The Fat Innkeeper

by Alan Russell

  His walkie-talkie sounded. “Am, this is Central,” said Fred. “There is a Ms. Donnelly waiting for you at the front desk. That’s a D—David, O—Ogden…”

  “Understood,” responded Am.

  “Ten-four,” said Fred, the disappointment in his voice palpable.

  Marisa hadn’t arrived empty-handed. She was carrying two full briefcases, and had an assortment of papers wedged under her arms. She didn’t object when Am volunteered to lighten her load.

  “The lives and times of Dr. Thomas Kingsbury,” she said.

  “I was sort of hoping for an abridged version,” said Am. He had only assumed the burden of half the paperwork, and that was still weighty enough. He wondered if his feeling weak was the result of the day, or of his low blood sugar. He was hungry enough to eat anything—except chicken.

  “Have you eaten dinner?” he asked.

  “I haven’t even eaten breakfast,” she said.

  “Then let’s look at a menu before we look at these papers.”

  He took her to Poseidon’s Grill, the darkest of the Hotel’s four restaurants, and the least ostentatious. There was a booth available for them, which was just as Am wanted. All of the booths were partitioned off, allowing very private spaces. Am and Marisa sank into the dark burgundy leather, and were immediately comfortable. The Grill didn’t have the ocean view of the other restaurants, and wasn’t nearly as trendy. The food was familiar, and when ordering, diners weren’t required to try and pronounce unfamiliar words. Beer could be ordered from the tap, most of the brands American. The biggest choice of the evening was whether to call for rare, medium, or well-done. There are times, thought Am, when it is a pleasure not to have to think.

  He looked at Marisa as she scanned the menu. She appeared different in candlelight; that, or maybe he was viewing her with new eyes. This was the closest thing resembling a dinner date he had had with anyone since Sharon. He was finally beginning to accept that he and Sharon were now just friends, but his heart was slower on the uptake than his brain. He remembered how he and Sharon had been brought together by three deaths and their resolve to figure out what had happened. Reminiscing about their courtship was like trying to remember a white-water rafting trip, the two of them navigating treacherous currents and reacting to forces greater than they were.

  Was that his initial attraction to the hotel business? Had he been seduced by the sheer energy of hotels? At the Hotel he knew that on any given day over five hundred rooms could be checking out, and another five hundred checking in. But the business wasn’t rooms, it was people, humanity in many guises and agendas. The challenges were always immense. Maybe he was an adrenaline junkie, needing greater and greater stimuli to kick him over the edge. It was strange, and maybe sick, that women seemed to come into his life only when somebody died. Or was that the only time he let himself be vulnerable?

  Marisa looked up from her menu, saw him gazing at her, read what was in his glance, and didn’t immediately close the shutters.

  “Is this the time we tell each other our carefully edited biographies?” she asked.

  “No,” said Am, acknowledging the sudden presence of their server, “this is the time we order.”

  She said she rarely ate red meat, and then ordered a rare New York steak with bourbon-glazed onions. He wasn’t sure whether her pun was deliberate, but smiled anyway and wondered why it was that women always announced what they rarely did. He had the sixteen-ounce T-bone, and didn’t bother to tell her that he, also, didn’t often eat red meat. But then he didn’t eat much tofu either.

  When the server had left, they looked at each other again. Leisurely, fully. Though Am was famished, Marisa’s presence provided him a form of sustenance. Inside him something was stirring, something that had been missing, something indefinable except in its loss. It was nice to know that certain feelings weren’t forever lost to him. They had just been misplaced.

  “Say something, philosopher,” she said.

  At least, Marisa thought, she knew that much about him.

  “ ‘There is more to life,’ “ he said, “ ‘than increasing its speed.’ Mahatma Gandhi.”

  “Do you agree with that?”

  “Wholeheartedly. Unfortunately, I seldom practice what I believe, or do so with about the frequency that I surf, which isn’t very often these days.”

  “Why?”

  “I have a demanding mistress. Or I’m getting older. Or maybe I’m not as certain of what I believe as I should be, and it’s easier getting caught up in other currents.”

  “You sound like a confused philosopher.”

  “I told you I wasn’t a philosopher. I’m just someone acquainted with many philosophies.”

  “You also told me you weren’t really a house dick.”

  “I didn’t want you to think of me as a type.”

  “A type?”

  “I don’t spend my time watching cop shows. I don’t even own a handgun.”

  “I do,” she said.

  Marisa could see his surprise. “Guess you’ll have to reevaluate my type, won’t you?” she asked.

  “No,” he said, “I’ll just have to reevaluate whether I should ever argue with you.”

  Their salads were brought out, and their waiter asked them if they’d like pepper. Both nodded. Marisa wasn’t satisfied with just a few cranks of the pepper mill. She put the server through the mill—literally.

  “Would you like some salad with your pepper?” asked Am.

  “When I was a little girl, my father called me a Mexichaun,” she said. “He told me I was half Leprechaun and half Mexican. That translates to being half Mexican and half Irish. I guess it shouldn’t be a surprise that I like my food spicy.

  “Thank you,” she finally told the waiter, whose face was a little red from his exertions.

  Marisa Donnelly, mused Am. The name fit her roots. Southern California continues the melting-pot tradition of the country. “Mexichaun,” he said aloud. The word seemed to apply. She was exotic, had the dark hair, and the green eyes, and the olive complexion. And there was something fey about her, something otherworldly, or at least it seemed that way looking at her. “Does that mean you’re ready to reveal some hidden treasure?”

  “You’ll have to catch me first,” she said.

  There was a look between them, and some mutual shortness of breath, and two minds wondering what was really there between them. “Are Mexichauns hard to catch?” he asked.

  “Extremely,” she said. “But I hear not impossible.”

  She had been caught before, but not held, and to hear her hints, she had never been able to give her treasure up completely. They offered bits and pieces of themselves, confirming to each other that, yes, they were that person the other saw. Marisa learned about Am’s on-again, off-again love affair with the Hotel. The looming presence of the Other Woman didn’t bother her. To be fully human, she said, was to indenture yourself to something other than flesh. In her own case, she thought that words mattered, that certain stories should be pursued like the Holy Grail.

  They discussed their days. Am was torn about whether he should tell her about the swingers; in the end he did. He made her promise it was “off the record,” but her pledge didn’t call for her not to laugh. Wayward whales, swingers, the near-dead, the actual dead, “fowl”-ups, the meetings between East and West, and pretenders to the throne prompted her to comment, “This is a very strange kingdom.”

  Am liked her phraseology. “Strange kingdom” summed up the Hotel California very nicely. And what was he, the knight-errant? Or just plain errant? No, he remembered, he was the samurai.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Perhaps the oddest thing about their dinner was that even in the midst of the pheromones and fantasies neither of them forgot about what had brought them together—the death of Dr. Thomas Kingsbury.

  Even before dessert (a very decadent mud pie), they were sorting through the pile of papers that Marisa had brought with her. Flashlights supplied by t
he maitre d’ helped illuminate the documents that made up Thomas Kingsbury’s life. It must have looked odd to the other diners, almost like a scene from a campground, with lights playing out from behind their booth much like the illumination offered from a shrouding tent. To Am and Marisa, that was almost how it felt. They were enclosed, together in their task. By mutual consent, they put aside the doctor’s scientific papers, most having to do with blood diseases (“Even Dracula,” said Marisa, “wouldn’t want to read these”), and concentrated on the newspaper and magazine articles. Dr. Kingsbury invariably made for good copy, always exposing one fraud or another. He loved putting the spotlight on cons and bunco artists, and was quoted as saying that “in the light and heat of the sun, slugs shrivel quickly.”

  The names changed, but many of the stories were the same: healers who claimed to have cures for everything from lung cancer to AIDS—all at a price, of course. Am was reading yet another of those pieces, the modern medicine man supposedly touched by God, but at the same time touching up his terminal patients for as much mammon as possible, when he suddenly recognized the familiar name of the Reverend Mr. Gardenia. Kingsbury had enrolled in one of Gardenia’s “healing within” classes, and then documented how the weak and sick had been preyed upon. Through the media, the doctor publicly challenged all of Gardenia’s purported cures. The reverend had tried to counter the arguments of his detractor, had even produced some true believers who stood up and said they had been made well by his course and their faith in God, but Kingsbury had been relentless and loud, and in the end had prevailed. The workshops had closed down, and the Reverend Mr. Gardenia had disappeared. Until the reemergence of Brother Howard, that is.

  “Right about now,” said Am, “Brother Howard is teaching others how to listen to the dead. For a price.”

  “I’m curious about both the dead and the price,” she said.

  Am called for their check, was told by the waiter “Right away,” but it didn’t work out that way.

  “I want to see the manager.”

  How many times had Am heard that sentence, and that tone of voice, that unique combination of imperious, demanding, aggrieved, and whiny? It promised an earful. It promised an ax to grind—no, more than that, an ax to be wielded, and planted in the backside of the hapless manager.

  The voice carried, as all such voices do. It advertised a threat. Conversations around the restaurant stopped, everyone tuning into the event. Forks were lowered, heads were turned, and the sacrificial lamb was produced. Scott Bockius was an all-around nice guy. Like any good maitre d’, he remembered names, knew some nice little jokes, and was passably good at singing “Happy Birthday to You,” which he probably did half a dozen times a night. Judging from what he was facing, “Bridge Over Troubled Waters” was the song he should have been boning up for.

  The complainer was holding his napkin like a gauntlet, and appeared as if he wanted to use it to slap a face and issue a challenge. His posture was rigid, his jaw somewhere up in his mouth. There wasn’t foam around his lips, but you looked to be sure. He was around forty, had dark, well-groomed hair, and was immaculately dressed in a black double-breasted suit with a floral, neatly pressed handkerchief resting in his pocket. He was good-looking, if you could ignore the supercilious hauteur and attitude that he carried in his eyes and bearing, the one that said, I-am-more-than-a-mere-mortal-look-upon-me-and-know-that. Am had a one-word translation: prick.

  Scott looked like a beaten dog even before they started talking. “Good evening, sir,” he said. “I’m Scott Bockius-”

  “You are,” said the man loudly, “the manager of this”—a sorrowful shake of the head—“place?”

  Scott was the bird caught up by the mesmerizing stare of the snake. The man’s eyes had that feel and power to them. Scott shook his head in synchronized movement with his summoner, then realized he was contradicting himself.

  “Yes, sir…”

  “I am Dr. Joseph,” the man said, announcing the name like a thespian broadcasting to the balcony, as if the name should mean something.

  The name did mean something, at least to Am. He tried to remember.

  “I have had,” said Dr. Joseph, “the worst dining experience of my life. Would you care to hear about my landmark meal?”

  Scott was already wiping his brow. “Perhaps we can talk in my office…”

  Dr. Joseph wasn’t about to be sequestered. “We will talk here. If I were to move, I would probably regurgitate what tried to pass as a Caesar salad, and what was purported to be London broil. That would be a relief to my stomach, but I doubt it would sit well with your other patrons. It would be, however, a fitting tribute to the meal.”

  “I am sorry…” started Scott.

  “What was sorry,” interrupted Dr. Joseph, “was what was served.”

  He announced his litany of complaints. The salad was hot, and the soup was cold. His meat was supposed to be rare, and it was closer to well-done. Masticating on tough leather, he said, would have been an enjoyable experience next to trying to grind down what was served. As for his date, he would probably have to use his professional expertise to have her stomach pumped. Her fish might have been fresh, as advertised, but only at the turn of the last century. To put their meal in medical terms, Joseph said, was to pronounce gastronomical malpractice.

  While he ranted, Am tried to see beyond the words being offered. For having been served such a purportedly awful meal, the doctor’s plate was amazingly clean. It was also apparent that his date wasn’t enjoying his tirade. She was an attractive blond woman, perhaps thirty, who appeared ready to crawl under the table, and not because of ptomaine.

  Long before Dr. Joseph finished his unfavorable culinary review, Scott was ready to wave the white flag. Those who have made careers in the hospitality industry generally have done so because they enjoy being in a profession that pleases. It is a rare business where you are a constant recipient of smiles and thank yous, with guests genuinely happy to pay you for pleasure. No one in the hospitality industry is fool enough to think that the guests are always right, but their training is to try and make it right for the guest. The only out that Scott could furnish was to comp the meal, which he was more than ready to do.

  “Excuse me,” said Am to Marisa, sliding out from their booth. He walked up to Scott, put a hand on his shoulder, and said, “I’ll take over.” The maitre d’ was happy to let him. He shot Am a grateful look, then quickly stepped aside and walked away.

  Am offered a friendly smile to Dr. Joseph and his date. “I’m Mr. Caulfield,” he said, “and I’m with the Hotel. I’m sorry that you didn’t like the meal. I’ve made notes of your complaints, and we will endeavor to improve upon our shortcomings.”

  He didn’t offer anything else, just stood there. The doctor looked at him expectantly. Am offered a blank stare in return.

  Dr. Joseph finally produced a pen. “I didn’t catch your name,” he said.

  I wonder if he’s a psychiatrist, thought Am. The pen was a good touch, almost as intimidating to a hotel employee as a gun. Even when they were absolutely in the right, staff knew that condemning letters had a way of clinging and damning an employee’s career.

  “Mr. Caulfield,” said Am, then exaggeratedly spelled it: “C-A-U-L-F-I-E-L-D.”

  When a hotel employee doesn’t offer you a first name, serious enmity has been declared.

  “And your position?”

  “Administration,” said Am.

  The playing field between guest and staff is not an even one, nor should it be. To work in the hospitality industry is to declare yourself a professional servant. But in this instance Am knew better than to offer a first name or a title. He was facing a man who at best would patronize him, but would more likely try to grind him into the restaurant’s carpeting.

  Neither man said anything. Am stood there, and the doctor pretended to elaborate on his notes. His scribbles lasted half a minute. When he finished, he looked back at Am. To speak first would be a tactical e
rror. Both men knew that, but Dr. Joseph spoke anyway: “Our meal was inedible.”

  “I apologize that it wasn’t to your satisfaction,” said Am.

  “It goes without saying,” he announced loudly, “that I’m not paying for such a travesty.”

  “No,” said Am quietly, “I don’t think it does.”

  Joseph stared at him. The script was not going as expected. He was used to bellowing and getting his way, with apologies at that.

  “Do you know who I am?” asked the doctor loudly, leaving lots of room for the echoes: I am powerful; I can make your life miserable; I can have your job or your head, as I see fit; I know the owner and we’re best friends.

  “Yes,” said Am, “I do.” There was no insolence in his tone or words, but there were echoes there also: You are a bully; you are spoiled; you are self-appointed royalty without any sense of noblesse oblige; you are a con artist.

  To the entire room, it was showdown at O.K. Corral. The men locked eyes. Neither offered a retreat. In the end it was Joseph who turned away and looked at his date. “Let’s go,” he said.

  “There is the matter of your bill,” said Am.

  The doctor turned to him angrily. “There is an implied contract,” he said loudly, “that the customer has to be satisfied with the product and service rendered. We were not. I have no intention of paying one penny.”

  “There is more than an implied contract,” said Am, “there are laws, in fact, which state the customer must demonstrate that he or she has sufficient means to pay.”

  Joseph didn’t need to feign his outrage. “I make more in a week,” he said, “than you do in a year.”

  His assertion, Am thought, was probably only too true. “That wasn’t the question,” said Am. “I asked you whether you could demonstrate whether you have the means to pay. If you don’t, then I can only assume your intent was to defraud an innkeeper, and we will be forced to press charges.”