by Alan Russell
Clothing. Thank Julian, he thought. At least it wasn’t jewelry. “Which articles?”
She gave a wry smile. “Some of my brassieres were taken.”
“Your what?”
“My bras.”
Am tried to maintain a stoic face. Not knowing what else to do, he pulled out his notepad and made an entry: Missing Bras.
“Anything else?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“And how many bras are missing?”
“Four. Two were left.”
Am stopped writing. The strange disappearance was getting stranger. “If,” he emphasized, “your bras were stolen, why do you think four were taken and two left behind?”
“I think he liked the frilled models.”
“Frilled?”
“He took the ones with embroidery and lace. They weren’t exactly Frederick’s of Hollywood, but they were sexier than the plain ones that were left.”
Am kept writing. It seemed like the safest thing to do. “Anything else distinguishing about the missing bras?”
She laughed, and Am felt stupid. Was there anything distinguishing about the Grand Tetons?
“They’re not padded,” she said.
This time Am laughed. Few males on the staff had ever really talked to Miss Carr. They had just gawked.
“Would it be presumptuous,” he asked, “if I were to ask the size of the missing bras?”
“Why? Do you plan to put out an all-points bulletin?”
Am tried to regain control of the interview. “The size would help for identification purposes.”
Kris smiled. She had a pretty face. It was probably the least noticed part of her anatomy, which was a shame. Am guessed she was in her early thirties. She had long lashes, and her chin had a slight cleft. Her tinted hair reached down just past her shoulders.
“Fifty-eight double F,” she said.
Am forgot about her face for a moment and peeked southward. He made another entry on his notepad, remembering not to include an exclamation mark.
“Whoever stole my bras,” she lamented, “probably doesn’t realize what a pain it is to get them replaced.”
“When did you notice they were missing?”
“Just now.”
“And how did that discovery come about?”
She laughed at Am’s attempted seriousness. “The discovery came about when I walked out of the shower naked and found most of my bras missing.”
“How long were you away from the room?”
“Most of the day. I was at the beach. I come here twice a year just for the ocean. That’s what I miss most in Las Vegas.”
“What do you do in Las Vegas?”
“I’m a brain surgeon,” she said, then laughed at Am’s look of surprise. “Actually, I’m a topless entertainer. Don’t knocker it.”
It was his fault for having asked the question, Am thought. “How much longer will you be with us, Miss Carr?”
“Four more days. Then back to the grind. And bump.”
She was determined to unstarch Am’s collar, but he still tried to maintain a formality between them. Am usually lectured his staff that they should be friendly, but not familiar, with the guests. He walked back to the door, examined it, and determined that there was no sign of forced entry. The Hotel California guest room doors had automatic dead bolts, adequate protection but by no means state of the art.
“Are you in the habit of closing the door behind you?” he asked.
“Self-preservation runs deep in me,” she said. “I made sure the door was locked, and I didn’t leave any windows open, either.”
Having ruled out the obvious, Am tried to downplay the situation. “I’m certain that housekeeping inadvertently took away your underclothing with the dirty linen,” he said. “It’s happened before.”
“They just thought they were sheets, huh?”
Am acted as if he hadn’t heard. “As a precaution, though, I am going to reprogram your electronic lock, and issue you some new keys. I’d also like the name and address of your undergarment company. I’ll try to get them to overnight a shipment to the Hotel.”
She wrote the name down on a piece of Hotel California stationery, and when she handed him the paper, he offered his business card. “I’m sure there’s some reasonable explanation,” he said, “but please call me if I can be of any help.”
They walked to her front door, and Am paused a moment before saying anything else, thinking about the best way to proceed if there wasn’t that “reasonable explanation.”
“In the odd chance your bras aren’t found,” he said, “I might consider salting the replacements.”
Kris looked more amused than incredulous. Men were in the habit of offering her unusual suggestions, but this was a new one to her. “You want to salt my bras?”
Am felt the heat rise in his face. “Salting” was a term he had picked up from the Chief. “Police lingo,” he explained. “By chemically marking your bras, we’ll be able to tell who has come into contact with them.”
“Salted bras,” she said, “and me on a low-sodium diet.”
“The tracer dust,” said Am, “is invisible to the eye, but under an ultraviolet light the dust casts quite a glow.”
“So we can catch the bra thief red-handed.”
“Lime-green-handed,” said Am, then added quickly, “Not that I really think there is a bra thief.”
Kris shrugged. “Anything to share in the bust,” she said.
She waved good-bye while closing the door. Am stood there a moment. First the dust, he thought, then the bust, then the lust. He wasn’t sure if the order was accurate, but he didn’t much care.
Chapter Eight
Carlton had never been an introspective sort. Even with two bodies in his closet, he was reluctant to make any personal decisions.
He felt comfortable at the Hotel. It was old and grand and reassuring. If he didn’t think too hard, he could almost relax. He had spent most of his evening reading a booklet detailing the Hotel’s history. In 1982, one century after it first opened, the Hotel had been entered into the National Register of Historic Places. In California that kind of honor was usually reserved for old missions. But more than saints had stayed at the Hotel. It had attracted sinners aplenty. The gangsters, pony players, painted ladies, and playboys were as woven into the lore of the property as were the visiting emperors, heads of state, and fabled actors and actresses.
The Hotel. That’s what Southern Californians called it. There was no need to elaborate. There were many pretenders to the throne, but only one Hotel. Its standing was perpetuated by the staff. The switchboard operators were instructed to answer calls with, “The Hotel. May I help you?”
The Hotel had grown in reputation over the years, even gained a dignity that wasn’t there in her youth. Such is the case with many a biography. As the seaside resort became more popular, as La Jolla established itself as a playground for the rich, the Hotel had added, and expanded, and gilded upon the original lily.
Carlton read about the hotel characters, personalities as big as the property. He marveled at the anecdotes, all the tales and tragedies, never stopping to think that he himself was now a part of that history. There was everything at the Hotel, he thought, even a ghost affectionately known as “Stan.” Ladies be warned! the booklet cautioned. Stan wasn’t a malevolent sort, but he did like to show off for pretty women.
Before putting the booklet aside, Carlton read about the guest who came to stay. He envied Wallace Talbot, the artist who had checked into the Hotel in 1972. Half a century later he was still there. “I could never bring myself to leave,” Wallace said.
I know just how he feels, Carlton thought. The Hotel was seductive, a world unto itself. It offered an ongoing soap opera. He could almost pretend that nothing bad had ever happened, that it was all a dream and he had awakened to this beautiful place.
I don’t ever want to leave, either, he thought.
Chapter Nine
&n
bsp; The faces, thought Am. If he squinted just a little, he could almost believe. And if he drank just a little more tequila, the resemblance would get that much closer. He took another swill of to-kill-ya.
Come as a Guest. And they had. A thousand employees worked at the Hotel, and probably half of them were at the party. It was an outdoor affair, perfect for a balmy September evening. One of the staff had family in Rancho Santa Fe, an exclusive retreat north of San Diego, a place where horse stables are as common as Mercedes. The gentleman’s ranch was an ideal place for the peons to stage their one-night revolt, a proper theater for the staff to transform themselves into the demanding and eccentric gentry they served. In Rancho Santa Fe housing prices started at around three million dollars. It was a good thing there were no nearby neighbors; the revelry quickly got loud.
It was like a Halloween party, thought Am, but instead of Frankenstein and Wolfman and Dracula, there were the Guests from Hell, figures as familiar to the staff as the monsters. Am tried to put names on the caricatured guests as the bodies swept by: there was Mr. Parker, who somehow managed to cop a feel of every woman on the staff; and there, there was Dr. Jamison, who always patted his pockets and told every server and bellman that he’d “catch them next time.” The Reverend Mr. Forbes and his nephew were in attendance, walking around arm in arm. The reverend and his kin were always close enough that they shared a king-size bed, even though he somehow had a different and younger “nephew” every year.
Through blurred eyes, Am looked around for other familiar figures. There was no mistaking Dr. Ann Walters, the platinum-blond self-proclaimed “shrink to the stars.” The staff called Dr. Walters the “stopwatch doctor.” She had never been known to go more than a minute without using her title of doctor.
Someone stumbled into Am. Or was it Am who had done the stumbling? He was surer of his identification than he was his own feet. Judge Franken, as played by purchasing agent Tad Phelps, bounced away from him. Silverware was falling out of the judge’s pants, a reminder that he never failed to leave the Hotel without taking everything from his room that wasn’t nailed down.
Am grabbed a chair and seated himself rather unsteadily. He looked around at his tablemates. Gary Zabrinski, the assistant front office manager, had come as Mr. Jeffries. He had brought along a prop telephone and, like Jeffries, was carrying on risqué conversations for all to hear. Jeffries was an audio-exhibitionist, who liked making calls on the cell phone from the lobby. The lewder those calls, the louder they typically were.
Kim Yamamoto, the convention and sales director, had come as Sally Simmons, better known as Superstitious Sally. One of Sally’s many phobias was her aversion to walking on cracks. The Hotel had acres of Mexican tile, so it was doubtful if Sally ever got the chance to appreciate the Hotel scenery. Her attention was always focused downward so that she could painstakingly avoid stepping on cracks. Kim was keeping in form. She never raised her head.
Am heard his name called. A crowd was gathering around him. “Speech,” they were yelling to him, “speech!”
“Who are you dressed as, Am?” Greg Tipatua was the crowd’s shill. The cashier was dressed as Mr. Thorpe, known by the staff as Mr. Goldfinger because of his propensity for golden chains, rings, and bracelets. Greg was awash in golden jewelry.
Everyone laughed at Greg’s question. They knew who Am was dressed as. But they laughed even more at Am’s answer: “The hotel dick,” he announced.
“Speech,” they called again.
This time Am obliged them.
Chapter Ten
Am caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror while walking into the executive offices. He would have described his sorry-looking state as the morning after, except that his night had never really ended. It was almost seven-thirty, and he had the distinct feeling he wasn’t going to look any better as the day wore on.
Kendrick stared at him critically. “Mis-tah Caw-field, you look ah-ful.”
“I was supposed to have the day off, sir.”
“As you are aware, situations ah-rise which preclude management from having time off. Such a situation has ah-risen. This is a testing occasion, and from appearances I find you woefully lacking.”
Am knew better than to respond.
“We had an ah-pparent suicide last night. As you are supposed to be the ass-istant general man-ah-ger, and as security is now supposed to fall under your purview, I thought you might be interested in your job. Are you interested in your job, Mr. Caw-field?”
“Tell me about the suicide,” said Am.
By his glare, it was apparent Kendrick would have preferred another response, but after a few moments of silent rebuke he responded anyway. “A man jumped from the balcony of his seventh-floor room. I was ah-pprised of the facts at about three o’clock this morning. Ah-pparently you could not be reached.”
Three o’clock, Am thought. If memory served him, he was pissing into a very large fountain at about that time. It had seemed the logical thing to do. There were about a dozen people waiting at all the restrooms. Of course, that particular fountain had been on the first floor, and he had taken aim from the third. Am decided that wasn’t something the GM needed to hear.
“But then we didn’t have too much trouble tracking you down,” said Kendrick. “You were at that party.”
He made it sound like an orgy. Not that he was off the mark by much. Nonetheless, Am tried to imbue the party with a dignity it didn’t deserve.
“It’s an annual event,” he said.
“It’s a tradition I undah-stand you started.”
“End of summer,” said Am. “A full house every night for more than two months. It’s a safety valve for all the staff, a way for everyone to blow off the pressure.”
“It’s a disgrace,” said Kendrick, “an irreverent display that I fear our guests might hear about.”
Everyone agreed it had been the best Come as a Guest party yet. Character assassinations had reached new heights.
“I noticed your sign-up sheets,” said Kendrick. “Half the staff or more must have ah-ttended your party. And they registered under the names of some of our most prestigious and influential patrons.”
And some of our biggest assholes, Am thought.
“I didn’t notice your name on the list, Mr. Caw-field.”
Am looked distinctly uncomfortable. “As the unofficial master of ceremonies,” he said, “I didn’t find it necessary to dress up as a guest.”
Kendrick stared at him. “Nevertheless,” he said, “I’m curious as to whom you did dress up as.”
Am started sweating and made minor medical history. As dehydrated as he was, perspiration should not have been possible. He wiped his brow and changed subjects with about as much finesse as a semi-truck moving through city traffic.
“I’d really like to hear about that suicide,” he said.
Kendrick let him sweat a few more seconds, then slowly passed a manila folder his way. “A guest noticed the body on the beach a little before three this morning,” he said. “The front desk assumed it was just some drunk but called security anyway.”
Am read the report. The deceased was identified as Tim Kelly. He was part of a contractors group staying at the Hotel. He had been staying in room 711. That was the extent of the security guard’s report. Am thought it was better than usual.
“Have we gotten any background on the leaper?” Am asked.
Kendrick shook his finger in Am’s face. “Sir,” he said, “I expect you to expunge that word from your vocabulary. I will not have anyone on the property use the word leaper. He is to be referred to as Mr. Kelly, or the deceased. We will be especially sensitive in the presence of the media.”
Leapers don’t enhance a hotel’s PR effort, and the Hotel California constantly preened its public feathers. The worst thing about leapers is that they attract other leapers, and while hotels love walk-in business, they’re not too keen about the walk-out trade. Am had heard how one San Diego high rise had dealt with a rash of su
icides. The staff had requested a suicide hot-line number be posted on all guest room phones, but the GM had instead decided to have new room service menus made up. Employees called them the “Don’t Kill Yourself—Call Room Service” menus.
“Do we know anything about the le—man?” Am asked.
“Yes,” said Kendrick. “He’s dead.”
“I asked because there have been instances where hotels have been held liable for suicides.”
Kendrick shook his head and gave Am a baleful look. “Mr. Caw-field, I am asking you to be neither a lawyer nor a policeman. Mr. Kelly is dead. We don’t need any legal hysteria. Detective McHugh of the San Diego Police Department is handling this case. He has agreed to meet with you this morning at ten-fifteen.”
Am looked at his watch, then stood up. His scheduled meeting was almost three hours away, but it seemed as good an excuse as any to leave the office. Am had learned it was never wise to linger around Kendrick.
“But even without that unfortunate death,” said Kendrick, “it would have been necessary to call you in anyway. Developments have occurred which will force me to leave town and be incommuni-cah-do until Sunday. The owners have arranged for a two-day retreat. I will neither be able to make any calls nor to receive them.”
The Hotel was family owned. The principals usually only got together for a three-day annual meeting, time enough to renew old hatreds and supply vitriol for the rest of the year. It was highly unusual for them to be gathering other than for that meeting.
“Anything up with the owners?” Am asked.
The GM chose not to answer. “Regret-ah-bly,” he said, “my absence leaves you in tit-uh-lar charge of the Hotel for the next three days. I hope it will still be standing uh-pon my return.”
Kendrick knew only too well that Am had been the acting general manager for the two months prior to his getting the job. He also knew that Am had aspired to his position.