The Fat Innkeeper (29 page)

“What’s up?” asked Am.

Jan much preferred giving out her homemade cookies than bad news. “Another pretender,” she said.

“No,” said Am. “No. No.”

“I’ve already sent Officer Wilson to Mr. Takei’s office,” she said. “Carlos Calderon is also there.”

Carlos was a reservationist. “Why Carlos?” asked Am.

“The new wannabe general manager doesn’t speak English very well,” said Jan. “Carlos is translating.”

Great, thought Am. The HRD imposter was running out of gullible Americans. Now he was recruiting Mexicans.
Mierda.
Translate that.

“Anything else?” He hoped they were at least up to the Bs on an alphabetical Hotel trouble list. Botulism and bubonic plague
came to mind.

“Ward Ankeney called,” she said. “He had a question about a charge you submitted.”

So soon? One of the last things Am had done the night before was submit an expense form for his session with Brother Howard.
He had tucked the chit in the middle of other paperwork, hoping against hope it might just be processed. Red-flagged first
thing. Why was it that the Hotel was invariably efficient when it went against his interests?

“He wants you to see him whenever it’s convenient for you.”

So he can give me a face-to-face no, thought Am, instead of one over the telephone. Am picked up his walkie-talkie, gave Jan
a weak imitation of a Roman salute, then went outside and commandeered a utility vehicle. There are some mornings you feel
every pothole in the road was carved with your name on it. Am found more than a few of those. Halfway to the administrative
offices the vehicle died. He abandoned the cart, kicked it, and walked the rest of the way.

Diana Wade was the only person in the administrative offices. She smiled at Am, said that “this boss was easier to evict than
the last,” and that he was being interviewed in the Board Room.

“What do you mean, ‘interviewed’?” asked Am.

“Mr. Takei’s decided to go into the detective business,” she said.

He hurried over to the Board Room, regretting that he couldn’t speak Japanese better. In particular, Am wanted to know how
to say “shit.”

Takei had probably seen some American films where the suspects were interrogated under strobe lights. The Board Room was a
meeting planner’s dream, had lights designed to key on speakers, or spotlight whatever necessary. Takei had the lights on
the kid. He was eighteen or nineteen, and looked scared. He was sweating a lot (the bright lights weren’t helping), and declaring
what must have been his innocence in high-pitched Spanish. Takei wasn’t buying any of it. He was pacing around smoking a cigarette,
had his own personal black cloud hanging over his head. Carlos was translating and looking like he felt sorry for the kid.
Security Officer Wilson, a Camp Pendleton Marine who worked a few shifts a week to supplement his pay, was eyeing the suspect
disdainfully. The kid wasn’t putting up a fight, and he was giving out a lot more than name, rank, and serial number.

“Wilson,” said Am.

The flattop Marine squared his shoulders. “Yes, sir.”

That was one good thing about the Marines. They taught you how to kill politely. “Why don’t you go write up a report and leave
it on my desk.”

“Yes, sir.”

Takei wasn’t as easily dismissed. It was clear he was not pleased to see Am, but that wasn’t anything new. He ignored him,
continuing his pacing. “Ask him,” said Takei, “if he could make a selection of this man out of a police assemblage of characters.”

When Takei was excited, his accent was more pronounced and his English more circuitous. Carlos had trouble following what
he was saying. “Excuse me?” he said.

“Pardon?” asked Takei.

“He wants to know,” said Am, “if the kid could pick out the man who hired him in a police lineup.”

As if the police would organize a bogus personnel-director lineup. Am’s disgusted tone was easily translatable in any language,
but Carlos was wisely only interpreting the words. Am thought about what was going into the equation. A Japanese mind had
produced an English inquiry that was disdainfully simplified by an American (make that Californian) and then handed over to
a first-generation American Latino who delivered it to a Mexican. The result was more high-pitched protestations. Carlos duly
notated the response. He had been keeping notes. Am picked up his notepad, saw that it was half-full.

“Have they delivered the sand-filled rubber hoses yet?” he asked Takei.

“What? I don’t understand.”

Am shook his head, turned back to Carlos. “Did the fake HRD identify himself as Fletcher again?”

The boy looked up into the lights, acknowledged a familiar name. “Señor Fletcher?”

That answered that. “And did Senor Fletcher speak Spanish?”

“Well enough,” said Carlos, “to make Jose here think he was going to be chief executive officer.
Jefe.”

“
Jefe,”
repeated the boy.

“The phony personnel guy brought a Spanish-American dictionary with him, Am,” said Carlos. “He told Jose that they needed
a new boss who spoke Spanish very well because most of the staff was Mexican and they couldn’t understand what the Japanese
wanted them to do.”

“Might be something to that,” said Am with a loud sigh.

Cultural understanding doesn’t happen overnight. Sometimes not even over years. Am had known Ana, one of the Hotel maids,
for over a decade. She had invited him to her son’s high school graduation party in National City, and he had been the only
gringo there. Everyone else at the fiesta was given tortillas, but Ana gave Am white bread, had made a special point of buying
it just for him because she knew he was coming to the party. Though Am would have much preferred the tortillas, he ate the
white bread as if it were manna from heaven, and in so doing had probably perpetuated yet another stereotype. It was the first
white bread he had eaten in years.

“Okay, Carlos,” said Am. “Why don’t you take the kid to human resources and have him fill out another application.”

Carlos nodded, started translating to the bewildered young man. Takei suddenly awakened, turned to Am. “What are you doing?”
he asked.

“Trying to do my job, part of which is acting on safety violations. Mr. Takei, it goes against fire regulations to be smoking
in an enclosed space within the grounds of the Hotel. I’ll have to ask you to extinguish your cigarette.”

Takei’s eyes bulged out. They were red and furious. For a second Am thought he was going to swallow his cigarette. He didn’t,
but he did act in a manner decidedly un-Japanese. He broke his cigarette in two, dropped the pieces on the conference table,
and loudly announced,
“Kusou!”
Then he turned around and angrily marched out of the room.

Sometimes answers come to you unbidden. Guess I now know how to say “shit” in Japanese, thought Am.

Ward Ankeney was chewing on one of his small pipes and whistling at the same time. At least someone was in a good mood.

Am sat down in a chair, offered a greeting, then innocently asked, “You had a question about an expense report of mine, Ward?”

The controller took the unlit pipe out of his mouth, nodded, then started hunting through a pile of paperwork for Am’s receipt.
“You turned in a voucher that seemed pretty ambiguous, Am,” he said. “If I didn’t ask you about it, then you-know-who would
undoubtedly come down on me for not asking.”

At one time Ward had been the final word on all financial and accounting questions. Although by title he was still controller,
now he reported to Kiichi Matsuda, the chief financial officer. Ever since the Japanese had taken over, there had been a hierarchical
musical chairs of managers and staff throughout the Hotel. At least Yamada Enterprises hadn’t just assumed control of the
property and then fired most of the staff, an all-too-common occurrence during American takeovers.

Ward handed Am the expense report in question. For several seconds Am pretended to look at the paper as if he couldn’t understand
what was wrong with it, then decided to give up that ruse.

“It’s like this, Ward,” he said, then told him the story.

The controller listened with interest. During the course of the telling he picked up a slightly larger pipe and started chewing
on it. Ward did very little in the way of interrupting, just made a few notes on a yellow pad of paper, but probably did that
just to give one of his hands something to do. When Am finished, Ward played with the pad for a few moments.

“I don’t know, Am. Writing down ‘security expense’ and then submitting a credit-card receipt looks pretty lame. Majordomo
Matsuda likes more substantiation than that.”

“Like what, Ward? A message from one of his ancestors? The more I try and substantiate the charge, the weirder it’s going
to look.”

The controller didn’t say anything, just looked over the expense report and credit-card voucher. The slip said “B.H. Enterprises.”

“You didn’t hear it from me, Am, but let’s assume on your expense report this ‘B.H. Enterprises’ was listed as a consultant.
The new ownership seems pretty keen on hiring every consultant in town. And without fudging too much, you could say you received
advice on a security matter. Given that kind of notation, I’d probably be able to approve payment without asking you anything.”

Ward dropped the expense report on the desk and looked the other way. Am got the idea, retrieved the report and tucked it
away. As far as Ward was concerned, he had never seen Am’s initial submission.

They talked a little bit about Brother Howard, which resulted in one of Ward’s stage stories. “Houdini was famous for exposing
phony mediums and spiritualists,” he said. “I played his character in the stage version of
The Great Houdini.
There were lots of wonderful props that made it look like I was doing fantastic escapes. The audience applauded loudest when
I was shucking off ropes and weights. I think they thought I was shedding them for real.

“Before Houdini died, he confided in several special friends that he was going to announce his presence during a séance through
a message only they would know. Though his friends attended numerous seances, and though the spirit of Houdini was supposedly
materialized in those sessions, his special message from beyond the grave was never announced. Death was the one escape Harry
couldn’t pull off.”

One of Am’s few personal effects in the security hut was a picture of Houdini being lowered into water. The escape artist
was weighted down by anchors and heavy metal, with chains wrapped around his entire body. The picture was an inspiration to
Am, who always liked to think that there was always an escape, some solution to be found.

There was no picture of Houdini on Ward’s walls that Am could see, no review of the play. Maybe the reviews hadn’t been very
good for that production, or, more likely, there just wasn’t enough space on the walls for all of Ward’s trouper memories.
The controller started in on another Houdini anecdote. While Am listened, he once again scanned the mementos of Ward’s life,
his stage effects (and affects) on the office walls. For some reason, Am kept coming back to one picture, Ward’s
Mutiny on the Bounty
glossy. What was there about it that troubled him? Captain Bligh was being confronted by Fletcher Christian. They were on
the deck of a ship looking very dramatic. Christian, played by Ward, looked self-righteous, the justice of his cause reason
enough for him to go against all of his training. Like in most such photos, it was clear Fletcher Christian was wearing too
much makeup…

“…the decision wasn’t easy for young Erich Weiss,” said Ward. “His father was a strict rabbi, and couldn’t easily give his
blessing upon his son’s dreams to be a magician…”

“It all stops now, Ward,” interrupted Am.

Larry Young hadn’t been the only GM applicant who had commented on the HRD’s strong hand gesturing, the body language of a
thespian. But what made Am certain of his thoughts was the name: Mr. Fletcher. Ward had returned to his last role, that of
Fletcher Christian. He had identified himself as “Mr. Fletcher” to all the young men, and for whatever reason, he had led
a mutiny.

Ward gave Am his best puzzled look. “What are you talking about, Am?”

“You know,” he said.

The controller averted his eyes, turned back to his pipe and started examining it. Apparently it wasn’t the right pipe. He
replaced it in the rack and reached for the largest of his meerschaum pipes—the Bear. Serious business was at hand.

“What I don’t understand,” Am said, “is why you set up those boys. Most of them were nice enough kids. Telling them they had
the general manager’s job was cruel.”

Ward ran his finger along the Bear’s head. He didn’t argue, didn’t say anything. His face was amazingly neutral, hinted at
nothing. It must have been easy for Ward to fool the young men, and to give off different appearances each time. He was no
stranger to painting his face, probably always kept his make-up bag handy for the next role.

Fine actors don’t need words. Ward announced his guilt silently. He went through the ritual of preparing a smoke, of declaring
his defiance. For years he had abided by the no-smoking rule, but this was a final declaration of rebellion. He put a certain
pomp and circumstance into the filling of his pipe. There is something very ritualistic, almost ecclesiastical, about the
measuring, and placing, and filling of the bowl, the movement of the tobacco chalice up and toward opened lips. Only one thing
was out of place in the production. Ward’s hands were active in a way unusual to them. They were shaking.

Pipe smokers usually don’t inhale their tobacco, but maybe this was a time and place Ward thought his inner soul needed a
baptism of smoke. He took in a long measure of his bowl, then blew the smoke high in the air.

“I did it to get back at Takei,” he said. “I wanted everyone to laugh at him.”

“Why?”

“You want the long answer or the short answer?”

“The right answer.”