by Alan Russell
“If you're referring to what happened the other day,” said Bobbi, “Bobby”—Carlton! Am wanted to scream—“told me everything. He said he didn't want to drag me into the mud, and didn't want to woo me under false pretenses. Any other man I know would have done his poking first and his talking later, but not Bobby. He's a gentleman, and what happened was an accident. If you ask me, that two-timer and her no-good lawyer got what they deserved….”
“Now, Bobbi,” said Carlton.
They reached for each other's hands. “Bob still accepts all the responsibility like a real man,” she said. “But I'm telling you, that strumpet and her Lothario forced him to act as he did. That's the way I'm betting any jury is going to see it, and even if they don't, I'll stand by my man.”
In the face of all her clichés, Am was speechless.
“I now have a reason to fight,” said Bob/Carlton, “and to live.
His eyes teared up. He tried to rub away the tears, but instead his brushing opened up the ducts, and the dam. “Oh, Bobby,” said Bobbi, holding him and kissing his wet cheeks. He returned her kisses, then looked to Am, slightly embarrassed.
“I am not without remorse, Mr. Caulfield,” he said. “I will forever be troubled by what I did. There is no justification for my actions, and there will be retribution—my own, and the state's. But understand that I don't want to mourn away the few minutes of freedom I have remaining. There will be time enough for that. For now, selfish as it seems, I want to declare my love.”
Bobbi took his hand. “We want to declare our love.”
Am didn't know what to say. He worked in a business that had inculcated in him the primary goal of making the guest happy. But what did you do when that guest was a murderer?
“Mr. Smoltz,” he said, “a wedding is out of the question. The Hotel cannot condone murder, nor can we cater to murderers.”
Bobbi started to cry. Carlton was more understanding. Head bent, he nodded sadly, then tried to comfort his fiancée.
The sobbing eventually got to Am. What the hell, he thought. He cleared his throat, got Bobbi’s and Carlton’s attention.
“Perhaps an impromptu engagement party,” he said, “wouldn’t be absolutely out of the question.”
XLIX
Am tried not to dwell on what he was doing. At odd moments he realized that facilitating the engagement party of a murderer was, well—criminal. But that murderer, at least until the police took him away, was still a guest. Am took some solace in the fact that he wasn’t organizing an engagement party so much as a going-away party.
It took him less than an hour to set everything up. In attendance were Am and Sharon, a lawyer Am had recommended for Carlton, a photographer, Philip the banquet waiter, Dorothy from catering, and Wallace Talbot. Carlton was delighted that Wallace was in attendance, saying it was wonderful to have a celebrity in their midst. For his part, Wallace went around and handed everyone peppermint sticks.
The party was bittersweet, tears with laugher. It reminded Am of a bon voyage party he’d once attended, when a friend of his was shipping out to ‘Nam. Everyone tried to maintain the fantasy of happiness, but reality arrived with the toasts. Even champagne bubbles can’t suspend illusion indefinitely. Carlton left Bobbi’s arms for his lawyer’s, and Am walked both of them to room 208. McHugh and the police had arranged for a late check-out, ostensibly because they wanted to make sure the murderer didn’t show up, but it was the start of the football season after all. When Carlton knocked on the door (late in the third quarter), Am was sorry he hadn’t brought along the party photographer to document McHugh’s expression. It was almost vindication enough. Sending the detective the engagement party pictures, he decided, would even the score between them.
Am had expected a feeling of freedom to accompany the resolution of the case, but it was more of an emptiness. He had been so involved, withdrawal was hard. He sat at his desk and tried to attend to piled-up work, but he found it difficult, trivial compared to his case. His mood didn’t improve when he heard that Kendrick had returned to the property. His impulse was to leave, but he resisted that. Kendrick would only call him at home or, worse, torture him by not calling. Better to face up to him sooner than later. He was sure Kendrick wouldn’t have any difficulty finding fault with everything he had done.
The telephone rang. Kendrick, thought Am. But it wasn’t. The display showed the housekeeper’s extension.
“You were right, Am,” said an excited Barb Terry. “We kept a watch on his room, but no one got the chance to go in until just now, what with his half-day rate, and his Do Not Disturb sign up all day, and his not wanting no maid service. But I had everyone watching for him. Soon’s he left the room I had one of the room checkers run in. She just called me and said he’d done some serious damage.”
“Who?” said Am, then added, “What?”
Barb sounded disappointed that Am didn’t know what she was talking about. “Why, Ducky Duckworth,” she said.
Just how many straws does it take to break the camel’s back? thought Am, not for the first time. “Thanks, Barb.”
“Better grab him, Am. He’s about to check out.”
Am grabbed his coat and name tag; it wasn’t quite the statement of a sheriff’s badge and his six-shooter, but when confronting a guest he knew it was always best to look as official as possible. He hurried to the lobby, hoping to intercept Ducky before he checked out, but the pitcher was already at the front desk. He was trying to casually read the sports section, the same sports section that played up his signing with a banner headline. How had one sportscaster put it? “How much is the right hand of God worth? About what Ducky Duckworth signed for today.”
T.K. was checking Ducky out. The desk clerk looked grim. If T.K. couldn’t joke about it, the situation had to be serious. He saw Am and heaved a sigh of relief, motioning him with his head to join him at the desk. It was too late to head off Ducky anyway, so Am made his way behind the front desk and followed T.K.’s finger to the credit card terminal. The word declined was flashing.
Ducky’s bill was for almost twelve thousand dollars. Most hotels process credit cards for the expected amount of a guest’s stay upon check-in. The clerk who had obtained the initial approval hadn’t anticipated Ducky’s expensive party and had received authorization only for two thousand dollars. T.K. had apparently tried to get the additional amount approved, but without success. So how do you explain to the thirty-million-dollar man that his credit is no good?
There were other guests at the front desk, most of whom had already identified the pitcher. There are celebrities who love being noticed, and Ducky was one of them. He was a big man, about six feet three, with eyes as hard as his fastball. His face was thick and square, which made the bulge in his cheek stand out all the more. Am hoped he was doing his hamster act with bubble gum rather than chewing tobacco.
Whenever a guest’s credit card is declined, that news is usually conveyed to the card holder by the clerk in low, funereal tones, but in this instance even a whisper would have been overheard. Am thought it best to spare the pitcher the embarrassment of having his private life made public and decided to steer him quietly to his office.
“Mr. Duckworth, I’m Am Caulfield, the assistant general manager of the Hotel, and—”
“How do you spell your name?” said Ducky, his tone bordering between boredom and annoyance.
Am pointed to his name tag.
“Well, give me a paper,” Ducky said impatiently.
“For what?”
“You want my autograph or not?”
“Actually, I was hoping if you had a moment, we could talk in my office.”
Ducky’s crowd of admirers was getting larger. He yawned and stretched. “Don’t really have a moment, son. Got a plane to catch.”
The pitcher was probably a dozen years younger than Am. His pronouncement was likely meant to discourage other autograph seekers, but Am still didn’t like being referred to as “son.”
A lit
tle more firmly, he said, “If you’ll just step this way…”
“Listen, son, I really got better things to do than discuss baseball with you. I’m just trying to pay my bill. That okay with you?”
There were about twice as many rubberneckers as before. Speaking softly, Am said, “It’s a matter of your credit, Mr. Duckworth.”
“What?”
His shout took in most of the lobby, brought absolute quiet to the entire front desk area. Ducky was looking at Am expectantly. Everybody was looking. Anything Am had to say was going to be heard by all. So be it.
“Sir,” Am said, “your credit card has been declined.”
At the best of times that news is embarrassing. This was not the best of times. Those who could contain themselves, smiled. Those who couldn’t, started laughing. Here was a man who in essence had won the lottery, who had just been signed to a contract, and a lifetime, few could imagine. And now, for a moment, at least, he had to descend from his cloud.
Ducky didn’t adjust to gravity very well. He glowered at the laughers and silenced everyone. “What the hell are you talking about? Did you see the fucking headlines today?”
“I did.”
“I think I’ll buy this Hotel,” said Ducky. “It could sure use some changes.”
Having announced he was a bigger man than everyone, Ducky straightened, picked up his bag, and started to leave. Calling after him, Am said, “Defrauding an innkeeper is a felony charge in this state, Mr. Duckworth.”
That stopped the pitcher. “What?”
“You have an outstanding bill. And I understand there was considerable damage done to your room. If you walk out on those charges, I can only assume you are trying to defraud the Hotel, and I will be forced to call the police and ask them to put a warrant out for your arrest.”
Ducky used his famous stare on Am. He gave him a look that would have made a cleanup hitter tremble, but when Am didn’t blink, didn’t show an inch of give, the pitcher suddenly capitulated. Ducky, after all, was a fine hurler. He was known for his smoke, but he did have an effective change-up. He walked back to the desk.
“Uh, is a personal check okay?” he asked. “How about I just leave it open, and you can figure out whatever’s right?”
“That would be fine,” Am said.
He ripped out a check, scrawled his signature, and didn’t wait for a receipt, or a thank-you, just quickly walked away. Then Am heard an unfamiliar sound. Applause. And it wasn’t for Ducky, it was for him. Perhaps two dozen guests and staff were clapping. At first Am was embarrassed, but that feeling passed. He pretended to step out of the dugout, doffed his cap to the crowd, then disappeared from sight as heroes are wont to do.
There was little time for Am to savor his small victory. He was told there was someone holding on the line for him, and the sinking feeling returned. Kendrick. But it was a female voice that returned his greeting.
“Am, this is Kris Carr.”
“Ms. Carr. How are you?”
“I’m fine, Am.”
She paused long enough to make him doubt that. “Not again?” he asked.
“Afraid so.”
“I’ll be right up.”
Kris Carr was waiting at her door. She was wearing a terry-cloth robe and nothing else.
“He went for the frilled jobs again,” she announced.
Am tried to maintain a serious demeanor. “Any idea when they turned up missing?”
“That’s the thing I don’t like. I wonder if someone’s been watching me. I went down to the pool around three o’clock. The pervert must have come in between then and now.”
Am looked at his watch. It was a little past five. “And you’re sure your door was closed and locked?”
Kris nodded.
Am examined her sliding glass door and the windows and again could find no sign of forced entry. He sighed. “It looks like an in-house theft.”
“Any suspects?”
“Two, maybe three hundred of our male staff.”
Kris laughed and appeared to relax. She eyed Am speculatively, then altered her pose, leaning toward him, her robe opening up even more. She held the robe’s belt in her hand and played with it slightly. By manipulating her clothes she added a new element between them, a tension. It was almost as if she were toying with a ripcord.
“Is one of them you, Am?” she asked.
He didn’t say anything, was hard-pressed to find a proper answer.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
What did most men think when confronted by those Grand Tetons? She had, after all, invited him to ask the question.
“Are they real?” he asked.
“What do you think?” she asked, moving closer.
She was one of those people who had probably picked the right job. Kris Carr was an unashamed exhibitionist. Am couldn’t tell whether she was really making a play for him or whether she just wanted him to go weak at his knees.
“I asked you,” he said.
She was close to him now. “They were enhanced some,” she admitted, “but I haven’t heard any complaints. The left one I call MasterCard, and the right one American Express.”
Her announcement came with left and right emphasis, and Am was surprised that she hadn’t named one of them Diners Club. For a moment he was paralyzed by the sight, but then his hotel training came to the fore. For the second time in a very few minutes he repeated himself: “Your credit cards are declined.”
L
The UV light operated on batteries. It was portable but not inconspicuous. Am pretended it was a ray gun, and as he went around zapping the staff, he tried to make what he thought were appropriate Martian sounds. None of the employees seemed too surprised. And it was easier, and perhaps more in keeping with his role, to act offbeat and not offer any explanations. If he had played it as officious, he likely would have seen only half as many hands. Though he spied lots of warts, moles, hairs, and broken fingernails, he found no lime-green trace of the fluorescent dust.
He was half tempted to look at Kris Carr’s hands. Maybe to get more attention she had faked the crime, but then she didn’t seem like a woman who lacked attention. It was better to avoid the room anyway, he thought, as in his own mind he wasn’t convinced it was just her hands he wanted to appraise.
By seven o’clock Am decided that he’d been witness to enough five-fingered failures. Tomorrow he’d do some more scanning. The tracer powder would last at least that long. He knew that compared to a murder the case was trivial, but he was both miffed and motivated: this mystery involved not only a theft, but a violation of a guest’s privacy. The Hotel was lucky that Kris Carr was more insouciant about the thefts than most guests would have been. Maybe she was used to dispensing with her undergarments, but that still didn’t make the thefts acceptable.
He had almost forgotten about Kendrick’s return, but the note on his desk jarred that suppressed memory. “Please see Mr. Kendrick before you leave,” the message demanded. Am was sure the operator had taken literary license and included the word please.
The executive offices were deserted save for Kendrick. He was talking on the phone, a conversation that interested him enough that he noticed neither Am’s approach nor his subsequent disappearance. There are few instances where eavesdropping can be condoned, but Am thought this was one of them. By the sounds of it, Kendrick was talking with the company spy.
The conversation lasted almost ten minutes, with the weekend’s events discussed in detail. The goings-on of the staff were dwelt upon, in particular the activities of “Mis-tah Caw-field.” Being privy to only half the conversation, Am was afraid the spy would remain unidentified, but in the end Kendrick slipped up when he said: “Thank you for your report, Roger.”
Casper was the spy. What should have been obvious, wasn’t. Belatedly Am remembered that Casper had portrayed Mr. Derry at the Come as a Guest party. Derry was a regular from Langley, Virginia, and the Hotel staff was convinced that he was a CIA operative. Altho
ugh quiet, there was something furtive about him. Roger had worn a raised, dark trench coat and had carried a walkie-talkie around with him. He must have thought he was pretty clever, coming as the spy guest and being the spy. Those without teeth sometimes find other ways to bite, and Am felt betrayed. He had always thought of Roger as being a scared little rabbit. Somehow that seemed preferable to a back stabber.
He crept back down the hall. It wouldn’t do to walk in on Kendrick just now. After five minutes of standing around, Am loudly retraced his route. This time, as usual, Kendrick was well aware of his presence prior to his arrival.
“Come in, Mr. Caw-field,” he said.
Am entered the office and sat on one of the GM’s uncomfortable chairs. Kendrick sighed loudly, the ten-second variety. “Seems I can’t go ah-way without everything going to hell.”
Management by second-guessing is the fastest way for an employee to lose confidence, but Am was used to it by now. Rather than comment, he just looked at Kendrick, who stared right back. It was the straight-backed chair more than Kendrick’s look that made Am squirm. He couldn’t get comfortable, especially with the pressing in his groin and abdomen area. After several attempts at positioning, Am removed the source of the problem, the UV light he had crammed into his right front pocket.
“What is that?” Kendrick asked.
“An ultraviolet light,” said Am. He hoped that would be explanation enough, but it wasn’t.
“For what?”
Deciding a demonstration was in order, Am approached Kendrick’s large desk. “I salted some objects with fluorescent tracer powder,” he said. “The dust gives off a glow. This afternoon I was looking for a criminal with glitz mitts.”
Am clicked on the light and played it over one of his hands. The light offered only a slightly purple hue. “Although you really can’t see much here,” Am said, “if I had come in contact with the powder, you would have seen…”
Without any forethought, and without any expectations, he swept the light over Kendrick’s hands and suddenly stopped talking. It was a scene out of an old science fiction film where the radiation victims glowed. Kendrick’s hands looked like a green toxic waste dump. They were phosphorescent, radiating a key lime glow.
