by Alan Russell
“Fletcher” was elaborating on his practical joke. That wasn’t good news as far as Am was concerned. Now he was even coaching the pretenders to the throne. The kid was wearing his defensiveness. It fit about as well as his sports jacket, which was a couple of sizes too large for him, probably his father’s. The tie he was wearing had gone out of style about the year he was born.
“What else did Fletcher tell you?” asked Am.
“That you and others would be jealous. That you’d try and confuse me, and trick me into thinking there had been some mistake about my being hired.”
“And what were you supposed to do while all this trickery was going on?”
“Remain in this office and wait for Mr. Yamada. He’s going to explain everything to all of you.”
Am sighed. The staff thought these periodic visits by the “new” managers were hilarious, but the joke wasn’t only on Takei; the kid was involved too. He was serious, and his lip was trembling a little. Everything was going like the script he had been presented, a script Am was beginning to resent more and more.
“And what did Mr. Fletcher tell you to do if we insisted you leave this office?”
Larry was never going to be wearing a Phi Beta Kappa key, but he seemed a nice enough fellow. He hadn’t yet learned business poker, how to hold cards, and bluff, and up the ante. “He said that I should refuse. That I was just to wait for Mr. Yamada.”
Fletcher undoubtedly thought that involving the Fat Innkeeper would make his joke that much more special.
“And now that you’re sitting here, Larry, does that advice, or anything else Mr. Fletcher told you, make any sense?”
The teen didn’t respond, but he sure did seem to be thinking. He face showed his growing doubts.
“We don’t know who this Mr. Fletcher is,” said Am. “The only thing we do know is that he is obviously angry with the Hotel, and is using young men like you to get back at us. I could call for help. There are a few people on this staff who’d probably enjoy dragging you screaming out of this office, but that’s not what I want to do.”
The kid sank into the chair. “I just came here looking for a job,” Larry said. “A good job.”
Fletcher had played on a universal fantasy. The Horatio Alger rags-to-riches through hard-work stories have never been as popular in this country as the Rita Hayworth fables. To be human is to await discovery, whether at a Schwab’s drugstore or at a bus stop. Larry had been seduced by a Publishers Clearing House mentality, the idea that fate’s finger had just been itching to tap him on the shoulder. Naïveté was the only requirement for the “job” he had landed.
“I can’t promise you a job,” said Am, “good or otherwise. But I can get you an interview with Linda Gold, the Hotel’s real human-resources director.”
Am’s offer didn’t immediately win the kid over. Maybe he really was GM material. But it did prevail over the histrionics that Fletcher obviously wanted. Larry reluctantly rose from his chair. He’d recover. We all find out about Santa Claus someday.
“No one’s in personnel yet,” said Am. “How about I buy you a cup of coffee first?”
Larry preferred cocoa to coffee, and asked for extra marshmallow topping. At first he was quiet, perhaps a little ashamed, but then he began to open up to Am, asking him questions about the Hotel. Am forgot about Larry’s youthfulness, and how his belief system was still intact. Am didn’t take things with a grain of salt, just assumed he was dealing with Lot’s wife unless he discovered otherwise. When Larry asked him how long he had worked in the hotel business, Am told him he wasn’t sure whether he should answer in human years or dog years. His cynical assessments on life, and the hotel industry in general, scared Larry.
“I’m beginning to think,” said the young man, “that I shouldn’t apply for any job here.”
The kid’s solemn pronouncement made Am feel like a pretty bad career counselor. “Look,” he said, “if you’re a people junkie, working in hotels can be a great job. Next to being a parish priest, I can’t think of another profession that allows you to help mankind more. At times you feel like you’re being paid to be a good Samaritan. It’s a job where the psychic income can be very high. Recently I helped Dr. Jonas Salk book some rooms for his friends. No, I didn’t create the polio vaccine, but at the Hotel California you get to experience a lot of secondhand immortality.”
“Who’s Dr. Salk?” the kid asked.
God, thought Am. I’m that next generation. That’s one thing Southern California doesn’t give courses in—how to be middle-aged.
Am took out his notepad. It was time to play the house dick. Larry had applied for a job at the Hotel ten days ago. Human resources had supplied him with an application. He had been told to fill it out, and that he would be contacted if an opening became available. Larry had left his completed application atop an empty counter. He figured that the woman who had helped him would process it when she returned. That didn’t narrow Am’s list of suspects, as human resources was a frequently visited department and anyone could have walked in and picked up Larry’s application.
Larry said that he had been called three days ago by a man who identified himself as Mr. Fletcher, head of human resources. He had agreed to meet with Mr. Fletcher at a nearby Denny’s, was told to look for a man wearing a carnation. Fletcher had explained he liked conducting his interviews away from the Hotel so as to put the candidates at ease. Am had heard the same story from all the others Fletcher had “hired.”
Fletcher always remained seated during his interviews, making it impossible for anyone to guess his height. Am couldn’t be sure whether he was dealing with the same individual, or a cabal of personnel-director imitators. Copy-cat hirings might be a new fad for Hotel employees. So far Fletcher had been a blond, a brunet, and a redhead, and his complexion had ranged from pasty to tanned. He was said to be between forty-five and sixty-five. The only thing that had remained the same was his made-up name, and the enthusiastic use of his hands. The man liked to gesture, to use his digits in operatic form.
Any distinguishing marks? No, said the kid. Anything that made Fletcher stand out? No.
Any reason for me to be optimistic about figuring out who the imposter is? thought Am. No.
Chapter Ten
The fog was showing signs of lifting, which on this morning wasn’t necessarily a very good thing.
The whale wasn’t improving with age, and that was playing havoc with the Hotel. For once, Am found himself grateful for being removed from the rigors of the front desk. Beleaguered clerks had told him that virtually everyone in the Hotel was asking for new room assignments. All of the guests were convinced there had to be a better room location, somewhere upwind from the whale.
City crews were on the scene trying to figure out what to do with thirty tons of putrefying mammal. Apparently they didn’t have the kind of equipment that could just raise up the whale and haul it away. The word was that some vivisection was going to be necessary. The sight of a whale being butchered on the beach would undoubtedly stir up the guest hornet nest once again.
Despite the smell, the beach was crowded with the curious. There was a lot of picture taking going on, Lilliputians excited by the presence of the whale. The park and recreation department had sequestered off the area around the whale. Yellow “Do Not Cross” tape was rapidly becoming a part of the Hotel colors. Am hoped the Hotel prankster wouldn’t get it into his mind to paint a white outline of the whale in the sand after it was removed.
The boardwalk was crowded, something that usually only happened during the summer. There was gridlock along the beach wall closest to the whale. Among the spectators was a familiar face, and a familiar tail. Wallace Talbot was out for a walk with his black cocker spaniel Cinder. For more than half a century Wallace had lived at the Hotel. He acted like a character out of the silent films, was famous for his courtly gestures and fanciful ways. Wallace was wearing a colorful ascot, a French beret, and a white poplin suit. On another man the clothes migh
t have looked foppish, but it was an outfit Wallace wore well.
Between man and dog, and trying to avoid being tripped up by the leash, was an attentive woman Am assumed was an artist. More and more painters were now seeking Wallace out. He must be gratified, thought Am, that his art was finally being recognized on a national, if not international, level. Most of Wallace’s canvases featured the vistas of the La Jolla Strand. He had done more than a thousand paintings of the area, but the octogenarian claimed he had “barely scratched the surface of its possibilities.” Am hoped a dead whale wasn’t going to emerge from his brush anytime soon.
Am worked his way forward to say hello. As he drew nearer, he began to reevaluate his assumption that the woman was an artist. The sketchpad and brush he had thought she was holding turned out to be a pen and memo book. A purse was hanging from one shoulder, and a small tape recorder from the other.
Reporter, Am thought. Probably doing a story on Wallace Talbot. But on the odd chance she wasn’t…
Am started to turn away, but Wallace espied him. “Holden,” he yelled. “Don’t be shy.” To make sure of his capture, Wallace released Cinder. She went to Am straightaway, trained by the many treats he had brought her over the years. Even though his hands were empty, she was still glad to see him. She settled her head between his fingers, confident of a good scratching.
With his usual theatrical air, Wallace motioned with his arms in grand sweeps while making introductions. “Holden Caulfield,” he said, “also known by the enigmatic first name of Am, I’d like you to meet Marisa Donnelly.”
Am was used to Wallace calling him Holden, after The Catcher in the Rye’s Holden Caulfield. Salinger’s character had obviously impressed Wallace, for he always gave the name special emphasis, as if it were a title. As far as Am was concerned, it was significantly better than Urechis caupo.
“Pleased to meet you,” said Am, shaking her hand. Marisa was not the kind of woman Am usually ran away from. She was about thirty, had a smooth olive complexion, raven hair, and large green eyes. Her eyebrows were dark and thick, her hair long and slightly wavy. Marisa’s white and shapely teeth, set off by rose gums, should have been used to promote some toothpaste, that, or her all-too-brief smile could have been the basis for a lot of UN accords.
“Holden is the Hotel’s glue,” explained Wallace. “Every great hotel needs its magic, and Holden is the magician that makes everything right.”
“Security director,” said Marisa, reading his name tag.
“Catcher in the rye,” announced Wallace.
“Formerly assistant general manager of the Hotel,” explained Am, “but currently assigned to the safety and security department.” It wasn’t that Am felt he had to apologize for his job, or at least not exactly. But some people assume you are what you work.
“Marisa is a reporter with the Union-Tribune,” said Wallace.
“Formerly an editor at Harcourt Brace Jovanovich,” she said.
Am felt better. He wasn’t the only one explaining.
“She’s out here doing a story on our unexpected visitor,” explained Wallace.
“Actually,” she said, “I’m here on two stories. Since I was already at the Hotel covering the UNDER convention, I was told to write a sidebar piece on the whale.”
For a moment, Am almost asked her if she had written the story on Dr. Kingsbury’s death. He had assumed that most of the information had come from the obituary on file. You know you’ve made it, he thought ruefully, when newspapers already have your obituary written up. None of the newspaper stories had even hinted that Kingsbury’s death could have resulted from anything other than natural causes. That was the way McHugh wanted it, and Am as well. Reporters would only cloud the investigative waters.
“So,” she said, “for the record, how have your guests been reacting to the whale?”
Am lied. He said that they had been very understanding, had been good sports about the whole thing. Why, said Am, one guest had commented that this would be some whale of a tale to tell all of his friends.
Marisa clicked off her tape recorder. “Am,” she said, “must be short for Am-nesia. I just came from the front desk. There were people there asking for refunds and reduction in rates. It looked like there were droves of early checkouts, and there was one man even threatening to sue. And everybody, I mean everybody, wanted to move to another room.”
“Really?” said Am.
“Not going to help me win my Pulitzer, are you?”
Am tilted his head toward the unmoving mountain of whale. “Unless you can prove that whale’s Moby Dick,” he said, “I wouldn’t start working on any acceptance speech.”
“Maybe the autopsy will show something.”
Was Am imagining it, or was there a double meaning in her tone? And was she watching him closely to gauge his reaction, or was that just a friendly glance?
“Sorry to dash any hopes,” said Wallace, “but as both of you surely know, the White Whale was a sperm whale, whereas this one has already been identified as a gray whale.”
“Better luck with your next investigative story,” said Am.
“Oh,” she said sweetly, sizing him up for a final harpoon, “I haven’t given up on this one yet.”
Chapter Eleven
Anyone who has worked in hotels for a few years wouldn’t have much trouble leaving the business to set up shop as an experienced psychic. Being a good reader of the human trade is an important part of the hotel craft. Much in the way a doctor examines patients, so does hotel staff observe guests, the body human announcing itself in various ways to both professions. In a glance, an adept clerk can often anticipate a skipper, a complainer, or a midnight party. They can sense friend or foe, and all the gray areas between, their call usually based on their five senses, though those outside the business would swear such prognosticating to be a product of their sixth sense.
Often, hotel employees can’t even tell you why they anticipated a certain behavior, especially as they work in a business where there are no givens, where appearances deceive as often as they enlighten. “When a man tries to hide the fact that he’s got a limp,” one hotel veteran had told Am, “that limp will show up in other places.” Am had learned how one guest with paint-splattered pants and a threadbare sweater had turned out to own most of Oklahoma City, while another guest, decked out with an Armani suit, and the trappings of a Rolex watch, Louis Vuitton luggage, and most of Fort Knox around his neck, was a cabdriver with a lot of debts. The revelations confirmed what Am had intuitively suspected. Gilbert and Sullivan created the lyrics, but the hotel business is often testament to them: “Things are seldom what they seem, Skim milk masquerades as cream.” The consummate hotel professional has to see beyond appearance. Kingsbury, thought Am. Skim, or cream, or in between?
Detective McHugh had the resources of the San Diego Police Department behind him. He had the trace evidence team, and the forensics lab. He had local, state, and national computer banks. He had a team of investigators. Am had a hotel bill. To an experienced translator, though, hotel charges can be the Rosetta stone to a guest’s soul.
Kingsbury had stayed at the Hotel for three nights, had died before he could spend his fourth night there. He had managed to dine at all four of the Hotel’s restaurants, an indication that the doctor enjoyed trying new dining spots (that, or he hadn’t been impressed enough with any of the Hotel eateries to want to dine in the same restaurant twice). His meals were for amounts that made Am believe the doctor had not eaten alone, something he’d have to check on.
The doctor’s Hotel bill was relatively debit-free. He had availed himself of few of the Hotel’s temptations, hadn’t played tennis, or used the pitch and putt course, or charged in any of the Hotel’s shops with the exception of the sundry store, and there for only a minimal purchase of four dollars and twenty-six cents. Kingsbury had taken no tours. He hadn’t participated in aerobics, dance lessons, or jazzercize, hadn’t had any facials, massages, or body wraps.
&n
bsp; Kingsbury had managed, though, in his short stay, to visit three of the six Hotel lounges, one of them on two occasions. He had made seven long-distance calls, and dialed up four local numbers. He had sent three faxes, and received two in return. And he had watched one in-room movie. Which one? Am tapped out his query. Unless requested by the guests, the movie names were not printed on the final bill, just the charges for them. There was a reason for that, a reason that appeared on the screen. The doctor had taken time from his scientific inquiries to watch Tea for Three, one of the soft-porn offerings currently available to the guests.
He had been busy, thought Am. Dining, drinking, interviewing, attending the conference, getting and receiving faxes, making calls, and even taking in a prurient picture. And dying.
The Hotel’s property-management system allowed Am a lot of fingertip information, but he wasn’t content to try and divine everything from a video-display terminal. He preferred looking at the paper charges, the more scribbles and ketchup stains, the better. Before the advent of computers, Am had often read just such tea leaves to decipher signatures, or figure out where the charge belonged. He called up the accounting department and asked for Ward Ankeney, the controller. Ward claimed he had been at the Hotel “since the cigar box and pencil ledger-entry days.” Like Am, he knew there were times when the computer couldn’t tell you everything. He didn’t question Am’s need to look at the charges, just said they would be available to him by early afternoon.
Am’s phone rang. The display showed that Janet DeSilva was calling from sales and marketing. For a moment Am was tempted to let his voice mail take a message. He had been given the rare privilege of a few undisturbed minutes at work, and was now eager for a few more. Janet had taken over for Kim Yamamoto in sales several months earlier. Ironically Kim, who was third-generation American Japanese, had said her departure was due in part to her not wanting to work for “old world Japanese.” Janet’s ascendancy to sales and marketing director hadn’t been without its problems. Around the Hotel, Janet was getting to be known as “Dammit, Janet.” Someone had taped a sign to her door which said, “Your Lack of Planning Does Not Constitute My Emergency.” Many “someones” had agreed with the short-lived editorial.
