by Alan Russell
He had worked up a thirst, and was looking forward to the Dom Pérignon. There was nothing better than ordering a three hundred dollar bottle of champagne, especially when someone else was paying for it. These were billable hours, he thought. When Deidre got her settlement, there would be enough zeros in it that she wouldn’t object. The room was registered under his name, of course, but for all practical purposes everything would eventually be part of her legal expenses. For consultation, he thought. And for services. Especially that. The getaway was their little secret. Their pre-celebration.
David took a breath and pushed out his chest before opening the door. There were more and more women room service waiters these days, and he always liked to look his best for the ladies. Head lowered, he motioned the cart inside, waving his towel like a matador leading on a bull. “Olé,” he said. But when he looked up, he could see there was no room service cart, no display of Irish linen and crystal glasses, no rose in a vase, no iced champagne. There was only a man. Given a choice, David might have preferred the bull.
The man stepped inside the suite. He was of average height and had thick glasses. Over the years his red hair had grown thinner, while his waist had grown thicker. For once the lawyer was short on words. “C-Carlton . . . ”
The man didn’t answer. He started walking toward the bedroom. David was at a loss as to what he should do. He was too surprised even to articulate a threatened lawsuit.
In the bedroom, Deidre waited. She didn’t know anything was amiss. The suite was well insulated, the walls designed to keep the noises of the world at bay. She was laughing to herself at what David had said. “Hold that thought.” She was holding more than that. He liked her vamping, but that wasn’t what he said he liked best. The door opened, and Deidre raised her lashes in her best come-hither look. Then she screamed.
The scream moved her lover to action. David didn’t like it that their privacy had been violated and that his client was upset. He felt wronged, transgressed upon. But he chose to ignore one salient point: the man who had entered their hotel room was her husband.
“Get the hell out of here,” David said.
Carlton took a swing at him and missed. David was almost amused. His assailant was lumpy and slow, already red-faced and puffing after just one attempted blow. David figured he could beat him with one hand tied behind his back, and he was glad of that, because his left hand was holding up his towel. With his right, he shoved.
Carlton was not particularly nimble. His last fight had been in the sixth grade, over thirty years ago, and he hadn’t done very well back then, either. He fell into the room-service tray, landed on the floor with all the remains from the half-eaten plates: the filet mignon, the lobster thermidor, the wilted dandelion greens, the curly endive with bacon dressing, the celery braised in white wine, and the mushrooms florentine. There were also all the condiments and utensils and the melted butter. When Carlton raised himself up from the floor, Deidre stopped her screaming and started laughing instead. It was probably hysterical laughter, but Carlton only heard the scorn.
The lawyer apparently wasn’t a believer in not kicking people when they’re down. He kicked Carlton in his dirtied pants and sent him sprawling to the floor a second time.
“I told you to get out of here,” he said, then took a few moments to try to readjust his towel. It was difficult to do that and keep his chest inflated at the same time.
When Carlton rose from the floor for the third time, he didn’t come up empty-handed. He turned on David and struck at him. The lawyer was still fussing with the towel. Counsel proved right about one thing: it was a good knife. It found the lawyer’s heart.
Deidre was still laughing. She hadn’t noticed the red stain appearing on her lover’s towel or the knife in her husband’s hand, only saw the food and goo dripping from Carlton. It was so like him to appear the buffoon.
A moment later, and her laughter suddenly stopped.
Chapter Two
A geologist had once told Am that earthquakes didn’t frighten him as much as the aftershocks. Am felt the same way about his dream. It always seemed to presage some momentous event in his life. The changes hadn’t been all bad, but at the moment Am did not feel like embracing flux. When you work at a beach resort, the end of summer is like the bell sounding the end of the fifteenth round. You’ve survived, and you’re not anxious to leave your corner.
Damn dream. It had Am on edge. He wondered why, at certain intervals in his life, that vision of things past came to him. Am thought his dreaming about hotels was unfair. Wasn’t it penance enough that he worked in one? He had once read about a psychologist who studied the dreams of murderers. The shrink had discovered that most murderers remembered their dreams as being beautiful, and he had said their nightscapes were much more sublime than those of the general population as a whole. Am had always wondered if that was an endorsement for insomniacs to commit murder.
The fantasy wasn’t unappealing. In hand Am held a memorandum from the general manager, Raymond Kendrick. The memo addressed personal effects on the office walls in the Hotel California. It described, in Kendrick detail, what was appropriate and what was not. The GM had apparently nominated himself Miss Manners. Diplomas were appropriate. Pinups were not. Quotations or aphorisms were allowed, but none that exhibited bawdiness or profanity. Wildlife animal photography was acceptable, but wildlife human shots were out. The memo’s concluding paragraph stated the rule of thumb was that nothing should be displayed that might be objectionable to others, especially to any guests who might visit. Am would have chosen to ignore the memo, save that Kendrick had handwritten on his copy: “Your drawing and your cartoon must go.”
Am’s office was not rife with mementos and memorabilia, as were those of so many others. On display were the Bill of Rights, a picture of Am surfing, an old photograph of Harry Houdini pulling off an incredible escape, and the drawing and cartoon in question.
He reached for the ink drawing first. Cassie had made it for him, had signed it with her trademark artistic “Cassandra.” They had lived together for two years in Ocean Beach in a funky little cottage on Voltaire Street. Cassie had been a bohemian artist then. He hadn’t seen her in a dozen years but heard she’d been married, had had two kids, had gotten divorced, and now ran a preschool. Cassie’s preschool would be full of colors, he thought. She liked vibrant yellows and reds. He remembered how she had painted her VW with flowers, and he had had to fight off her trying to do the same thing to his Dodge Dart. Crazy Cassie.
Am acted like a visitor to a museum, viewed his own piece of art from a number of angles. Devoid of colors, the sketch wasn’t typical of Cassie’s work. She had created it in a matter of minutes, inspired by one of his hotel stories. Cassie was like that. In some ways she had opened his eyes to his own profession. “Your hotel’s like Canterbury Tales,” she said. “People all going on that one important pilgrimage. And the characters!”
Cassie’s drawing wasn’t titled. Over the years Am had kept coming up with his own titles, descriptions that had become more cynical with time. The picture showed a happy Procrustes leading one of his guests to a bed. According to Greek myth, Procrustes was a giant who enjoyed putting guests up, though he did have an odd way of accommodating his visitors. Procrustes lopped off the feet of those who were too tall for his iron beds and stretched the limbs of those who were too small. Unofficially Procrustes was a hero to the innkeeping world. Whenever Am came home feeling he had suffered enough guest abuse to last him a lifetime, he would announce to Cassie, “Procrustes had the right idea.” There were circumstances and guests, he said, that called for procrustean solutions. Cassie had drawn him a giant who had a “mein host” exterior, a welcoming arm and a smile, but whose gimlet eyes were taking a measure of the guest.
Was there a hint of Am’s visage in the Procrustes? He supposed there was. But Cassie had also known his working in hotels was more than just a paycheck. She had labeled his vocation Am’s “noble quest,” words spoken o
nly half-sarcastically. And sometimes she had called him “Myron,” after the hotel man in Sinclair Lewis’s Work of Art. Am touched Cassie’s drawing but couldn’t bring himself to remove it from the wall. He figured taking down the cartoon would be easier. It wasn’t.
Capitulation is usually done in degrees of swallowed pride. Complying at the point of a gun didn’t settle well with Am. When he finally took down the framed cartoon from the wall, he saw how its removal left a dark rectangular patch and revealed how faded the rest of the wallpaper had become. Like my principles, he thought.
How long had the cartoon been hanging? Eight years? No. Nine. Am wiped an accumulation of dust off the cover plate. It was a gift from his last hotel job. The cartoon, or one like it, was on the walls of most hotels in the country. It showed a beleaguered-looking front desk clerk trying to cope with a domineering guest. Clearly the clerk had been put through the wringer. The caption read “Suppose we refund your money, comp your stay, send up a fruit basket, close the hotel, and have the manager shot. Would that be satisfactory?”
Am put down the cartoon, then traced his finger around the rectangle of where it had hung. He thought back to when he had first arrived at the Hotel California, popularly known simply as “the Hotel.” That first day he had felt drunk, a good drunk. His senses were heightened, aware as never before. It was as if he were in love. He had walked around the Hotel, had breathed its rich air and been giddy. He was the assistant general manager (AGM in hotel parlance) of San Diego’s landmark hotel, the Hotel, and life was good.
For a moment Am remembered the feeling, but the high didn’t last. Now he felt only the hangover.
After a few minutes’ thought, Am arrived upon a solution. It wasn’t exactly procrustean, didn’t cause him to lose a limb, but it did allow him to save face. When he returned the cartoon to the wall, he reversed it. He did the same with Cassie’s drawing. Guests couldn’t possibly be offended by the back of a frame. Even Kendrick would have to concede that.
As if to contradict that thought, Am’s phone rang. The telephone display showed the call came from Kendrick’s extension. Reluctantly Am picked up the receiver.
“In my office,” said Kendrick. A dial tone followed. Kendrick never bothered with salutations or closings.
The executive offices were located well away from the front desk, out of sight and hearing of any of the front of the house operations. Insulated from reality, thought Am, not for the first time.
Kendrick’s secretary, Maria Ortiz, gave her usual sign language of support to Am. She had large brown eyes, sympathetic beacons to those who entered Kendrick’s office. Am paused for a moment before speaking, but his presence had already been detected: “Mis-tah Caw-field.”
The summons came from Kendrick’s inner sanctum. Kendrick was originally from Georgia. In front of guests he played the southern gent to perfection and came off even sweeter than pecan pie. But at the moment he sounded as though he were a long way from whistling “Dixie.”
Kendrick had an enormous desk. He had brought it with him, must have had it custom-made somewhere. He looked down on all visitors to his office, which was the point of his desk. You could fit three Kendricks there. He was about five feet seven and slight but had a talent for making people feel about sixty-five inches shorter. Since he had taken over the GM’s job a year ago, browbeating his assistant had proved one of his favorite pastimes. Am took a chair but didn’t even attempt to get comfortable. The staff was convinced that Kendrick had selected reconditioned electric chairs for office seating.
The two men looked at each other, and neither appeared happy by what they saw. Both were about forty, but any similarity between them ended there. Kendrick came across like titled southern gentry, looked as if he had been born with a riding crop in his hand. He was sharp of features, sharp of dress, and sharp of tongue. He had light blue eyes that were closer to permafrost than sky blue. He parted his short salt-and-pepper hair in the middle, and there was never a hair out of place.
Am was a native Californian. His hair was on the shaggy side, lightened from the sun but dark at the roots. He was about six feet tall and permanently tanned, had grown up before the words skin cancer sent people running from the sun. He had never lived more than half a mile from the Pacific and had been raised under its influence. Am had yet to meet the tie that didn’t look more like a noose on him than a neckpiece, and none had ever lasted around his neck more than six seconds away from the workplace.
Kendrick cleared his throat. “Mis-tah Caw-field,” he said, “Mis-tah Horton has decided to end his employment at this company.”
Gary Horton was a former cop and the director of security and safety at the Hotel. Over Horton’s objections, Kendrick had fired his entire security force and contracted with Brown’s Guards, a rent-a-cop outfit. The staff called them Brownshirts. Kendrick had justified his decision by saying that although security was a necessary evil, he didn’t think it had to be a necessary and expensive evil. The Hotel now had minimum wage mercenaries. The Chief’s leaving didn’t surprise Am.
“Effective when?” asked Am.
“Five minutes ago.”
Kendrick picked up his Montblanc Meisterstück fountain pen and started to write on a piece of paper. While he was scratching away, the implications of his statement belatedly struck Am.
“I don’t know anything about security . . . ”
Kendrick stopped writing, but just for a moment. “This is the Hotel California. This is not Al-cah-traz.”
“I wouldn’t know what to do . . . ”
This time Kendrick continued to write while he spoke. “I don’t imagine the post will be yours for long,” he said. “Just until we find a suit-ah-ble replacement.”
“I am not qualified.”
“I certainly won’t argue that point,” said Kendrick, “nor will I argue any further. This is not a matter open to discussion. You will assume the security director’s position along with your other duties. As there ahl-ready is a security force in place, you will merely have to review their reports and be someone they can intah-act with.”
For a moment Am considered following Chief Horton’s lead and quitting. The vision was more than satisfactory in his mind but didn’t play so well with his wallet.
“And to make things easier for you,” Kendrick added, his tone and manner regal, as if dispensing a boon, “I have someone whom you may call upon to assist you with your new duties. An intern.”
That generosity delivered, the GM returned to his scribbling.
“An intern,” said Am, not trying to hide the anger in his voice. Bill’s words came to him—Bill, the night auditor, who had been resentful of always having new employees foisted on him; Bill, who haunted him still in his dreams: “An intern doesn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground.”
Kendrick didn’t bother to look up. “Then I’m sure, Mr. Caw-field, the two of you will get along famously.
“Mrs. Ortiz,” he said into the intercom, “send Miss Baker in.”
Chapter Three
One of his mother’s favorite proverbs had been “Act in haste, repent in leisure.” She had frequently used the words to hector his father, whose forays into business always showed little in the way of forethought. Carlton Smoltz was glad his mother hadn’t lived to see his disgrace but wished he could rid his thoughts of her proverb. The words had never sounded so ominous. Repent in leisure? If he didn’t get the death penalty, he supposed he would have a very, very long time behind bars to do just that.
He wondered at how his life could have changed so quickly. The night before he had come home, expecting the usual. Deidre was in the habit of leaving a TV dinner out for him. She liked the ones with French titles and low calories. But instead of chicken divan, there was a note. Deidre wrote that she had begun divorce proceedings, and that any communication should be made through her lawyer, David Stern.
Admittedly, they did not have a marriage for the poets, but Carlton was still shocked. They had been m
arried for almost eight years, and during that time Deidre had never complained about their relationship. He worked long hours and rarely took a day off, a situation she accepted all too readily. In his heart of hearts, Carlton knew that Deidre wanted the leisure and luxuries his job afforded her more than she wanted his companionship. He had bartered for a pretty woman, she for a meal ticket. Apparently her appetite had changed.
Carlton vaguely knew her lawyer from several of the fundraisers Deidre had dragged him along to, the see-and-be-seen social events that benefited good causes almost as much as they did egos. Divorce lawyers rarely get mistaken for marriage counselors, but Carlton figured David would at least do him the consideration of passing on his fervent desire for reconciliation. By his heart’s accounting, the call had a 911 priority. David Stern’s secretary said she could take a message, as the lawyer would be away taking depositions for several days, and no, he couldn’t be reached.
Carlton thought it bad enough that he had to go through a middleman to speak his piece, but to be denied that one outlet for a period of days was unacceptable. What if he wrote a letter? Carlton asked. Couldn’t they get that to him? He pushed Stern’s secretary all the way into a maybe, then wrote that letter and hand-delivered it to the firm. Face to face with the lawyer’s secretary, Carlton tried to secure a commitment but instead received ill-suppressed ennui. Incensed spouses weren’t anything new to her. An attempt would be made to email or fax his letter to Mr. Stern, she said, but that was all she could do.
It wasn’t enough.
He wasn’t comfortable with making a scene. That wasn’t his way. Carlton had an analytical mind. He had created his own successful software company, not because he was a brilliant programmer, but because he was willing to work harder than anyone else and attend to all the details. The lawyer was supposed to have been his pipeline to Deidre. That her counsel was derelict in his duties forced Carlton to act in a manner quite unusual for him.