by Alan Russell
The pipes were actually the smaller of Ward’s office displays. The rest of his walls were taken up with pictures and props from his former vocation. Ward had been an actor, and from his notices, a good one. Then again, no actor has ever been known to frame bad reviews.
“Hi, Am,” he said, punching away at a ten-key. “Be with you in just a minute.”
Am took the time to look more closely at the office scenery. Despite Ward’s investment in frames, most of the pictures, reviews, posters and glossies had yellowed and faded. The thespian mementos had been a part of the office for as long as Am could remember. Curious, he hunted down the most recent review; it was a quarter of a century old.
The hurried clicking of the calculator keys ceased, some more figures put to rest. The Hotel was a sixty-million-dollar-a-year business. It produced more revenue than some Third World countries. And all of those dollars had to be accounted for. It wasn’t any wonder that Ward’s hands were invariably in constant motion. Even when he wasn’t working, Ward always found the need to occupy his fingers in some activity.
Am looked from an old glossy to an expectant controller. The picture showed a much younger Ward in what must have been a Shakespearean production—that, or the accountant had once dressed in wig, jabot, velvet overcoat, pantaloons, and long stockings.
“Accounting and acting,” Am said, “seem to me about as complementary as drafting and dancing.”
Ward stopped chewing on his pipe to smile. “I probably never would have been an accountant if it weren’t for my parents,” he said. “They encouraged me to have a major other than dramatic arts. Insisted, I should say. I guess they’d heard too many stories of starving actors.”
“I’ll bet you’re glad you took their advice,” said Am.
Ward gave a hesitant nod. “I suppose so,” he said, “but sometimes I wonder if my accounting degree didn’t make me less hungry as an actor. I knew I could always get a numbers job, even if that wasn’t what I wanted. But in time, especially after the kids came along, it became easier to settle for that.”
Though Ward hadn’t been on stage for a very long time, that wasn’t what Am heard in his voice. His aged clippings suggested he had been a versatile actor, with roles in everything from Harvey to King Lear. Am continued to examine some of the pictures on the wall, and Ward did anything but discourage him, contentedly sucking on his pipe and giving a running dialogue on the productions.
“Actually made it to off-Broadway in that one,” he said. “It was called Eternity, and lasted for one show.”
Am moved a step over, far enough for another description. “Pasadena Playhouse,” he said. “Mutiny on the Bounty. Played Fletcher Christian. That was my last role, actually. One critic suggested I was playing Clark Gable more than Christian. If so, I really missed the mark. I was aiming for Brando.”
The stroll down memory lane took in a few more pictures. When reminiscing about his salad days, Ward’s hands became virtually still. He took a long draw on his unlit pipe. “Everything seemed so vital back then,” he said. “I never felt so alive.”
His words awoke Am to his own mission. Dr. Kingsbury’s last living hours had been at the Hotel, and Am wanted to document as many of them as he could. “Did you get a chance to pull those charges for me, Ward?” he asked.
“Ah, yes,” said the controller, reaching for a packet. “Got ‘em all here. What’s up?”
Am debated a few responses; the metaphor of life as one long hotel bill; checking in, and checking out; perusing the last supper.
“I’m doing a summing-up,” said Am.
Chapter Twenty
Executive housekeeper Barb Terry gave Am the same kind of once-over she usually reserved for room inspections, a hard scrutiny that could pick a dust mote off at twenty paces. Barb was usually everybody’s grandmother, but at the moment her honest blue eyes looked none too happy. “It’s a lot tougher making rooms look bad, Am Caulfield, than it is making them look good.”
“This is one case where I hope practice doesn’t make perfect,” he said.
The situation reminded him of the guest calling room service and saying, “I’d like an order of toast. Burn it until it’s neither recognizable nor edible. I’ll have orange juice, and make sure most of it is spilled on the tray. Give me half of my eggs runny and uncooked, and the other half burned to a crisp. I’d like my rasher of bacon raw and fatty, and my butter melted. And make sure the juice is delivered hot, and the bacon and eggs arc cold.”
“Sir,” was the response, “we can’t possibly create an order like that.”
“Why not?” said the man. “That’s what you delivered yesterday.”
Am had always thought of hotel management as a plate-spinning act. In order to keep those plates rotating atop sticks, to prevent them from falling and crashing, it was necessary to run back and forth and spin the plates. The secret to success is not having too many plates spinning on too many sticks, but the business often conspires against that. All Am wanted to do was work on the Kingsbury case, but before he could do that, there was the plate-spinning to attend to.
The Hotel’s professed goal was to provide “unequaled service.” Such a pronouncement, Am had always thought, tempted the fates. There had been times when the best of staff intentions had been thwarted by circumstances, but this wasn’t one of those times. The inmates were now being offered weapons, and anarchy was being encouraged. Management was preaching neglect and rebellion toward a select group. There were some very confused employees. Cotton Gibbons wasn’t one of them. Whereas most children would be perplexed if told—no, directed—to hit a younger sibling, Cotton had gladly followed through on his assignment of disabling the meeting rooms. He had done so without demur, even with apparent gusto.
Am excused himself from Barb, his parting words that she should pass on his approval to her staff for their work.
“I’ll do no such thing, Am Caulfield,” she said. “Praise them for making a mess rather than for cleaning? Not out of my lips.”
She walked away shaking her head. It wasn’t the only head that was moving. Cotton was trying to inconspicuously get Am’s attention by using a slight come-hither shake of his head. For all of his attempted subterfuge, he was about as subdued as a pitchman. Sighing, Am trudged a few steps away from the front desk. At least Cotton hadn’t insisted upon their reciting some kind of secret phrase.
“The Sea Horse Hall smells worse than an outhouse in August,” whispered Cotton, “and the Neptune Room…”
The maintenance man actually smiled.”Why, who was that Roman guy who was fiddling when his city was burning down?”
“Nero,” said Am.
“Yeah,” he said. “The Neptune Room looks like Nero was playing ‘Turkey in the Straw’ just outside.”
“It isn’t…” started Am.
“Barely any damage,” said Cotton, “even if it looks like hell.”
His satisfaction was evident.
Mr. and Mrs. Lanier, the Swap Meat group leaders, didn’t yet know about the sabotage. Most of their convention had arrived earlier on a chartered bus. Since none of the guest rooms had been ready, they had decided to lead their wanton troops on a Black’s Beach excursion. It was a good choice. The beach is only two miles north of the Hotel as the crow flies, though the distance is deceptive. Unless the tide is with you, navigating the beach route is impossible, and getting down to the sand anything but easy. Towering over Black’s is the Torrey Pines Cliffs. Some beachgoers fancy themselves Spiderman, and like to navigate down the perilous rocks. Though there’s a paved road to the beach, it isn’t accessible by car. It’s a long walk down to Black’s, and even a longer walk up. So why trek to this particular beach when there are so many in La Jolla and San Diego that don’t require such athleticism? The attraction to Black’s is because it can’t easily be reached. San Diegans with a propensity for not wearing swimming suits have been going there for decades.
The Swap Meat meeting rooms were ruined, their guest roo
ms were in a state of disarray, and the Hotel staff was primed for incompetence. Am figured they were as prepared for the group as they ever would be.
“So,” said T.K. to the other clerks at the desk, “when we check this group in, do we tell them, ‘Have a nice day,’ or do we say, ‘Have a nice lay?’“
Am decided he needed his quiet place.
Chapter Twenty-One
Most of us have our place of refuge. On the job it’s not always easy to escape, but in all the hotels Am had worked he had sought and found his “quiet place.” Finding such a spot at the Hotel California hadn’t been easy, even with its forty acres, and its multitude of settings that looked like backdrops for “Kodak Picture Stops.” Am’s retreat wasn’t along the beach or in one of the ornate gardens; his quiet place probably wouldn’t have even been called scenic by most.
He had often wondered what it was about the spot that had captured him. There were certainly other places he could have gone for mere quietude. His refuge was conveniently located, not far off one of the Hotel garden paths. His spot had stayed secluded for several reasons: the PLEASE STAY ON PATH signs (though those were arguably about as effective as most KEEP OFF THE GRASS signs); the barrier of the manufactured streambed that required a decent leap to surmount; and the thin but effective thicket of pampas grass, an invasive plant whose razor edges don’t suffer curious fools. Whether out of neglect, or the decision of some forgotten landscaper that the pampas grass should stay, it had long shielded the area behind it from development.
Am’s special place wasn’t some Shangri-la. It was a small stretch that hinted of a time even before the Hotel. He liked it that his spot wasn’t manicured like the rest of the Hotel grounds, was even a little wild. A “natural” San Diego is an arid place, its native plants more akin to desert flora than the vibrant displays of vegetation found in other subtropical locales. Because of San Diego’s growing population, it is ever harder to see what San Diego was, with fewer and fewer spots left fallow for the native chaparral and coastal sage communities. Behind the pampas grass curtain were a few indigenous plants: laurel sumac, lemonade berry, ceanothus, a few manzanita, and a scrawny scrub oak. Though there were far more weeds than native plants, there were still stands of black and white sage to be found, as well as coastal sagebrush.
He took in his kingdom while seated on a boulder. The rock had come with the setting, though in a less salubrious spot. Sisyphus-like, Am had rolled it next to the scrub oak. His natural chair and backrest were set atop a slight incline. It had been several weeks since he’d been to his spot, or was that months? He cast a critical gaze around the clearing, unconsciously sniffed like an animal trying to catch an alien scent. Nothing looked wrong, exactly, but something felt different, disturbed. He could discern no difference, though, nothing to indicate that Goldilocks had been there.
Besides, murder was the issue, not trespassing. He had come to his spot not for some bucolic contemplation, but to focus on the hours Kingsbury had stayed at the Hotel. Am blocked out a time chart, divided each hour into fifteen-minute intervals, and started attaching names and events to the times. His task was made easier because of the interview list he had obtained from one of the UNDER organizers. Thirty-one of their conventioneers had been questioned by Kingsbury in his room, with the interrogations taking up the bulk of his time at the Hotel.
Even though the doctor was dead, Am felt like a voyeur scrutinizing the doctor’s charges. Kingsbury’s sundry store purchase had been a tube of Preparation H, something Am thought an unlikely clue. Other details interested him more. As he had suspected, the doctor hadn’t eaten or imbibed alone, his food and beverage checks attesting to multiple entree and drink orders. Perhaps the servers would be able to offer descriptions of whom Kingsbury had been with. There was also the possibility that the doctor had dined with someone who had picked up the tab. A memo would have to be circulated to all of the restaurant and lounge staff asking for any information on Kingsbury’s visits.
When Am finished with his work, he was able to account for much of Kingsbury’s time spent at the Hotel. That didn’t make Am feel that he was any closer to answers, but he still felt better for having organized his inquiry on paper. His ink trail had only taken him so far, though. There were a lot of people he needed to talk to, and he could think of no better place to start than UNDER’s cocktail party later that afternoon. He had already figured out his drink order, a zombie. Thomas Kingsbury would have been amused, if no one else. If Am had his way, more than near-deaths would be discussed at the party.
A mockingbird awakened him from his musing. It was making more chatter than usual for its kind, if such a thing is possible. Was something bothering it? Am heard some movement in the brush. His first assumption was that it was one of the Hotel’s half-feral cats. The felines accepted handouts, but usually from a distance. When not hanging around the kitchen doors, they stalked around the foliage of the Hotel. But these sounds were heavy, not cat-like. Someone was approaching his spot.
That had never happened before. Logically, Am knew that he wasn’t the only person to know of “his” place. He had found signs of human (or was that Hobbit?) encroachment before.—on one occasion there’d been beer cans and on his boulder the chalked-in words “Frodo Lives”—but it was a shock to think that he was about to have a visitor. He had vying, illogical thoughts, was both ready to flee, and to challenge. He felt guilty for being there, as if to be alone in a slightly out-of-the-way spot was somehow unsanctioned; at the same time he was angry that someone dared to trespass into his world.
Am listened to the interloper’s progress. The invader knew enough to enter through the slight opening in the pampas grass that didn’t demand blood for passage. Tense, Am waited. A head came into view, then a familiar face. It was the last person Am expected, a figure that added to his dilemma. Should I call out? he wondered. Or should I run away before I’m identified?
The Fat Innkeeper suddenly stopped walking. He looked puzzled. There was something about the clearing that wasn’t right. Then he noticed Am.
He couldn’t hide his look of surprise. Almost, Am thought, the startled expression was comical. The Japanese like to wear facial masks, but when their masks slip off, they truly are revealed.
“Hello,” said Am.
“Hello,” replied Hiroshi.
Should he lie? Am wondered. Should he say there had been a report of some Peeping Tom in the bushes? In some ways he felt like a student on unofficial holiday encountering the truant officer. This was the son of the owner, after all. He probably expected him to be toiling in some office. Not that he wasn’t working, Am thought defensively. He was. But how could he explain that?
Similar debates were going on in Hiroshi’s own mind. He was supposed to lead by example. It didn’t look right to be found out sneaking into some bushes. Should he explain? And if he did, would the gaijin even be able to understand what he was talking about?
Sometimes people never meet, even those that encounter each other on a frequent basis. It is often easier to use objects as barriers: a job, a goal, a subject, an agenda; those are the start and finish of many relationships. On the two occasions Am and Hiroshi had met before, there had been the sizable matters of a beached whale and the murder to discuss. Maybe they needed those kinds of things to carry on a conversation. It is easier to talk about something than it is to talk to someone. Am felt acutely embarrassed. What was there to say to this foreigner anyway? But he thought he owed him some kind of explanation. Sharon said that the Japanese believed laziness was an inherent American trait. He didn’t want the Fat Innkeeper to think he was shirking his duties.
“I came here to do some work on Dr. Kingsbury’s death,” said Am. He waved the paperwork, as if to further exonerate him from the unspoken charges.
Hiroshi nodded, and then took a few steps closer. “I came here,” he said, “because it’s…”
From what he knew of Americans, they always wanted an explanation, but was this one of th
ose inexplicable things to them? Japanese distrusted speech, though by his countrymen’s standards Hiroshi knew he was considered positively gabby.
“… shibui.”
In Japan he wouldn’t have to explain. His people had been homogeneous for so long. For over a thousand years there’d been virtually no new infusion in the Japanese gene pool. There was a collective sensibility to their nation. He might be able to translate a word to this American, but not a cultural mind-set.
“It makes your mouth pucker,” Hiroshi said, “but in a pleasing, pos-i-tive way.”
Of the five senses, Am was sure that taste would be the least used by westerners to describe a setting. “Positive,” he repeated, then added the alliterative, “pleasing pucker.”
This one knows nothing of my country’s aesthetics, thought Hiroshi, is ignorant of how we appreciate the quiet and the understated.
Am moved off his rock. He walked over to the lemonade-berry plant, plucked a handful of seeds from it, and put a few in his mouth. “Shibui,” he said, then offered a few of the seeds to the Fat Innkeeper.
Hiroshi hesitated, then accepted the seeds but didn’t immediately follow Am’s example of putting them in his mouth.
“The locals call these plants lemonade berry,” said Am. “The native peoples supposedly used to swirl them around in water for their tart taste. Don’t chew the seeds, though. They might make you sick. You just suck on them a little.”
And then you spit them out. With Hiroshi carefully watching him, Am felt self-conscious. Was expectorating some terrible Japanese taboo? Unsure, Am eased most of the seeds out of his mouth into his hand, then as unobtrusively as possible started flicking them into the brush.
“ ‘ ’Twas a brave man that ate the first oyster,’ “ said Am.
Whether it was curiosity, or Swift’s quote that prevailed, the Fat Innkeeper finally decided to experiment on a solitary seed. He sucked on it for a few moments, decided more of a trial was in order, and put the rest of the seeds in his mouth. The taste pleased him. Lemon-like, but quieter. Puckering, but gently so. It was shibui, shibui exactly. Maybe this gaijin had understood. With some pleasure, with the same spirit in which watermelon seeds are set aflight outdoors, Hiroshi spat out his seeds one by one. Am wasn’t about to be denied his own projectiling. He had two seeds left, and he let them fly.
