I liked the hotel. The room I’d been provided was spacious, nicely furnished in an anonymous modern way, with a view of the Mississippi River where you could see the other cities across the way. The television reception was outstanding, and the room service wasn’t bad, either. The swimming pool was medium-size and the water was too warm, but nice to have, anyway.

You might think the Broker would come to my room to confab, but on this occasion, at least, he had me meet him in the lounge downstairs, a Gay ‘90s-theme bar with a modest nightclub-style dance floor and stage. At 3:30 p.m., the place was closed and we had the whole room to ourselves, just us and the gaudy San Francisco whorehouse decor. Broker was already ensconced in a red faux-leather button-tufted booth, his double-knit suit tan, his wide silk tie shades of tan and brown.

He was organized, the Broker. A pot of coffee for him and a glass of ice with two bottles of Coke waiting at my seat. The bottles were unopened, but of course an opener on a napkin was nearby. On Broker’s side of the table, a pack of Viceroys and a gold Zippo and an ashtray were poised for his use.

The baritone was warm and mellow: “Accommodations suit you, Quarry?”

That was the name Broker had started calling me. Whether it was a first name or last never came up- but the Broker was usually polite, so the absence of a “mister” in front of it may have indicated first. I had a feeling it was a sort of code name for the Broker, who did have a cute streak-a single-o, like Liberace or Tarzan or Cher.