by Alan Russell
Am knew that the Japanese liked to add an “oo” to any word that ended in a consonant sound, but he wasn’t sure if it worked with his name.
Hiroshi bowed to Marisa. “Hotel business,” he explained. Marisa was grateful not to be included, and excused herself to go and sit near one of the fountains.
The two men went to Hiroshi’s office. Even before they sat down, Hiroshi asked, “What is her prognosis?”
The tow truck had arrived soon after the ambulance had left. In the dark night, hauling Annette out from all the mire, she had seemed like another body being dragged away.
“They tell me Annette’s going to be just fine,” said Am. The unsaid part: For about three thousand dollars.
As if reading his mind, Hiroshi said, “The Hotel will pay for her repairs.”
Am hadn’t expected that kind of generosity. “They are not insignificant,” he said.
“The only terms,” said Hiroshi, “are that I would like to drive her every so often…”
Am could live with that, though he wasn’t sure if Annette could.
“…and she must be available to use in promotions. I have decided Annette is better than a sea worm.”
They both smiled, but Hiroshi wasn’t through with his surprises. “Mr. Takci is leaving,” the Fat Innkeeper said.
Am felt a surge of excitement that he tried to suppress. All too nonchalantly, Am asked, “Did you tell him that no more imposters were going to be showing up looking for his job?”
“He knows that,” said Hiroshi. “But he is not happy here. He wants to go home.”
The Fat Innkeeper pressed his fingers together. “I think you are the right person for the job.”
Am refrained from getting up and dancing a jig. Hanging over Hiroshi’s head was a map of the world with oversized Japan still centered.
“I am not sure if I am that right person,” said Am. “I think you have already noticed that I am not very Japanese.”
Hiroshi refused to argue, but then anyone Japanese wouldn’t have anyway.
“I haven’t liked some of the changes going on at the Hotel,” Am said, “and I’d find it hard not to speak up.
“There are some hotels that were never meant to be a Marriott, or a Hyatt, or a Hilton, or a Sheraton. There are some hotels that don’t operate by the same set script, and shouldn’t operate by that script.
“I think of the Hotel as an eccentric relative, a crazy but wonderful old aunt who is loved all the more because of her quirks. Would you like your beloved relative to suddenly be humorless, to wear only dark clothes, and act formal and proper to the point of being boring?”
Could eccentricity translate to the Japanese mind as being something positive? Am had read that the Japanese lived by the social standard that the nail sticking out should be hammered down.
“Our guests expect this wonderfully different aunt,” said Am. “They have come to love her. Who wants an old friend to change?”
Hiroshi didn’t say anything for a minute, seemed to be immersed in thought. By the time he answered, Am was already kicking himself for having gone too far and said too much. “I will listen to any of your concerns,” said Hiroshi, “but I think they should be voiced in private.”
Am kept the smile off his face. His major worry had been answered. “What will my salary be?” he asked.
“The same,” said Hiroshi. “You are the most overpaid security director in the country.”
And I’ll be one of the most underpaid managers, Am thought. “At least I won’t have to worry about security anymore,” said Am.
The Fat Innkeeper shook his head. “For the foreseeable future,” he said, “you will assume both positions.”
Hiroshi spoke before Am could speak. He left no room for argument. “The Hotel needs its samurai,” he said.
Chapter Fifty
“We better celebrate tonight,” Am said to Marisa, “before I realize how much work’s waiting for me tomorrow.”
Klaroshi, he thought. Death by overwork. It was a Japanese phenomenon, a way of life—and death. It was one Japanese import he hoped America would not buy into.
Am felt good. Impending doom had been staved off for at least another day. All the swingers had checked out (and had left with smiles, according to the staff). Most of them had even announced that they were looking forward to visiting the Hotel again. Am tried not to dwell on that future threat.
Only one guest had expressed unhappiness with his stay. Upon paying his bill ($483.24), the man had said the Hotel had “ruined his life” and “cost him millions.” It was the same guest that had attacked Felipe the shoe-shine man. The poor fellow was obviously psychologically unbalanced.
The staff had seemed unusually cheery that day. Jimmy Mazzelli, for one, had been positively glowing. He had told Am he was off on a vacation tomorrow, going to Arizona to see a “special someone.” Romance was definitely in the air. Am was not immune to it himself.
He had his arm around Marisa. They were walking aimlessly around the Hotel smiling at one another. “How do you want to kick up your heels?” she asked.
Am considered her question, then stopped walking. “This,” he said, “ for starters.”
He kissed her. It was a long time before either of them came up for breath.
“I think,” she said with a happy sigh, “that’s a question I’ll ask you more often.”
“Let’s celebrate with dinner,” Am said, “and maybe a movie, and…”
How did he want to kick up his heels? Am remembered something.
“There’s a grunion run tonight,” he said.
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A WINNER OF THE CRITIC’S CHOICE AND LEFTY AWARDS
“HILARIOUS…RUSSELL’S PROSE STYLE IS FLAWLESS, HIS ADEPT HANDLING OF HUMOR SUBLIME.…WANT TO TAKE A VACATION WITHOUT LEAVING HOME? INVITE THE FAT INNKEEPER FOR THE WEEKEND.”
—Mostly Murder
THE FAT INKEEPER IS HIROSHI YAMADA. THE INN IS THE POSH. VERY EXPENSIVE HOTEL CALIFORNIA, and the problem is…well…everything. For Am Caufield, head of hotel security, working for his new Japanese boss, Hiroshi, is hard enough. Then a debunker of near death experiences turns up dead, a dead whale comes ashore, and a group booking called the Swap Meat turns out to be a convention of sex swingers. Just when things seem
totally beyond Am’s control, Hiroshi gives him a brand new assignment: Become a samurai—and catch the killer who’s loose in my hotel!
“RUSSELL SHOWS GLIMPSES OF CREATNESS.…LIKE TONY HILLERMAN AND SUE GRAFTON, RUSSELL HAS CREATED CHARACTERS WE CARE ABOUT, WHOM WE WANT TO VISIT AGAIN.”
—San Diego Blade-Citizen
