The Fat Innkeeper (14 page)

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.

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 rooms 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.

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.