I poked at my steak and waited for Broker to make a move. He made an effort not to look my way. I stared at him. At his brown double-knit pinstripe suit. At his distinguished white hair. At the prissy expression under the wispy mustache.

He stood, excused himself with his wife, who didn’t seem to notice he was getting up to go. He was a tall man, six-two and well-built, but he walked like he was gelded.

I watched him go past me and round the fireplace and head toward the restrooms. I waited a minute or two-I was willing to play his game that far-and then went after him.

He was washing his hands. A guy was taking a leak and one of the crappers was occupied. I walked over to one of the urinals and got busy.

After a while everybody left, except Broker and me, and I joined him at the sinks. Broker stopped washing his hands, but he kept the water running.

“Well?” he said.

“Don’t ever try pulling anything like this on me again, Broker.”

“How did it go?”

“It went.”

“Did you get what he had?”

I looked at the Broker’s double-knit brown suit. He was wearing a blue shirt and a white tie and his cheeks were rosy. He was fifty and he looked forty and his face was long and fleshy without many lines.

“I got it,” I said.

Somebody came in and Broker started washing his hands again. I joined him. The guy did what he had to and left.

“Seems like when I work with you,” I said, “all my time’s spent in toilets.”

“Is that where you took care of him? In a restroom?”

“No. I walked him out to the runway and threw him in front of a Boeing.”

A little dark guy with a little dark son came in and stood at the urinals, like a big salt shaker and a smaller pepper. When they were done they seemed to want to wash their hands, but Broker and me had the sink concession, so the pair gave up quick and left.