“May I ask you a question, Richard?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Where am I?”

Richard didn’t even blink. He was used to serving breakfasts on many mornings after the night before.

“The Beverly Hilton, sir.”

“Keep going.”

“Beverly Hills… Los Angeles…”

“Yeah?”

“California.”

“I just want to hear the words, Richard.”

“The United States…”

“Of…”

“America, sir.”

“Beautiful, Richard.”

“Far out, sir.”

Far out, indeed, Neal thought as he took his first sip of coffee. Black coffee, strong coffee. His caffeine addiction came back like an annoying old friend.

Richard left and Neal took his coffee into the bathroom, which was larger than his cell back in China. He looked at the telephone on the wall, within easy reach of the toilet, and decided that the people who stayed in this place must be busy people. He turned the shower on and reveled in the smell of clean, hot water. He opened the little cardboard box of designer soap, took the little bottle of designer shampoo, and stepped into the shower.

He scoured himself with the soap, scrubbed his hair with the shampoo, and then stood under the steaming jet for a good five minutes longer than necessary. In China he had been treated to a weekly bath in a shallow tub full of lukewarm water that had been used by at least three other men before him, so this shower was a treat.

He stepped out reluctantly, lured by the scent of coffee, the image of scrambled eggs and bacon, and the thought of a newspaper. He found a white terrycloth robe in the closet, slipped it on, and went back into the main room to investigate breakfast.

Joe Graham was munching on his toast.

“How did you get in?” Neal asked.

“I could get used to this,” Graham mumbled. “A very clean place. I got an extra key from the front desk. Can I warm that up for you?”