“You do now,” Graham said. “Bring them in, kid.”

Richard rolled in the cart and started to hang up the clothes bags and put the boxes of shirts, underwear, socks, and shoes into a bureau.

“I don’t need any clothes,” Neal said. “I’m going to stay in this robe, in this room, for the next couple of months, eating and reading newspapers.”

“You got about an hour,” Graham said. “We have an eleven o’clock meeting.”

“Let’s meet on the terrace. I’ll bring the iced tea.”

“I don’t think so,” Graham answered. “We’re going to Hollywood.”

“They’re remaking Rumpelstiltskin and you got the part?”

“We’re going to meet Mommy.”

Neal looked up long enough to grab a blueberry muffin.

“What happened to Thurman Munson?” he asked, pointing at the Yankees’ batting order.

“Will you hurry up and get dressed?” Graham said. “The limo will be here in less than an hour.”

“The limo?”

“Short for limousine,” Graham explained.

“We are going to Hollywood, aren’t we?”

Neal felt a little stiff in his new clothes-khaki slacks, blue shirt, olive jacket, and cordovan loafers. He also felt a little stiff sitting in the backseat of the stretch limo, Joe Graham beside him and a fully stocked bar, a television, and the back of the uniformed driver in the front seat.

Neal found a club soda, filled a glass with ice, and sipped at it as he watched the scenery on Sunset Boulevard. “I’m into consumption these days,” he explained.

“I can see that.”

“You look good, Dad,” Neal said.

Graham glared at him.

Graham did look good, though, Neal thought, although somewhat awkward in a blue blazer, white shirt, gray slacks, and those black leather shoes with the little pinholes in them. A big change from his usual plaid jacket, chartreuse trousers, and striped tie.