In the lobby of a small, exclusive hotel on Manhattan’s East Side, a limo driver and a bellman quietly discuss the whereabouts of Lyle Lovett. “Have you seen him?” asks the driver.
The bellman nods. “Came through just a few minutes ago.”
“Was he with his friend?” asks the driver with a slight, coded smile.
The other’s smile is smug with fresh knowledge. “No. Another friend.”
I find him upstairs, in his suite. He comes forward in a black shirt and trousers with a handshake