We landed an elevator operating gig over at the Lindbergh Palace, if you can believe it.

Why are you dressed in bellboy uniforms?

Where're you going?

Hey.

Richie?

There he is, man.

I think if we shimmy up that gutter and jump across the window ledge we can pry open the ventilation shaft and --

I'm sorry. I have to refer you to Dr. Burroughs. He'll be in tomorrow afternoon.

Why? What does it say there? They don't want me?

I'm afraid visiting hours are over, sir.

Royal Tenenbaum.

Your name?

Richie Tenenbaum, please.

Well, I think you should quit.

Twenty-two years.

How long have you been a smoker?

Thank you.

And a light, please?

I bloody well know that.

You don't smoke.

Shall I repeat the question?

What?

May I have a cigarette?

All right, Raleigh. Let's not --

She's balling Eli Cash.

It doesn't matter.

What's he talking about?

And you've nearly killed your poor brother.

I'm sorry.

Many times over.

I know.

You've made a cuckold of me.

All right. That's enough. The doctor said to let him sleep. Can we get you anything, Richie?

Of course, it's dark. It's a suicide note.

Is it dark?

I don't think so.

Could you paraphrase it for us?

No.

Can we read it?

Yeah. Right after I regained consciousness.

You did?

I wrote a suicide note.

Don't press him right now.

Why'd you try to kill yourself?

Not really.

Are you in any pain?

Fine, thanks.

How do you feel?

He'll probably sleep for several hours, and then I'll come back to check on him.

Who?