The apartment is done up and tidy, a balance he has struck from easy cleaning, hired help and rarely being home. There's a fragrant mix of cigar and cigarette smoke and cologne with a vague hint of cooking though the stove hasn't been on for days. Company is rare (and he likes to keep it that way), but when it does come along there is a certain manner of appearances he likes to keep up. A home should be a man's kingdom, and it should appear lived in.

There's a vague gesture to the liquor cabinet in the corner of the living room. "Help yourself," he's had Meyer over for dinner once, maybe twice, some time that seems far off now. It wasn't much, somewhat insightful into his associate's mannerisms and appetites, but he figures he might as well give him a refresher on the rules: here Al is a host, but he's nobody's waiter. One can take and touch what they need. If it's off limits, he won't be shy about letting anyone know.

"I'd be worried if this was payback for your party, but if you managed to cram sixteen girls into this box, it'd be pretty damn impressive."