The Fat Innkeeper (A Hotel Detective Mystery Book 2)

by Alan Russell

  Am turned off the radio. There was no word yet on the other autopsy, a headache yet deferred. He had wanted to get to work early, but decided there was another priority. He looked through his album collection, mentally acknowledging that he was still a dinosaur for having one. These days it’s hard to find record stores. LPs are endangered species, kept precariously alive by a few fossils.

  He found the album, took off the record sleeve, and wiped some dust off the vinyl. Then he played the whale songs, and added a few cries of his own.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Annette’s radio had never worked the entire time that Am had owned her. Her relative silence, which usually lasted as long as they were in sight of the ocean, was one of the best things about her. One of his friend’s young sons enthusiastically called her a “big horse.” She was a horse of a different color for sure.

  Annette drove contentedly along the coast, humming her “life’s a beach” chorus. When Am arrived at the Hotel he pulled into Outer Mongolia, sliding in next to a silver Lexus that was being parked at the same time. Most employee vehicles knew the potholes of Tijuana only too well, with fully half the staff carpooling from south of the border every day. The average employee’s car was witness to a score of dings, and was more than a hundred thousand miles removed from the dealer’s showroom. You didn’t often see luxury cars in employee parking, which made Am notice the Lexus, and especially its driver.

  He was surprised Hiroshi didn’t have the valets bringing his car to and from the Hotel. Am remembered how his former GM had never deigned to walk out to the parking lot. He always made a point of marching over to the valet stand and turning on the stopwatch mode on his watch, a motion that struck fear in the hearts of the parking staff. If his car was there within five minutes, the valets were safe. Anything over that time, and there was major trouble. It was refreshing to see an owner parking his own car. If that was the Japanese way, it wasn’t all bad.

  The Fat Innkeeper had not yet noticed Am, but he had noticed Annette, was walking around her making little noises.

  “Good morning,” said Am. Even though he had listened to the entire whale album, it was still a little before 8 AM.

  “Good morning,” said Hiroshi, slightly bowing. There was an excited look to his eyes. He pointed to Annette and asked “1950?”

  “1951,” said Am.

  “Beautiful.”

  “Thank you.” Am was convinced Annette heard all the compliments directed her way, and responded vainly.

  “May I see under the hood?” Hiroshi asked so politely, and looked so shy, you would have thought he was asking to look under a woman’s skirt.

  Am opened the hood. Compared to modern cars, there wasn’t much to see. The engine, a flat-head 3.9 liter V-8, was remarkable in its simplicity. His neighbor Jimbo claimed the car was incredibly easy to work on, but then he didn’t have to pay for the parts. The Fat Innkeeper traced his fingers along the engine, gently touching here and there. He had a big smile on his face. “Beautiful,” he said again.

  “Would you like to see inside of the car?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Very much.”

  There’s a lot of room in a 1951 Ford wood-paneled wagon. Hiroshi explored most of its inches. Then he sat behind the wheel, looking as happy as a kid navigating a bumper car.

  “I’d tell you to take her for a spin,” said Am, “but getting used to the gears takes a little bit of doing. Maybe later we can go for a ride.”

  “Today?”

  Hiroshi’s eager response surprised Am. He obviously didn’t know that the American translation of “maybe later” was “when hell freezes over.”

  “That’s fine,” said Am. “How about this afternoon?”

  “What time?”

  “Is three o’clock good for you?”

  “I will be here,” Hiroshi said.

  Reluctantly, the Fat Innkeeper took his leave of Annette and joined Am. They fell into step, walking along one of the garden paths toward the Hotel.

  “America was a wonderful place in the nineteen fifties,” said Hiroshi, his nostalgic tone surprising Am. It wasn’t as if he had lived in America during those times. Hell, thought Am, the man hadn’t even been born then.

  “It ruled the world,” Hiroshi said. “All nations fell in respectful step behind it. And it offered such abundance, such wonderful ostentation. Like your car.”

  Hiroshi’s English was very good. Most of Am’s American friends wouldn’t have even attempted the word ostentation. But he wasn’t sure he liked the Fat Innkeeper’s speech. It sounded like a national postmortem. The country still had a heartbeat, didn’t it?

  “America was great then,” said Hiroshi. “It was the hope of the world. It was the flagship.”

  Am decided to argue. It was, after all, the American way. “Maybe the United States is just navigating a new course,” he said. “Ostentation had its time. So did goldfish swallowing and panty raids. Another era has arrived. Now we have to try and reinvent our greatness.”

  “Goldfish swallowing and panty raids?”

  Sushi before anyone in America knew the word, innocence before being jaded. Was the thought translatable? Were white picket fences, main-street parades, and coffee shops with homemade pie? Or were those just nostalgic images, and no longer the heartbeat of the land? The new America was a place where salsa now outsold ketchup, a place of change.

  “No one ever told us puberty was difficult,” explained Am.

  Hiroshi might have understood, or he might have just been acting polite. He offered a considerate nod. They walked along in silence. Am was about to excuse himself and cut over to the security hut when the Fat Innkeeper asked him: “How is Dr. Kingsbury?”

  Am wasn’t sure if Hiroshi’s question sounded funny because his English was inadequate, or whether there was a cultural interpretation involved. The Japanese treat death very differently from Americans, in particular if a family member has died. Their ancestor worship often confuses westerners, who sometimes hear them referring to the dead as if they were still among the living.

  “Dr. Kingsbury was a very committed man who was not afraid of stepping on toes,” said Am. “I’ve already found several people who would have welcomed his death.”

  Go ahead, Am thought. Be the messenger and give him more bad news. “The autopsy results should be released this morning, and his murder announced. You might consider keeping a low profile. The media is sure to be around.”

  The Fat Innkeeper didn’t seem to be as concerned with the media as with Dr. Kingsbury. “It is a shame he died here”—he searched for the word—“incomplete.”

  Am interrupted. “A shiryoo.”

  Hiroshi shook his head slightly. “Worse,” he said. “A muenbotoke, a wandering spirit. It is that sad existence between life and death. I think that is where Dr. Kingsbury is now. He is disconnected from his household.”

  Was there some autobiography in his remark? Sharon had discussed Hiroshi’s relations with his own family. The oceans weren’t the only expanse between him and his kin. If she was right, in many ways the younger Yamada was in exile.

  Am considered the new word. Muenbotoke. Westerners often call Japanese “the devil’s language.” American youngsters (some of them) learn 26 letters; Japanese children (all of them) learn a minimum of 1850 characters. The Japanese language itself has fewer sounds than any other major language, which requires its speakers to ascribe numerous meanings to its sounds, and the listeners to understand all the nuances. Mastering the language was difficult enough. A westerner who is proficient in the devil’s language always surprises, even frightens, the Japanese, but their language is often thought to be a lesser hurdle to understand than their culture. Most Japanese are convinced that their culture can never be interpreted by a westerner. A gaijin will always be just that—an outsider.

  “I have been acquainting myself with Dr. Kingsbury’s life,” said Am. “I am hoping that will help me come to terms with his death.”

&nb
sp; “Listen to his spirit,” said Hiroshi. Had he taken a course from Brother Howard? “Don’t be afraid to use your dai rokkan—your sixth sense.”

  “I have problems enough with my five senses,” Am said.

  He regretted his petulant tone of voice, but the Fat Innkeeper didn’t seem to notice. “I go this way,” said Am.

  Hiroshi paused to bow. “I will see you at three o’clock.”

  Am returned his bow, and then they parted paths, the Japanese man continuing west, and Am going east.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  For the second morning in a row Am was greeted with the message that Mr. Takei wanted to see him immediately. At least Flanders wasn’t on Control. The information was passed on by Jan Calvin.

  “What’s up?” asked Am.

  Jan was a pleasant older woman who much preferred giving out homemade cookies to everyone working security than bad news. “Another pretender,” she said.

  “No,” said Am. “No. No.”

  “I’ve already sent Officer Wilson to Mr. Takei’s office,” she said. “Carlos Calderon is also there.”

  Carlos was a reservationist. “Why Carlos?” asked Am.

  “The new wannabe general manager doesn’t speak English very well,” said Jan. “Carlos is translating.”

  Great, thought Am. The HRD imposter was running out of gullible Americans. Now he was recruiting Mexicans. Mierda. Translate that.

  “Anything else?” He hoped they were at least up to the Bs on an alphabetical Hotel trouble list. Botulism and bubonic plague came to mind.

  “Ward Ankeney called,” she said. “He had a question about a charge you submitted.”

  So soon? One of the last things Am had done the night before was submit an expense form for his session with Brother Howard. He had tucked the chit in the middle of other paperwork, hoping against hope it might just be processed. Red-flagged first thing. Why was it that the Hotel was invariably efficient when it went against his interests?

  “He wants you to see him whenever it’s convenient for you.”

  So he can give me a face-to-face no, thought Am, instead of one over the telephone. Am gave Jan a weak imitation of a Roman salute, then went outside and commandeered a utility vehicle. There are some mornings you feel every pothole in the road was carved with your name on it. Am found more than a few of those. Halfway to the administrative offices the vehicle died. He abandoned the cart, kicked it, and walked the rest of the way.

  Diana Wade was the only person in the administrative offices. She smiled at Am, said that “this boss was easier to evict than the last,” and that he was being interviewed in the Board Room.

  “What do you mean, ‘interviewed’?” asked Am.

  “Mr. Takei’s decided to go into the detective business,” she said.

  He hurried over to the Board Room, regretting that he couldn’t speak Japanese better. In particular, Am wanted to know how to say “shit.”

  Takei had probably seen some American films where the suspects were interrogated under strobe lights. The Board Room was a meeting planner’s dream, had lights designed to key on speakers, or spotlight whatever necessary. Takei had the lights on the kid. He was eighteen or nineteen, and looked scared. He was sweating a lot (the bright lights weren’t helping), and declaring what must have been his innocence in high-pitched Spanish. Takei wasn’t buying any of it. He was pacing around smoking a cigarette, had his own personal black cloud hanging over his head. Carlos was translating and looking like he felt sorry for the kid. Security Officer Wilson, a Camp Pendleton Marine who worked a few shifts a week to supplement his pay, was eyeing the suspect disdainfully. The kid wasn’t putting up a fight, and he was giving out a lot more than name, rank, and serial number.

  “Wilson,” said Am.

  The flattop Marine squared his shoulders. “Yes, sir.”

  That was one good thing about the Marines. They taught you how to kill politely. “Why don’t you go write up a report and leave it on my desk.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Takei wasn’t as easily dismissed. It was clear he was not pleased to see Am, but that wasn’t anything new. He ignored him, continuing his pacing. “Ask him,” said Takei, “if he could make a selection of this man out of a police assemblage of characters.”

  When Takei was excited, his accent was more pronounced and his English more circuitous. Carlos had trouble following what he was saying. “Excuse me?” he said.

  “Pardon?” asked Takei.

  “He wants to know,” said Am, “if the kid could pick out the man who hired him in a police lineup.”

  As if the police would organize a bogus personnel-director lineup. Am’s disgusted tone was easily translatable in any language, but Carlos was wisely only interpreting the words. Am thought about what was going into the equation. A Japanese mind had produced an English inquiry that was disdainfully simplified by an American (make that Californian) and then handed over to a first-generation American Latino who delivered it to a Mexican. The result was more high-pitched protestations. Carlos duly notated the response. He had been keeping notes. Am picked up his notepad, saw that it was half-full.

  “Have they delivered the sand-filled rubber hoses yet?” he asked Takei.

  “What? I don’t understand.”

  Am shook his head, turned back to Carlos. “Did the fake HRD identify himself as Fletcher again?”

  The boy looked up into the lights, acknowledged a familiar name. “Señor Fletcher?”

  That answered that. “And did Señor Fletcher speak Spanish?”

  “Well enough,” said Carlos, “to make José here think he was going to be chief executive officer. Jefe.”

  “Jefe,” repeated the boy.

  “The phony personnel guy brought a Spanish-American dictionary with him, Am,” said Carlos. “He told José that they needed a new boss who spoke Spanish very well because most of the staff was Mexican and they couldn’t understand what the Japanese wanted them to do.”

  “Might be something to that,” said Am with a loud sigh.

  Cultural understanding doesn’t happen overnight. Sometimes not even over years. Am had known Ana, one of the Hotel maids, for over a decade. She had invited him to her son’s high school graduation party in National City, and he had been the only gringo there. Everyone else at the fiesta was given tortillas, but Ana gave Am white bread, had made a special point of buying it just for him because she knew he was coming to the party. Though Am would have much preferred the tortillas, he ate the white bread as if it were manna from heaven, and in so doing had probably perpetuated yet another stereotype. It was the first white bread he had eaten in years.

  “Okay, Carlos,” said Am. “Why don’t you take the kid to human resources and have him fill out another application.”

  Carlos nodded, started translating to the bewildered young man. Takei suddenly awakened, turned to Am. “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Trying to do my job, part of which is acting on safety violations. Mr. Takei, it goes against fire regulations to be smoking in an enclosed space within the grounds of the Hotel. I’ll have to ask you to extinguish your cigarette.” Takei’s eyes bulged out. They were red and furious. For a second Am thought he was going to swallow his cigarette. He didn’t, but he did act in a manner decidedly un-Japanese. He broke his cigarette in two, dropped the pieces on the conference table, and loudly announced, “Kusou!” Then he turned around and angrily marched out of the room.

  Sometimes answers come to you unbidden. Guess I now know how to say “shit” in Japanese, thought Am.

  Chapter Forty

  Ward Ankeney was chewing on one of his small pipes and whistling at the same time. At least someone was in a good mood.

  Am sat down in a chair, offered a greeting, then innocently asked, “You had a question about an expense report of mine, Ward?”

  The controller took the unlit pipe out of his mouth, nodded, then started hunting through a pile of paperwork for Am’s receipt. “You turne
d in a voucher that seemed pretty ambiguous, Am,” he said. “If I didn’t ask you about it, then you-know-who would undoubtedly come down on me for not asking.”

  At one time Ward had been the final word on all financial and accounting questions. Although by title he was still controller, now he reported to Kiichi Matsuda, the chief financial officer. Ever since the Japanese had taken over, there had been a hierarchical musical chairs of managers and staff throughout the Hotel. At least Yamada Enterprises hadn’t just assumed control of the property and then fired most of the staff, an all-too-common occurrence during American takeovers.

  Ward handed Am the expense report in question. For several seconds Am pretended to look at the paper as if he couldn’t understand what was wrong with it, then decided to give up that ruse.

  “It’s like this, Ward,” he said, then told him the story.

  The controller listened with interest. During the course of the telling he picked up a slightly larger pipe and started chewing on it. Ward did very little in the way of interrupting, just made a few notes on a yellow pad of paper, but probably did that just to give one of his hands something to do. When Am finished, Ward played with the pad for a few moments.

  “I don’t know, Am. Writing down ‘security expense’ and then submitting a credit-card receipt looks pretty lame. Majordomo Matsuda likes more substantiation than that.”

  “Like what, Ward? A message from one of his ancestors? The more I try and substantiate the charge, the weirder it’s going to look.”

  The controller didn’t say anything, just looked over the expense report and credit-card voucher. The slip said “B.H. Enterprises.”

  “You didn’t hear it from me, Am, but let’s assume on your expense report this ‘B.H. Enterprises’ was listed as a consultant. The new ownership seems pretty keen on hiring every consultant in town. And without fudging too much, you could say you received advice on a security matter. Given that kind of notation, I’d probably be able to approve payment without asking you anything.”