now, at least in Japan, concerning whether Tam and I are actually alive."
"Walton, what in God's name is going on?"
"In the fullness of time, friend, all things will be known. Now we see as through a glass darkly . . . well, actually we're seeing through the smudgy windows of the Plaza, suite three twenty-five, where we're presently holed up. But we've got to stay low profile for a few more days."
"Whatever you say," he replied, still puzzled. "Then how about dropping by here tonight for a quick one, and then afterward we can all mosey over to Mortimer's on Lex for a quick bite?"
"Okay. As long as we go late. I want to miss the happy-hour crowd."
This did not please him, but he agreed. My suspicions were he wanted to use the occasion to reconnoiter the glittery, jet-set ladies at the bar. Henderson, whose style and drawl undoubtedly distinguished him from the B-school competition there like a white-maned palomino in a herd of draft horses (investment drones who wore a beeper on their belt and used "bottom-line" as a verb), surely found the place a fertile hunting ground. Mortimer's was custom-made for his idiosyncratic style.