The Hotel Detective (35 page)

“I understand congratulations are in order,” she said.

“Yes.”

Her demeanor was as tentative as his. “You don’t sound very happy.”

“I suppose I’m preoccupied,” said Am.

“Over what?”

“Figuring out what season this is.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I don’t, either,” said Am. “Some people never get used to this climate. They need leaves to change color. They need the snow
and cold of winter, and the green promise of spring. Their lives are regulated around those conditions. But I’m used to January
being Miss Elsie, who comes out from Minneapolis to escape the cold, and February is the Burkes, who never miss the golf tournament
at Torrey Pines. I’m used to August bringing the extended Stephenson family to the beach, and September being Mr. and Mrs.
Chu and their racing coterie for the last two weeks of the season. Every month of the year I associate with one guest or another.”

“It sounds like you do know your seasons.”

“Used to,” said Am, but he didn’t elaborate. He opened a box on his desk and took out a Bible.

“Representatives from the Gideons just dropped these off,” said Am, “two old men. They wanted to know if we needed any more
complimentary Bibles. Strange how Bibles are the only items in hotel rooms that management actively encourages guests to take,
but they’ve never proved nearly as popular an offering as virtually everything else. We only needed one replacement box.”

Am patted the carton and let a little quiet build. “We got to talking, and one of the men asked me if I knew the Bible. I
told him that as a hotel manager I was well acquainted with the story of Job. They both thought that was pretty funny.

“I guess they were looking for an opportunity to proselytize. The other one said that in every business there was a ‘time
to weep and a time to laugh,’ and then he credited Ecclesiastes. Judging from the last couple of days, that description sounds
about right, doesn’t it?”

Sharon wasn’t sure where the conversation was going. She didn’t say anything.

“Ecclesiastes,” he mused, then thumbed through the Bible, found the book, and did a little silent reading. When he finished,
he looked meditative.

“How about a book report?” asked Sharon.

“Funny. We were just talking about seasons, and that’s kind of what’s there, a time lesson. It reminds us that there’s a time
to be born and a time to die; a time to love and a time to hate.

“But what it doesn’t tell,” said Am, “is what time it is today.”

If Sharon knew, she didn’t tell him.

It was one of those beguiling days in the hotel business, where guests are effusive about what a wonderful stay they’ve had,
and the staff can do no wrong, and everyone is smiling, and there is no better business to be employed in, and world peace
seems not only possible but likely. There are those days.

Am had talked to the owners, and they had taken his ascension lightly, never hinting that great changes were afoot. Almost,
he could revel in his new position, could just feel plain good. But even if Kendrick was wrong, even if he had planted seeds
of doubt as his final sour grapes, there were still some matters pulling at Am. His puzzle was still missing a few pieces.
He knew they wouldn’t make the picture look any better, but it was time to put them in their place anyway.

In the afternoon he had gone to Kendrick’s former office, had presumed to take over the great man’s den. He was sitting at
Kendrick’s oversize desk when the moving men arrived. They had orders to take away the desk and the chairs. When Kendrick’s
furniture was removed, Am found himself sitting on the floor in the middle of what was now a cavernous room. The empty office
amused him, as did his position. From the floor he made some calls and did some thinking. He didn’t like what he was hearing,
but he wasn’t surprised. Am knew that if it was time for anything, it was time for truth.

There was one call he didn’t expect. When you put a message in a bottle and throw it out into the ocean, it’s unlikely you
will ever hear back from anyone, but the long shot came in. Everything fell into place, but the fit was still lousy.

Room 711 was unoccupied. Am went up to the room and thought about Tim Kelly. He had been wrong about everything except his
initial assertion that Tim Kelly had not committed suicide.

Sharon came up to the room a few minutes later. Am thought he owed her that much. “Hi,” she said.

“Hai,”
said Am. “Isn’t that Japanese for yes?”

She nodded slightly and looked to him for further comment, but he didn’t say anything else, just led her out to the balcony.
The tiles had been replaced, and the balcony was well scrubbed. There was no plaque to Tim Kelly, nothing to indicate that
he had dropped seven stories to his death.

He breathed deeply of the sea air and felt calmer. He didn’t like looking at a death, so he looked at something better, the
immutable ocean. Today it had an aquamarine tint, but every day its colors changed, its palette altered by the clouds, sun,
tides, and kelp. He looked north, blinked hard as if to remove some motes in his eyes, then looked again and recognized the
distant objects. The hang gliders were out in force, plying the late afternoon thermals. Some of the pilots were courting
angels, had caught updrafts that made them look small, birdlike. To get to those heights, the pilots had to run and jump off
the Torrey Pines cliffs. Am wondered if they made prayers to Daedalus and Icarus. It was a long way down.

“Tim Kelly died a silly death,” he said.

Sharon stopped watching the hang gliders and focused on Am. “The other night you reminded me that condoms break. That got
me to thinking. How do they break? And why?

“Maybe I was so hung up on the sexual element, I couldn’t see the obvious. I forgot that condoms could be used for other things.”

“What other things?”

“Water balloons. In my college days that seemed to be their primary use.”

Am took a breath. He felt like one of those hang gliders, felt as though he were leaping off a cliff. “Tim Kelly was up on
this balcony after a night of drinking and failed romance, and from here he looked down and saw a young couple making love.

“He decided to interrupt their lovemaking, decided to rain on their romantic parade. Kelly filled his condom with water. He
couldn’t just drop his balloon; he had a fairly long throw to reach them, and not the best vessel for the tossing. Kelly needed
momentum. He began his run from the sliding glass doors of the balcony. I think he slipped near the railing.”

Am kicked the framework and the tiles. “These doughnuts are more decoration than support,” he said. “Kelly was intoxicated.
He didn’t know which end was up. A few of the tiles gave way. I imagine he panicked when his foot broke through. My guess
is that he kicked himself up and over.”

Sharon measured the hypothesis and the fall as well. The theory came up short. “That’s still only a guess.”

“No. Remember how we found water pooled in the bathroom the next day? That was the residue of Kelly’s filling his condom.
There was also the digs in the wood which marked where he skidded, and the fallen decorative tiles.

“And,” said Am, “there’s the couple who witnessed his fall. He’s seventeen and she’s sixteen. Next to the backseat of a car,
there’s no more popular place than the beach for young couples to go and make out. I placed some discreet ads and posted some
notices at local schools. And just a short time ago I heard from a very uncertain young man. He told me about being on the
beach with his girlfriend, and their being disturbed by some sound, and his looking up to see a man falling to his death.
Tim Kelly got his desired coitus interruptus, but not in the way he wanted. He landed not ten yards from the couple. They
didn’t dare go to the police because the girl was afraid of what they’d have to say, of what they’d have to testify. Her parents
didn’t even know she was out. When they left the beach, they were in a panic.”

“They left behind the confusing second condom,” said Sharon.

“Yes.”

“So what do you do with the information?”

“I tell Mrs. Kelly. Dying from a regrettable accident is a far better thing than thinking her husband killed himself.”

“It could mean a lawsuit,” she said. “Lawyers running around taking depositions, engineers doing decking studies, and the
ABC investigating whether too much liquor was served.”

“I guess that’s something the new owners will have to worry about, isn’t it?”

Sharon didn’t move. What time was it? thought Am. Almost, it was a time to hate.

“You graduated from Cornell three years ago, not three months ago. Care to tell me what you’ve been doing since then?”

She didn’t back down. “I imagine you already know.”

“I do,” said Am. “You’ve been working for Yamada Enterprises. Among their many holdings are hotels. You’re one of their top
hired guns. I assume you came in here to play Mata Hari, to collect whatever damning evidence you could. Is there some rule
that everyone has to have spies these days? Is it de rigueur?”

She shook her head. “It’s not like that. I was just supposed to analyze operations.”

“Do they pay you in silver?”

“Try not to be bitter,” she said. “The acquisition has been in process for some time. Mr. Yamada doesn’t like surprises. He
wanted me to look behind the scenes.”

“I guess you gave him a real eyeful, huh?”

She didn’t say anything.

“The murders didn’t scare him off?”

“No,” said Sharon. “They were leverage to get a better price.”

Am laughed bitterly. “So it’s a done deal?”

“Yes. I was going to tell you….”

He didn’t want to hear it. “The Hotel California is owned by the Japanese?”

“Yes.”

It was wrong. You’re not supposed to sell national monuments to foreigners. Other San Diego resorts had been purchased by
the Japanese, La Costa Resort and Spa, and the Colonial Inn, and Le Meridien just to name a few, but the Hotel California
was different. It was a landmark.

Sharon must have been reading his mind. “Didn’t Americans buy the London Bridge? It’s a global economy, Am. When the Japanese
bought Radio City Music Hall, the Rockettes didn’t trade in their high kicking for Kabuki theater. And when the Japanese purchased
the Seattle Mariners, bought their piece of America’s favorite pastime, the world didn’t stop.”

She was right. She was persuasive. But in his gut her words were all wrong. The Hotel California had always been an American
dream.

“Are we going to get futons like some of those other hotels owned by the Japanese? And kimonos in the rooms instead of robes?
And will all the Hotel restaurants feature sushi bars?”

“You sound like a bigot.”

“Good. Put that in your report.”

“I already told you, that isn’t the kind of information I’m gathering.”

“Take another note: tell them I think sashimi sucks. Tell them we have redwoods in California, and that bonsai doesn’t work
on them.”

“You’re not listening.”

“You’re fired,” said Am.

“I’m an intern, you can’t—”

“You misrepresented yourself, and you were here on our invitation. That invitation is now rescinded. When your overlords officially
take over the place, you may return, but not until then.”

“It would seem to be in both of our best interests—”

“Spies aren’t welcome here,” said Am.

He stared her down and wondered if she felt as sick as he did, but his face didn’t reveal his quandary, only showed his disgust.
Her face offered more: shame, and anger, and a willingness to talk. But he closed those doors as they showed themselves.

She left, not looking back, probably afraid to. Am watched her walk to the door and qut of his life. He stood on the balcony,
alone, and tried to find some answers in the ocean. It was talking gently, the surf slow and easy.

Am had always thought a GM was much like a ship’s captain. He had imagined that when he became the GM of the Hotel California,
he would invite guests over to his table, just like the captain of a ship. He would take them on their voyage, guide them
on their journeys. And though he was that captain of the ship now, his ship was going down. Was he supposed to stay with the
ship? He wondered what someone who was Japanese would do in his position. Commit hara-kiri? Perform seppuku?

That wasn’t his way. Am looked down to the sand. If he had to choose a death, he thought it would be better to die as Tim
Kelly had, throwing a water-filled condom down at a thrashing couple below. That was more the American way. If not honorable,
it was at least darkly amusing.

Am returned not to Kendrick’s office, but to his own. He closed the doors, turned off the lights, and made himself a cave
where he could lick his wounds. On his desk was a bottle of Stolichnaya vodka with a note saying it was compliments of Mr.
Harmon.

He wasn’t in the habit of drinking on the job. With free-flowing liquor all around, the hospitality business either attracts,
or breeds, a disproportionate amount of lushes. Though Am knew it was the oldest excuse in the world to say he’d earned a
drink, this was one time he almost felt justified in mouthing that lie. He kicked his legs up on his desk, leaned back, and
eyed the bottle. His love interest was gone, his job was going, going, and almost gone, and his dreams were getting maudlin.
He felt like fodder for a country music festival.

His hand worked over to a mug that looked fairly free of mold. He unsealed the Stoly with slow, languorous fingers. Almost,
he could imagine himself undraping Sharon the same way. He poured three fingers into the mug, stopped, then reconsidered and
added another finger.

“To the new general manager of the Hotel California,” he said aloud.

He took a long sip, then started laughing. It was a good thing he had closed the doors. His laughter bordered on the hysterical.
Harmon had gotten the last laugh, having substituted water for the Stoly.

There were so many toasts Am could make: To illusion; the emperor’s clothes; Vanity Fair; the Emerald City; the fantasy Hotel;
the human comedy; and to the genie emerging from the bottle.