Tom Cruise sits splay-legged in an overstuffed chair smiling at the ceiling, rubbing his chin: “God, the last movie I saw on a date?” he says, repeating the question. He smiles harder. “Casablanca!” Then he sets off that artillery-fire laugh of his. What’s so funny? “I’m remembering the date,” he says, catching his breath. “It was a great date. Fun date. Really fun. Adventurous.” Now we’re getting somewhere. If the movie was Casablanca, the date must have been at his house. “No, it wasn’t,” Cruise says, shaking his head. “No more! No more! I was a good sport. I won’t tell you where I watched it . . .” Then it must have been . . . his plane. He put the plane on autopilot. “You’re bad!” the actor says, suddenly springing like a jack-in-the-box from his chair onto mine, bouncing my shoulders against the cushy back. He retreats, grinning. “I didn’t put it on autopilot.” Sitting back down, he swears, “I’m not saying another word.”