IN the early-morning light, a short, putty-faced man named Joe Szorentini took his normal position outside the main entrance of the Plaza Hotel. Nothing much stirred yet. The first hooded joggers were out and moving off in the direction of Central Park, and a distant police siren wailed, but that was about it. Szorentini bounced up and down on the balls of his feet. His eyes glanced from side to side. He was searching for arriving taxis or limousines. The landscape he saw never appreciably changed: taxis and limousines.
“Looks like a good day to be alive,” the doorman said to me. “That means we ought to have some people.”
Day after day, Szorentini scurried outside the big doors of the hotel like a vagrant pigeon, greeting the constant flow ...