A good concierge doesn’t ask questions. He hustled me out to the curb and into a waiting cab. The baffled driver started to ask, “Where—” “Just go! Just go!” He peeled out. Tiger! Tiger! Tiger-a-Go-Go! As we sped away from the hotel, I peeked over the back of the seat and saw Mr. Meathead on the curb, looking like he was about to have a heart attack.
