A handsome, uniformed bellhop ushers us off the street into the care of a blade-thin concierge, who hands us off to “Blake” at the front desk. Broad-shouldered, big-eyed Blake bids us welcome, drawing on his deepest reserves of self-control to keep from climbing over the counter and palming Esau’s crotch. I laugh and tell him hello—if his life depended on it, he couldn’t tell an interrogator whether Esau is escorted by a man, a woman, or a sea cow in a sunhat.
“We have a reservation,” I say. The second time, he even kind of hears me. He does his level best to flip his professional switch.
“And what’s your last name?”
“Schilling.”
“Ah yes,” he mutters. He types. He turns his mouth down at the corners. “We do indeed have your reservation, Mister Schilling. But the room has a king-size be
