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In the mid 90's, I had an agent, Stewart Richardson. He's dead now so all the big important facts are easy to verify: as editor in chief of Doubleday, he worked with James Dickey, John Updike and Robert F. Kennedy. Later he started his own press, got on a plane and signed Mikhail Gorbachev while in Russia. But back when he was my agent, way before the internet, verifying the facts about Stewart was tougher. Still, after a few Lexus/Nexus searches I knew he was telling the truth. As I spotted each news item, I grew more certain success was mine, or would be any day now.

Feeling that I needed to meet this man, I flew to New York where he graciously offered to take me for lunch at the Century Club. I didn't know what the Century Club was then but I found it at the appointed time and date. I knocked on the imposing door and was informed it was closed. Befuddled, I persuaded them to allow me to wait inside for Mr. Richardson. At the end of the day, he still had not come.

That night I learned that he had assumed that I would know that when the Century Club is closed you go next door to the Yale Club. There he had waited all afternoon, just as I had. We rescheduled for the next day, met at the appointed time and had lunch.

I remember admiring his broad Windsor knot and savoir faire. We talked about writing. When it comes to doing research, I am thorough. So I had tracked down Richardson's lone novel and read it. Stewart told me he thought nothing of that book, just an exercise to improve his skills as an editor.