Chapter 8
I had lunch with Herb. We went to La Grille, the place where you pay extra to have pretty much the same food, but it’s a nicer atmosphere. The old me would have had a blast with it. As it was, I went with the flow, the flowing tablecloth, the flowing, canned violin music, the flowing wine. We had a lovely window table all to ourselves.
“Am I rushing you too much?” Herb asked. “At our age; oh, how blunt of me. I’m sorry. I’m not good with words. But, oh,” he babbled on now, much as I used to do when I’d get wound up with nervousness. It endeared him to me, that he could also get nervous and act like an i***t.
“Remember that newspaper writer guy,” he said, “the one who criticized everything? He was in the little Daily News today, something about him having to disappear to dodge
