“Come in!” he called back.

A young waiter in a starched white uniform rolled in a stainless steel cart, flipped up a folding panel, opened the side doors, removed a white linen tablecloth, and laid it over the panel to form a little dining table. He placed a narrow vase with a single yellow rose on top, then the silverware wrapped in a linen napkin, then the silver coffee service, then a little silver container with slivers of butter in a small bowl of ice.

“I’m Richard,” he said. “Are you enjoying the Beverly, sir?”

“So far,” Neal answered, although he could barely remember even arriving at the Beverly. He sat up against the cushioned headboard.

“Do you want me to serve you now, sir?” Richard asked. “Or would you like to shower first?”

A shower? The closest thing Neal had come to a shower lately was a freezing waterfall.

“Shower, I think.”

“But may I pour you some coffee first?” Richard asked.

You bet, Richard, if it means that much to you. “Please,” Neal said.

Richard took out a heavy, cream-colored cup and saucer and carefully poured the coffee.

“Cream and sugar?” he asked.

“Neither.”

“All right,” Richard announced, “you have the Beverly Breakfast-coffee, grapefruit juice, scrambled eggs with bacon, and the basket with a selection of wheat toast, muffins, croissants, and Danish. I’ll keep it in here over the heater, so be very careful when you take it out, okay?”

“Okay.”

Richard placed two folded newspapers on the foot of the bed. “LA Times, New York Times…”

God bless you, Richard.

“… and if there’s anything else, you will please call and let me know. Now, sir, if you wouldn’t mind just signing here…”

Richard approached his bedside and handed him the check and a pen. Neal signed, added a tip to the already substantial service charge, and handed it back.