Perry couldn't bring himself to feel envious of Lester having a chauffeured car, though it was clear that Lester was embarrassed by the luxury. It was too much like an invalid's subsidy to feel excessive. "Kap," Lester said, stirring in the nest of paper and parts and empty health-food packages that he'd made of the back-seat. Kapriel looked over his shoulder at them. "Home now?" He barely had an accent, but when he turned his head, Perry saw that one ear had been badly mangled, leaving behind a misshapen fist of scar. "No," Lester said. "Let's eat out tonight. How about Musso and Frank?" "Ms Suzanne says --" "We don't need to tell her," Lester said. Perry spoke in a low voice, "Lester, I don't need anything special. Don't make yourself sick --" "Perry, buddy, shut the fuck up, OK? I can have a steak and a beer and a big-ass dessert every now and again. Purified medicated fatkins-chow gets old. My colon isn't going to fall out of my asshole in terror if I send a cheeseburger down there." They parked behind Musso and Frank and let the valet park the town car. Kapriel went over to the Walk of Fame to take pictures of the robotic movie stars doing acrobatic busking acts, and they went into the dark cave of the restaurant, all dark wood, dark carpets, pictures of movie stars on the walls. The maitre d' gave them a look, tilted his head, looked again. Calmly, Lester produced a hundred-dollar bill and slid it across the podium. "We'd like Orson Welles's table, please," he said. The maitre d' -- an elderly, elegant Mexican with a precise spade beard -- nodded affably. "Give me five minutes, gentlemen. Would you care to have a drink in the bar?" They sat at the long counter and Perry ordered a Scotch and soda. Lester ordered water, then switched his order to beer, then non-alcoholic beer, then beer again. "Sorry," he said to the waitress. "Just having an indecisive kind of night, I guess." Perry tried to figure out if Lester had been showing off with the c-note, and decided that he hadn't been. He'd just gone native in LA, and a hundred for the maitre d' when you're in a hurry can't be much for a senior exec. Lester sipped gingerly at his beer. "I like this place," he said, waving the bottle at the celebrity caricatures lining the walls. "It's perfect Hollyweird kitsch. Celebrities who usually eat out in some ultra-modern place come here. They come because they've always come -- to sit in Orson Welles's booth." "How's the food?" "Depends on what you order. The good stuff is great. You down for steaks?" "I'm down for whatever," Perry said. Lester was in his medium here, letting the waiter unfold his napkin and lay it over his lap without taking any special notice of the old man.