The Fat Innkeeper

by Alan Russell

  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 Senor Fletcher speak Spanish?”

  “Well enough,” said Carlos, “to make Jose 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 Jose 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 turned 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.”

  Ward dropped the expense report on the desk and looked the other way. Am got the idea, retrieved the report and tucked it away. As far as Ward was concerned, he had never seen Am’s initial submission.

  They talked a little bit about Brother Howard, which resulted in one of Ward’s stage stories. “Houdini was famous for exposing phony mediums and spiritualists,” he said. “I played his character in the stage version of The Great Houdini. There were lots of wonderful props that made it look like I was doing fantastic escapes. The audience applauded loudest when I was shucking off ropes and weights. I think they thought I was shedding them for real.

  “Before Houdini died, he confided in several special friends that he was going to announce his presence during a séance through a message only they would know. Though his friends attended numerous seances, and though the spirit of Houdini was supposedly materialized in those sessions, his special message from beyond the grave was never announced. Death was the one escape Harry couldn’t pull off.”

  One of Am’s few personal effects in the security hut was a picture of Houdini being lowered into water. The escape artist was weighted down by anchors and heavy metal, with chains wrapped around his entire body. The picture was an inspiration to Am, who always liked to think that there was always an escape, some solution to be found.

  There was no picture of Houdini on Ward’s walls that Am could see, no review of the play. Maybe the reviews hadn’t been very good for that production, or, more likely, there just wasn’t enough space on the walls for all of Ward’s trouper memories. The controller started in on another Houdini anecdote. While Am listened, he once again scanned the mementos of Ward’s life, his stage effects (and affects) on the office walls. For some reason, Am kept coming back to one picture, Ward’s Mutiny on the Bounty glossy. What was there about it that troubled him? Captain Bligh was being confronted by Fletcher Christian. They were on the deck of a ship looking very dramatic. Christian, played by Ward, looked self-righteous, the justice of his cause reason enough for him to go against all of his training. Like in most such photos, it was clear Fletcher Christian was wearing too much makeup…

  “…the decision wasn’t easy for young Erich Weiss,” said Ward. “His father was a strict rab
bi, and couldn’t easily give his blessing upon his son’s dreams to be a magician…”

  “It all stops now, Ward,” interrupted Am.

  Larry Young hadn’t been the only GM applicant who had commented on the HRD’s strong hand gesturing, the body language of a thespian. But what made Am certain of his thoughts was the name: Mr. Fletcher. Ward had returned to his last role, that of Fletcher Christian. He had identified himself as “Mr. Fletcher” to all the young men, and for whatever reason, he had led a mutiny.

  Ward gave Am his best puzzled look. “What are you talking about, Am?”

  “You know,” he said.

  The controller averted his eyes, turned back to his pipe and started examining it. Apparently it wasn’t the right pipe. He replaced it in the rack and reached for the largest of his meerschaum pipes—the Bear. Serious business was at hand.

  “What I don’t understand,” Am said, “is why you set up those boys. Most of them were nice enough kids. Telling them they had the general manager’s job was cruel.”

  Ward ran his finger along the Bear’s head. He didn’t argue, didn’t say anything. His face was amazingly neutral, hinted at nothing. It must have been easy for Ward to fool the young men, and to give off different appearances each time. He was no stranger to painting his face, probably always kept his make-up bag handy for the next role.

  Fine actors don’t need words. Ward announced his guilt silently. He went through the ritual of preparing a smoke, of declaring his defiance. For years he had abided by the no-smoking rule, but this was a final declaration of rebellion. He put a certain pomp and circumstance into the filling of his pipe. There is something very ritualistic, almost ecclesiastical, about the measuring, and placing, and filling of the bowl, the movement of the tobacco chalice up and toward opened lips. Only one thing was out of place in the production. Ward’s hands were active in a way unusual to them. They were shaking.

  Pipe smokers usually don’t inhale their tobacco, but maybe this was a time and place Ward thought his inner soul needed a baptism of smoke. He took in a long measure of his bowl, then blew the smoke high in the air.

  “I did it to get back at Takei,” he said. “I wanted everyone to laugh at him.”

  “Why?”

  “You want the long answer or the short answer?”

  “The right answer.”

  “I wanted to humble Takei like he’s humbled me. I wanted him to know how it felt to have youths, callow youths, come in and say they were ready to take over his position confident they could do his job. The young men were there to show Takei that he is only a title, not a true ruler.”

  Am shook his head. The explanation wasn’t good enough. “You jacked around a lot of people, Ward, me among them.”

  “That wasn’t my intent, Am.”

  There was pathos in his voice, plenty of it, but a trained actor can produce that in his sleep. Am asked the same question again: “Why?”

  The pattern had been established. Ward sucked on his pipe, then words and smoke came out. Am needed to know the smoke wasn’t being blown up his ass.

  “A few months ago the front desk was shorthanded,” he said. “They needed a PBX operator. Takei marched into this office and said he wanted someone at the switchboard for a few hours. Then he pointed to me, acted as if I was the most expendable person in the accounting office, and said, ‘You.’”

  Smokey sigh. “I suppose it was his way of showing that he was the boss. I had been vocal about some of the changes going on, even challenged Takei on some of his new policies. He has Mr. Matsuda cowed, so I figured it was my job to stand up to him. Controllers are usually a pretty autonomous lot, so he made sure mine was a public humiliation. I’ve kicked myself a few thousand times for not saying anything that day. I just got up and went out to the switchboard.”

  Ward blew off, and out, some more smoke. “Why didn’t I say anything, Am? I’ve asked myself that over and over. And I still can’t find any answers I like.”

  Am knew the answers. Most people do, can count them every day when the alarm clock goes off. “I hear your oldest is in veterinary school,” Am said. “That must be damned expensive.”

  “That was one of the echoes in my mind,” Ward said. “That’s what I kept telling myself, but who ever has enough money? It wasn’t my finances that silenced me. Takei made me feel old. Useless. Not financially bankrupt, but morally. He stripped away my illusion of being poor but proud, showed me to be middle-class and weak. I had to prove to myself I wasn’t as enfeebled as he thought, that I still had some bite.”

  “Next time embezzle,” Am suggested.

  “That would have been too easy,” he said with a little smile. “Too cheap.”

  Final act, Am thought, with Ward at his meerschaum pipe, me in my usual saddle on the horns of a dilemma looking for Solomon-like wisdom. The new ownership had certainly caused enough ulcers and bewilderment among the staff. One of the most common phrases to be heard was “The Japanese don’t understand.” The sentence was finished with a host of laments, including, “how we do things,” and “why we do it that way,” and “tradition.” The Hotel California was a special place with a lot of special people, and the sentiment was that the Japanese were trying to fit the property and its characters into a pre-cut pattern. You don’t, or shouldn’t, do that with a unique design. “It’s not broke,” was the staff sentiment, “so why fix it?” Ward had dared to say that out loud, but apparently it hadn’t translated well into Japanese. Like so many others, he was made to feel expendable, that all his years there didn’t add up to very much.

  Ward blew a smoke ring. Am watched the tight circle expand. It moved across the room, widened as it drifted. Then it hit a wall and dispersed to blue-gray heaven. The show continued, Am’s jury remaining out for three more smoke rings.

  “I want your letter of resignation, Ward,” Am finally said. “Don’t give any reasons, just make it effective two weeks from the date of receipt.”

  Ward closed his eyes, collapsed his shoulders a little more, and nodded. It was the verdict he had expected.

  “But don’t date it,” Am said.

  The patient suddenly had a pulse again, even if he seemed to stop breathing at Am’s words. “I’m going to hold on to your letter of resignation,” Am said. “And I don’t need to tell you that I better never see…”

  “You won’t, Am.”

  “And one more thing, Ward.”

  The controller looked up expectantly. “Put out that damn pipe before you set off the water sprinklers.”

  It was his morning, Am thought, for having to discipline rebellious smokers. For putting out fires.

  As Am was leaving the office, Ward called out to him. Once a ham, always a ham. The man hadn’t forgotten how to close a scene.

  “ ‘Reputation, reputation, reputation! O! I have lost my reputation. I have lost the immortal part of myself, and what remains is bestial.’ “

  After an appropriate spell of silence, Ward announced, “King Lear.”

  You don’t overstay your scene. You exit, stage right. And that’s what Am did.

  Chapter Forty-One

  It felt good to solve a mystery, even if it wasn’t the case Am was actively working on, and even though he had more stumbled on the answer than not. At least his “real” investigation wasn’t going to be hindered anymore by young men announcing themselves as general manager, and he wouldn’t have to deal with the subsequent eruptions of Mount FujiTakei.

  There were two piles on Am’s desk: one was the paperwork and the deferred duties of his job, and the other was the information he had gathered on the Kingsbury case. The job pile was higher, but not by much. It needed to grow some more.

  The problem with any kind of collecting is that eventually you have to confront the monster you have gathered. Am picked up the investigative pile and started sorting through it. Among the fallout was the copy of Les Moore’s medical questionnaire. While Am wasn’t particularly interested in the details of Moore’s dem
i-demise, he was interested in the questions on the form. Judging from the questionnaire, it appeared the doctor was looking for common denominators in both the pre–;near-death and near-death experiences. Kingsbury’s inquiries did seem to be excessive—sixteen pages worth of questions. Why had the doctor felt the need to probe so deeply? And what was the point of his exploration?

  Am questioned the questionnaire. It was divided into three sections, including general background (a hodgepodge of social, political, and religious questions); medical history; and the near-death experience itself. There were a number of psychological questions, enough of the “leading” variety to make Am wonder if Kingsbury was trying to make a case that those having “near-death experiences” were mentally unbalanced to begin with. There was even greater emphasis, though, on the subject’s physical history, in particular the “death.” Kingsbury’s hematological roots were evident, with several questions dealing with blood, one of which Am had hoped he would find. His pale theory still had some flesh—or blood, as was the case.

  Dreading it though he was, Am knew that the only possible way he’d get a look at the UNDER questionnaires and Kingsbury’s notes was through Detective McHugh. The information wouldn’t come cheap. For the detective to grant that boon, he’d have to think he was on the serious receiving end of getting more information than he was giving. Am dialed the detective’s number with the same enthusiasm reserved for making a dental appointment, and was half-relieved when he was told McHugh wouldn’t be returning until mid-afternoon. He left his name and number, and the message “Please call.” Already he was having to truckle.

  Am hung up the phone, not gently. Its revenge was that it almost immediately started ringing. The display identified the call as coming from the utility room. Why would anyone be there?

  “This is Am.”

  “This is Cotton.”