The Fat Innkeeper (A Hotel Detective Mystery Book 2)

by Alan Russell

  His hand moved, and surprised him. We’re taught to avoid the dead, but Am reached out to the whale. What was he grasping at, old memories? The blubber didn’t feel as he expected. There was a firmness to it, a roughness that went beyond the barnacles, hitchhikers that had attached themselves by the thousands. The crustaceans had gone along for the long ride, but now that was over.

  Sighing, Am withdrew his fingers. Making love while listening to whale calls was one thing, but walking out into the surf to commune with a dead whale was another. He started back to the Hotel, every step a fight not to lose his shoes to the grasping combination of water and sand. A movement, a flash of a match, startled him. He forgot to keep his toes curled hard into his shoes, and forfeited one to the muck. A wave came in and tried to claim the shoe, and a tug of war ensued before Am triumphed, coming up with his footwear and some seaweed.

  Should he put the shoe on, or go barefoot? It wasn’t a hard choice. Barefoot, pants rolled up, Am felt better. He looked around for the light-bearer. Even over the waft of whale, he smelled a cigarette burning. The figure was standing in the leviathan’s shadow. Am wondered how long he had been under scrutiny. Whoever was there didn’t seem to be bothered by the whale smell. Odor or not, Am knew the curious would soon arrive; as many, and as loud, as the gulls.

  Am needed to make some calls: to the lifeguards; the neighboring Scripps Institution of Oceanography; Sea World; the half-dozen bureaucracies of the city that would involve themselves in beached whaledom. There would certainly be enough whale to go around for everyone. What he feared most was that there might be too much. The clean-up job was likely to be the whale of a tale.

  “Good evening.”

  Am turned. The smoker had stepped away from the whale’s shadow. He cast quite a shadow himself. The man was round, and somehow familiar. The shadow nodded to Am, and he found himself nodding back. Confronting Hiroshi Yamada, the Fat Innkeeper, was almost as surprising as confronting the whale. Hiroshi was the new owner of the Hotel California, or at least the son of the absentee owner. At the beginning of the year (not as, as Am was wont to observe, December 7, 1941) he had arrived at the Hotel with a coterie of countrymen from Japan. This was the first time Am had seen him alone. Much like Mary and her trailing lamb, wherever Hiroshi went, the other Japanese were sure to go. It was almost as if they were joined at the hip, but sour grapes might have colored that observation. One of Hiroshi’s cohorts, Makato Takei, had taken over Am’s former position of assistant general manager. Musical-chairs management had relegated Am into his current post, a fit he thought as complimentary as an East European suit.

  Hiroshi pointed to the whale. “The whale must have just died,” he said. “I see no signs of deterioration.”

  “Nor I,” Am said.

  Yamada’s English was very good. Usually, one of the Fat Innkeeper’s underlings did his speaking for him. Yamada took a deep breath. To all appearances, he liked what he smelled. His body expanded, especially his neck. Yamada was about thirty years old, not so much fat as large. He was built like a mini sumo wrestler, his more than two hundred pounds spread over a five-foot-eight-inch body.

  “Do you think the Hotel should look into salvaging the whale?”

  “Salvaging?” The whale wasn’t some galleon filled with gold or silver. Am couldn’t understand what Yamada was saying.

  The Japanese man translated his English: “Make use of it.”

  He said the words very slowly. The slowness, Am suspected, was for his benefit. Belatedly, he understood Yamada’s implication and all but shouted, “No!”

  The Fat Innkeeper opened his eyes wide with surprise. Too late, Am remembered that the Japanese avoided confrontation whenever possible. They didn’t even like to use the word “no,” much preferring that their disapproval be understood without their having to express it openly. In that regard, the Japanese culture was much like the hotel culture, with the altogether too direct word of “no” rarely uttered to a guest.

  Dumb, thought Am, reconsidering what he had done. It is bad enough to contradict a boss, but to defy a Japanese boss directly goes against all the conventions in that culture. The Japanese way would be to speak in nuances, to skate the issue and try to finesse the point subtly. But how do you skate around, let alone finesse, a dead whale?

  His friend Sharon had advised Am that when talking with the Japanese he should start with a point of agreement, a safe topic, and try to build on common ground. Practice nemawashi, she said, root-binding. By not taking any firm stands, by hearing and listening, direct arguments could be avoided. Maybe, thought Am, he and Sharon should have been practicing nemawashi. Their relationship was a long-distance one now, conducted mostly over the telephone. Sharon had been working for Yamada Enterprises for some time, and had learned much of the Japanese way. Under her surreptitious tutelage, Am was trying to navigate the cultural minefield.

  Okay, he thought. How do you root-bind when you feel root-bound? Maybe he should comment on the eau de whale, crinkle his nose and say, “Sure stinks, don’t it?” But one man’s meat is another man’s poison. There were cheeses that Am thought tasted worse than last week’s socks that were considered epicurean delights. And what about Napoleon’s letter to Josephine? “I will return in a week. Do not bathe.”

  “The whale came a long way,” said Am.

  Hiroshi nodded. “Yes.”

  “Those who live along this coast have sort of adopted these whales,” said Am. “They think of them as . . . ”

  Dogs? No. In some parts of the world, dogs are admired more on the plate than on the leash. And besides, a dog was too small and too domesticated. “ . . . spirits.”

  The Japanese understood about spirits. Am had prepared for the Yamada takeover differently from anyone else. Some of the Hotel staff had studied the Japanese language and culture, but Am had read Japanese folktales, believing that a country’s folktales are the Cliff Notes to its soul.

  “I see,” said the Fat Innkeeper.

  Am wondered if he did. It wasn’t easy explaining Bambi syndrome in Japanese. He wondered how Ikkyu would handle this situation. The hero of many Japanese folktales, Ikkyu was a combination acolyte/jester who was always finding himself in difficult, if not impossible, positions.

  Am’s favorite Ikkyu story had the acolyte traveling with a priest to a temple. The call of nature struck Ikkyu, and he started to open the front of his kimono at the side of the road, when the priest admonished him to stop, as the deity of the road was there. Farther up the road they came to a field, and Ikkyu again prepared to urinate, but the priest stopped him once more. “You can’t go there!” he was told. “You’ll violate the deity of the harvest.” They continued along, the acolyte’s bladder pressing him further, when they came to a river. Ikkyu was about to relieve himself into the water when the priest angrily told him, “The water deity is in the river. Nobody would ever do it there!” The acolyte hurried forward, and stopped by a large boulder, but again he was interrupted by the priest, who chided him for even thinking of violating the deity in the large rock. A desperate Ikkyu looked around for some spot that wasn’t holy. Then a thought came to him. He scrambled up the boulder and started peeing on the head of the priest. “What are you doing?” cried the priest. “There is no kami on your head,” said Ikkyu-san, and continued right on urinating.

  The story was special to Am even before he explored the footnote, and the pun, surrounding kami, a word that means both “deity” and “hair.” The priest’s tonsure must have looked like an especially attractive target. Am figured that if he was to survive under Japanese ownership, Ikkyu was as good a role model as any. At the moment, though, he decided it would be better to act like the priest.

  “To many,” said Am, “the whale is holy.”

  Hiroshi looked at the whale, and then he turned back to Am. “You will take care of it?” he asked.

  “I will,” said Am.

  The two men looked at one another. For once, the Fat Innkeeper’s phalanx of f
ellow countrymen was not between him and one of the gaijin—a word, and a Japanese philosophy, that translated to “outside person.” Sharon said that the Japanese felt that the rest of the world was deprived in that they had not been born Japanese, a severe disability to their way of thinking. And though they might be living in foreign lands, in their own mind they were never the outside person. They were wareware Nihonjin—we Japanese.

  Reaching into his shirt pocket, Hiroshi pulled out one of his business cards. The importance of the transaction Sharon had only recently explained to Am. “There is a ritual to meishi,” she said, “the exchange of calling cards. You are supposed to accept the card and look at it, and make some comment. You don’t just take a card and stick it in your wallet. That’s an insult. You’re giving the person your backside, and not the attention they deserve.”

  The card was outstretched toward him, hanging there like an executioner’s ax, a reminder of his misplaced intentions. Am accepted the card, offered a nod that was close to a bow, and then dug out his wallet. Maybe he had an old business card. That’s how he could save face. His heart was pounding, and his throat was tight. He had resented having to get bilingual business cards, English on the one side, Japanese on the other, and walked around the security hut muttering, “This is still the U.S.A., isn’t it?” The land of the free, and the brave. And the foolish.

  There were no old cards, only plenty of the new. He had to play the cards, bluff it out. Am handed Hiroshi a card, English side up, his title of safety and security director clearly displayed. But Yamada wasn’t content with only the English version. He turned the card over.

  Good job, Ikkyu-san, thought Am. This time you just pissed into the wind.

  The Fat Innkeeper did a double-take. So much for the stereotype of Asians being inscrutable. He stared at the card, his eyes wide, then looked back to Am.

  “So,” he said, “you are a samurai?”

  It had seemed like the right thing to do at the time. Until Sharon’s lecture, Am hadn’t known that the Japanese collected business cards as boys did baseball cards, hadn’t been aware of their importance. Like most impetuous acts, he hadn’t thought ahead, had neglected to consider what he would do when asked for a business card from someone who was Japanese. He thought of trying to explain to Hiroshi that it had taken all of his willpower not to identify himself as House Dick on the English side of the card, but figured something would be lost in that translation. Like his job.

  “Yes,” Am finally said. “I am a samurai.”

  The Fat Innkeeper didn’t respond right away. He regarded Am for several moments, then finally gave the tiniest of nods, turned, and began to walk away.

  Am let out a lot of silent air. Why hadn’t he made it easier on himself and just announced he was the son of God? To the Japanese, samurais are icons. The warrior myth is not one they take lightly. Samurai films are their westerns, and their shrines. Japanese executives often take up swordplay and archery, sports drawn from the samurai tradition. Some consider the samurai mentality to be a major part of the Japanese psyche.

  He breathed deeply, took in a lot of whale, and gagged slightly. What a night.

  A wave surprised him. Sometimes sets are that way, a dozen anemic waves and then suddenly one or two big breaks. This wave broke at his knee level, and then pushed forward. When it receded, it left behind hundreds, no, thousands, of grunion.

  In the moonlight, the grunion spun their fantasy for an audience of one. The females buried themselves in the sand, their tails down. There was wriggling, and dancing, and flashing of silver. It was better than advertised, better than Grunion Fun!

  A minute later, and the vision had passed. Another wave had come in, and the grunion had ridden off with it. With their departure, Am hurried off. He was afraid if he stayed, Ahab’s leg would be the next thing to turn up on the beach.

  Chapter Three

  “Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?” whispered Am. He didn’t bother with the English translation—Who is to guard the guards themselves?—but instead stealthily slid a key into a lock and opened the door to the Hotel’s main spa.

  The spa attendants were gone, which was just as Am had expected and wanted. He was tired of smelling like the catch of the day, and needed a break from the whale duties. Am figured he had earned a hot shower, a whirlpool, a steambath, and a massage on one of the vibrating tables, to be followed by a wallow in the spa’s lotions and potions and powders. The whale predicament had officially been handed over to legal representatives from the city of San Diego. Supposedly they were making arrangements with the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, as well as Sea World. If all went well, the whale would be dealt with tomorrow. That didn’t mean the problem had been taken care of, far from it, but now the Hotel could point to the government and self-righteously say, “It’s their job.”

  “Am, this is Central, do you copy?”

  The voice came booming out of Am’s walkie-talkie cell phone. Damn. Why hadn’t he been smart enough to turn the thing off? “Central” was Fred, the dispatcher from security, a retired carpenter who had seen entirely too many episodes of “Rescue 911.” Fred described fender benders like the downing of the Hindenburg.

  Am spoke into his phone. “Unless Jonah is giving a press conference on the beach,” he said, “I’d suggest you call Stephenson.”

  Fred sounded even more excited than usual. “We have a code red, Am! We need you ASAP up to room 374. Do you copy?”

  “On my way,” said Am.

  “Ten-four,” said Fred, sounding not a little deflated. He continually coached Am to respond, “I read you,” or “Over and out,” or “That’s a ten-four,” and would have preferred Am reiterating the room number with a “That’s a three-Thomas, seven-Sam, four-Frank,” but try as he might, Am still couldn’t bring himself to speak that way.

  Code red, he thought. What the hell was a code red? That was one of the things he should know. After five months in his new post he thought he had that rainbow chart down, but damned if he wasn’t mentally color-blind at the moment. The colors were representative of situations, codes that allowed security to communicate without the guests, or anyone, monitoring, knowing what they were talking about. Code red. Was that a fire? No, that was code orange. A noisy drunk? No, that fell under the disturbance category, a code blue. Red was, was . . . Am’s brain cells were derailed by the squishing sound of his footfalls, and his skin being rubbed raw by the wet and chafing pants. If he didn’t get out of the wet clothes soon, his whole body was going to be a code red.

  Maybe there should be a new code, Am thought, code gray—a gray whale on the beach. The thought must have eased up his subconscious, as suddenly he remembered what code red signified. “Color me stupid,” he said aloud. Code red meant that a call had been made to the paramedics, and that someone was in need of medical attention. He started running faster, the squishing sounds dogging him.

  There were at least fifty people crowded inside room 374, all of them blocking his way. Am knew that announcing he was hotel security wouldn’t exactly bring a Moses-like parting of the crowd. The public has about as much respect for a house dick as they do crossing guards. Am circumvented that by acting like an impatient plainclothes-man, his method acting based on the time he had interrupted a cop at his coffee and learned that was about as advisable as taking a bone from a strange dog. With a grim expression, and a loud, flat voice, Am announced that a pathway for the paramedics had to be cleared. He was pleased with the crowd’s quick response, though he was unsure whether it was his posing, his words, or his smell that opened the passage. Or maybe, he decided after a look, everyone had just seen enough of the corpse.

  Two Hotel employees were still trying to revive the dead man, but Am figured they’d have a better chance with the whale. When someone’s dying or dead, that’s not the best time to gauge an age, but Am estimated the victim was about sixty. His guesswork came between the CPR efforts. It didn’t appear that rigor mortis had yet set in. The
man’s features were contorted, his struggle to live still apparent on his face. His eyes, even behind thick-rimmed glasses, were bulging. The glasses reminded Am of barnacles still holding on.

  “I’d call it a deathbed conversion,” said a pipe-smoking man standing near to Am, his voice conversational.

  “No doubt about it,” replied a woman with a red hat that was as loud as her voice.

  From Am’s rather limited experience, he had found that death brings a quiet to a room. It was generally a time for reflection. But those gathered seemed to think it was time for a party.

  A very tall man raised his arms, flapped them slowly up and down. “His gravity is turned off now. Do you remember that?”

  “Do I?” said a very wrinkled, very small, woman. “It was like being unshackled.”

  A bearded man smiled. “‘Be positive.’ What fine last words. The great skeptic has spoken.”

  “Be positive,” repeated most of those in the room.

  A woman with Bette Davis’s voice, but alas, not her eyes, asked, “And that’s all he said, Jack?”

  Heads turned, and Am followed their direction. Jack was seated in a chair, taking more stock of the ocean view than the goings-on in the room. Standing next to him was T.K. Washington, one of the Hotel desk clerks. T.K. was an aspiring comic, and hardly a bastion of propriety, but even he looked shocked at the cavalier attitudes of those in the room. He caught Am’s eyes and shook his head.

  “What?” Jack was awakening to the question. He smiled, a gentle smile. Jack looked like a poet. Not a good poet, but one of those people who while away their time hanging around coffeehouses and occasionally, but only very occasionally, scribbling around the edges of a piece of paper. Jack was about thirty, blond and blue-eyed, but he didn’t so much exude Nordic stock as he did white bread.