by Alan Russell
To T.K.’s satisfaction, his words got everyone’s attention.
“The shrink had a pack of those Rorschach cards, you know, those inkblot things. He held up the first one and asked the patient what he saw.
“‘I see a man and a woman,’ the patient said, ‘and boy, oh, boy, what they’re doing.’
“Then the psychiatrist showed him another card and asked him what he saw, and the guy said, ‘I see a man and a woman, and you just can’t believe what they’re doing.’
“With a sigh, the shrink displayed yet another inkblot, and this time the patient is all but frothing at the mouth. ‘I see a man and a woman, and you just can’t believe how they’re getting it on.’
“The psychiatrist took off his glasses, wearily rubbed his eyes, and then said, ‘There’s no doubt about it. I’m afraid you are sexually disturbed.’
“‘What do you mean I’m sexually disturbed?’ shrieked the man. ‘You’re the one showing me all the dirty pictures.’”
Doug and Missy and Gary and Suzy all laughed. Cleo ventured a smile. Bradford was shocked. How could the hired help presume to act in such a way?
“Hey, Brad.”
The black man was motioning him closer. Had he just called him by his first name? His real first name? Did the man know him from somewhere? No. Bradford was certain that he didn’t. So what the hell was going on? With an all too familiar manner, the impertinent clerk kept signaling for him to approach. Reluctantly, Bradford ventured nearer. T.K. finished madly scribbling on a piece of paper, held it up for everyone to see.
The drawing looked like a big inkblot.
“Hey, Brad. I was kind of wondering if you could tell me what you see in this.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
The theme of UNDER’s cocktail party was “An Irish Wake.” A band was playing the music of the Grateful Dead. Somebody had a sense of humor after all.
The dance floor was full, and the Starfish Room crowded. Am was a man with a mission. He stalked the room and intently stared at name tags, his goal to talk with as many of the thirty-one people Thomas Kingsbury had interviewed as possible. Periodically, he consulted his sheet of names. Approximately every tenth name tag produced a match.
No one had been reluctant to talk. Am had only to mention the name of Thomas Kingsbury and then try and keep up with his note-taking. Many of those he interviewed said they had experienced some form of premonition that Kingsbury was going to die. Several said his aura was off. One woman told Am that she had seen a shadow over him, while a man said he “just knew” something was wrong. None had seen fit to mention those observations to Dr. Kingsbury.
Most remembered their interviews lasting about twenty minutes. The doctor had primarily focused on the physical circumstances of their near-deaths, frequently referring to the voluminous medical forms they had filled out for him. Am presumed those forms had been left in Kingsbury’s room and the police were now analyzing them. He wished he could have seen the doctor’s notes, wondered what the great skeptic had written down during his interviews. His own notes and observations were rapidly filling his notebook. There is something in human nature that reacts to an expectant pen, that feels obligated to respond at length to a waiting notepad. But Am wasn’t only taking down quotes. Scattered through the pages were such commentaries as “Could bore a tree,” “Unquestionably certifiable,” and “Says it was not the right time for him to die—definitely don’t agree.”
“Be positive”—Kingsbury’s last words. After talking with most of the same people the doctor had, Am wondered at his presumption.
Les Moore (“My real name, swear to God”) had seen the doctor at one-thirty on the day he had died. “He was very upbeat, in great humor,” Les said. “He had just come back from lunch and I think he had had a couple.”
He made a drinking motion.
“That sort of surprised me, since he was supposed to be working. How many people do you know who drink on the job?”
Am took a guilty sip of his zombie. It was his second. The first he had ordered as a silent tribute to Kingsbury; the second drink he justified as being medicinal. Normally, he never drank at the Hotel. Then again, he’d never had to interview the near-dead.
“What do you do for a living, Mr. Moore?”
The fiftyish, bespectacled man said, with some pride, “I’m a CPA.”
In the first minute of their conversation Am had written down his observations of “Seemingly normal” and “Very detailed.” Two for two, he thought smugly.
“Mr. Moore, you said Dr. Kingsbury asked a number of questions about your near-death experience.”
Les nodded. “Three years ago, my family was on vacation at the shore. We’ve got a place at Bay Head, New Jersey. I consider myself a prudent man, one who doesn’t take unnecessary risks. I’ve been swimming there forever, and never had any problems. I usually swim out to some buoys and back. It was a beautiful July day. Everything was calm.”
He remembered a copious amount of details, offered up each once as if they were minor treasures. Am learned the names of the lifeguards that had fished Les out of the ocean, heard how one of them had been attending Colgate, and the other Syracuse, and how one of them actually knew his son (Les Moore, Jr.).
The distilled, much distilled, story was that Les had been brought from the water apparently dead. No heartbeat or pulse could be found. Les said that one part of him could see the lifeguards working on him, while another part of him was “exploring the great beyond.”
“I made some notes, actually,” said Les. “I thought Dr. Kingsbury would be interested in hearing about my experiences in death. But I didn’t really get a chance to share—”
“What kind of things was Dr. Kingsbury interested in?” asked Am.
“The physical. How long before I started breathing again, the possible effects of hypothermia, the methodology of the medical treatment, the drugs administered, my medical history, things like that. He had a checklist, and apparently asked the same questions of everybody. At the time, I didn’t think that was very creative of him. Mostly he was just corroborating the information he already had.”
“What do you mean?”
“We had to fill out an involved medical history,” said Les (he wasn’t complaining, as most had about that, but rather seemed to relish the memory), “and sign a medical release allowing Dr. Kingsbury access to our records. I guess I never really expected him to conduct a background search on our near-deaths, but he did. He was apparently very thorough about consulting with our physicians and collecting all of our medical records.
“I suppose that was really the only sensible approach. Anyone doing a scientific inquiry can’t rely solely on the memories of the patients. In our short time together, I could see he was very diligent about recording information and confirming details, though, as I told you, I think he gave short shrift to my postmortem. I was prepared to delve into my after-life experiences, tell him about—”
“I’m sure Dr. Kingsbury was pressed for time,” said Am, pointedly looking at his watch.
“I offered him my notes,” Les said, “but he didn’t want them. Perhaps you could use them?”
He gave Am an all-too-hopeful look. “I wouldn’t want to deprive—”
“No problem,” said Les. “I make copies of everything, just like I advise my clients to do.”
I wouldn’t doubt it, thought Am. Those who make history usually don’t care about the tracks they leave behind, whereas those like Les could probably document every haircut they’d had in the past thirty years. But, Am considered, perhaps he could benefit from the man’s excessive chronicling. “You didn’t,” he asked, “happen to make a copy of Dr. Kingsbury’s medical questionnaire, did you?”
“Up in my room!” said Les excitedly. “Along,” he added, “with those notes I was telling you about.”
Am responded cheerfully to the two-for-one blackmail: “I’d love to see both of them.”
Les Moore departed with alacrity.
He wanted to tell his story, and really didn’t care who the listener was just so long as it was a warm set of ears. That’s the problem, Am thought, with having what you think is a unique experience only to be told by dozens of other people, “Oh, that happened to me.” The greatest tale in Les Moore’s life didn’t seem so fantastic in a setting where everyone else had experienced similar episodes.
Am returned to his name-tag search. To expedite his inspection, he determined that he wouldn’t look at faces, only scrutinize the name tags on chests. His technique didn’t prove to be a time-saver, however, as he spent too much time imagining the faces above the chests. The names influenced Am’s mental pictures. He was a believer that people often grew (or sank) into their names, and that there was a universality of features and characteristics that could be applied to certain first names. Who could trust anyone named Don? And had there ever been a Darlene that didn’t like to party? To test that theory (and others), Am conjured up a visage, then, of course, he sneaked a peek; on several faces he was very close; on some he wasn’t even in the ballpark. When Am finally encountered a body with no name tag, he had to draw his conclusions not from a name but from the polyester tie, white shirt, and wrinkled blue blazer. What he overlooked was the bulge in the jacket. Am imagined the face, sneaked his look, and then felt very stupid. His mental image wasn’t close, though he knew the sneer only too well. Cops aren’t big on name tags. They do like guns, however.
“What are you doing, Caulfield?” asked Detective McHugh. “Taking a census of belly buttons?”
No, Am almost said, assholes. But he had survived twenty years in the hotel business by thinking those kinds of thoughts instead of speaking them. “Detective McHugh,” he said.
McHugh said nothing, just silently appraised Am. With no confession apparently forthcoming, the detective finally said, “A rather interesting group of people you’ve been talking with.”
Am still didn’t say anything.
“In fact, we seem to be talking to the same people. But I guess that’s just a coincidence, huh?”
Next time, thought Am, I’ll scan the room for faces before I zero in on name tags.
“You’re meddling in areas you’re not qualified,” said McHugh. “This is a homicide investigation.”
“Have the autopsy results confirmed that?”
“You can hear the results of the autopsy tomorrow, like the rest of the public.”
“Or you can tell me now.”
The detective offered a mock laugh and shook his head. “Hear they’re holding a séance a little later tonight, Caulfield. Maybe you should just call up the spirit of Dr. Kingsbury and ask him a few questions.”
“Is that how SDPD does it?”
McHugh’s answer was a hard stare. If looks could kill, thought Am. The detective brushed by him, his footsteps even louder than the ersatz Grateful Dead music.
I wonder, Am thought, if that qualified as a near-death experience.
Chapter Twenty-Four
That bellman, thought Cleo, keeps leering at me. She wasn’t sure how insulted she should be. Men didn’t usually look at her like that, at least not that she was aware. He wasn’t bad-looking, though, that is if you liked the dark, slick-haired types.
Jimmy Mazzelli gave her a wink. She turned away and pretended not to have seen his flirting. Bradford was busy talking with their newfound friends, or otherwise he certainly would have disciplined this forward fellow.
Her looking away didn’t discourage the bellman, though. “Where you from?” he asked.
Cleo didn’t meet his eyes. His scrutiny made her feel shy. “Scottsdale,” she said, speaking in not much more than a whisper.
“Oh, a Zonie.”
Every summer Southern Californians experience an invasion of “Zonies,” Arizonans fleeing the heat. It was mostly a term of endearment, Cleo knew, and found herself laughing along with the bellman.
“I’m Jimmy,” he said. “What’s your name?”
Cleo always felt tongue-tied whenever she tried to flirt, and that’s how she felt now. But she wasn’t flirting, was she? Why wasn’t Bradford walking with them? He was dawdling, was at least a dozen paces behind them. She could hear him laughing. He had never laughed that way around her, at least not that she remembered.
“I’m Cleopatra Harris,” she said, once again averting eye contact. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Cleopatra,” said Jimmy, “as in the Queen of Egypt?”
“Unfortunately,” she said.
Jimmy kept up his patter with her as they made their way to the block of rooms. Her reserved manner surprised him. She seemed like someone nice, someone normal. He even felt a little bad for her sake, he who was regarded as not having a conscience.
Before entering her hotel room, Cleo closed her eyes and took in the anticipatory thrill. If the room was even half as exquisite as the Hotel . . .
She stepped into the room, but then came to a sudden halt. There was a terrible smell in the air. Then she shrieked. She had been bumped from behind. The bellman had run his cart into her backside.
“Excuse me,” said Jimmy. He hadn’t expected her to stop. And he hadn’t expected her to be as nice as she was.
Where was Bradford? Breathing through her mouth, Cleo ventured a little farther into the room. She wanted to cry out again, this time at what she saw. The room was . . . awful. Surely there was some mistake.
“Where do you want the bags?” asked Jimmy.
“But the room . . . ” she said.
Jimmy looked around. His expression didn’t change. “What?”
“It’s a mess,” she said.
“The maid must have been in a rush,” he explained.
“The maid should be fired,” said Cleo.
“That would be tough on her family,” said Jimmy. “I think she’s got twelve kids.”
“Oh,” said Cleo, suddenly looking contrite.
Upon seeing Cleo’s expression, Jimmy regretted his lie. This woman actually had feelings.
Cleo opened her mouth to say something, decided silence was best, and closed it. Maybe if she did the same with her eyes, closed them for a second, and . . . No, nothing had changed. Everything was as bad as before. There were sand footprints in the carpeting; there were crumpled newspapers on the floor; there was a pair of panty hose resting over a chair that was on its last legs—literally. She cast a glance at the bed and looked away. The bedspread looked as if puppies had been birthed on it, and a big litter at that.
Cleo felt faint. Even though she was breathing through her mouth, the odor, perhaps the poisonous fumes, were still getting to her.
“I need air,” she said.
Jimmy walked over to the sliding glass doors. He gave a mighty heave, but couldn’t get the door open. Jimmy tried again, but then realized that they weren’t supposed to open.
“Sometimes they stick,” he said. “I’ll have to get maintenance up here.” As if, he thought, they hadn’t been there already.
The glass had a layer of grime, looked as if someone had been cooking bacon for a few years without bothering to clean. Through it, Cleo could barely make out the ocean. The vision taunted like a mirage.
She walked out of the room to the hallway, Jimmy following her. Bradford would deal with this. He had made the reservation. Cleo looked around for him, saw him in the doorway of the next room. Only half of his body was visible. That was probably just as well. The half she could see had a woman’s hands embracing his buttocks.
“Bradford!”
He jumped a little, and the hands reluctantly released their hold. As he walked toward their room, Bradford straightened his tie, then patted down his suit, especially the area around his hindquarters.
“Getting rid of fingerprints?” asked Cleo.
Bradford pretended he didn’t know what she was talking about. Jimmy was leaning on his cart, watching the scene with apparent pleasure. The preppie had been busted big-time.
“Here,” said Bradford, tossing
the nosy bellman two dollars.
Jimmy knew that the money was his signal to depart, but he was in no hurry to do so. He slowly unfolded the crinkled dollar bills and made a show of looking rather forlornly for more, even though no one was paying any attention to him. Cleopatra had her hands on her hips and was staring at her boyfriend. His dallying now seemed much more important than the state of their room.
“What was going on there?” she asked shrilly.
“Nothing,” he said. “Missy’s just rather high-spirited.”
“Is that what you call it?” asked Cleo.
“Yes,” said Bradford. “That’s what I’d call it.”
His face suddenly contorted. He’d caught a whiff of the sickening smell coming from their room.
“What the hell?” he said, and then went into the room to investigate.
Jimmy decided he’d lingered long enough, and quickly made his escape.
“Shit,” shouted Bradford, “shit.”
Cleo hadn’t followed Bradford inside. She didn’t care about the condition of their room anymore. A woman’s hands had been clasped around her boyfriend’s butt. That was the issue.
Bradford came storming out into the hall. “Did you see that pigsty . . . ?”
She turned away from him. Bradford bit back his anger. He wasn’t about to let his multimillion-dollar dream get away. “Hey,” he said, “we shouldn’t be fighting.”
She turned back to him, more than ready to forgive and forget, and started crying. He held her. Between sobs, Cleo said, “I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry, too,” said Bradford. “I wanted everything to be perfect for you.”
He hadn’t spent top dollar to get a room that would have put a flophouse to shame. “There’s been some mistake,” Bradford said, “but don’t worry, I’ll make things right.”
Taking a breath of the outside air, Bradford plunged back inside the room. Tentatively, Cleo followed. She saw him pick up the phone. He knew she was watching, but even if she hadn’t been, Bradford still would have looked as if he were ready to chew off the mouthpiece. To his extreme disappointment, he didn’t even get the satisfaction of damaging a fellow human’s eardrum. The line was dead.