You give big enough odds, you’ll find a dreamer in this town to take them. A thousand-to-one that tomorrow’s Washington Post will feature a picture of Elvis and Ronald Reagan secretly worshipping a bust of Leon Trotsky in the laundry room of The White House? Done. Two-million-to-one that Mother Teresa will spend the night in the slammer after a barroom brawl in Passaic, New Jersey? Done. Five-trillion-to-one that a Rhode Island transportation official will issue a highway construction contract without taking a kickback…

Well, okay, there are some things no one would bet on.

When Nate emerged from the bathroom he was wearing white shoes, plaid trousers, a canary yellow shirt and a white golf hat.

“Funeral?” I asked.

“Why do you think they call me Natty?” Nate asked. He picked up his cane and asked, “So are we going or what?”

“We’re going,” I said.

It took a while to get to the bar. Not because the elevator was slow or the floor was particularly crowded but because Nate took the time to ogle each cocktail waitress that crossed within a fifty-foot radius of his immediate gaze.

Actually, it wasn’t so much an ogle as much it was a long, leisurely evaluation that started at the targeted woman’s feet and slowly progressed to the top of her head. Nate’s gaze started with a concentrated frown and ended with an appreciative smile. Nor was Nate the least bit surreptitious about it-he stared at these women with the unself-conscious glare of a judge in the bathing-suit competition at a beauty contest. It was the kind of look that would get the average man a subpoena.

But the objects of Nate’s attention just looked at his cute little avian face and smiled. One of those “Isn’t he cute?” smiles. They didn’t realize that while the old man was undressing them with his eyes he was undressing himself at the same time.