The Fat Innkeeper (16 page)

The limo pulled up to the front of the Hotel, glided to a stop in front of the towering palms and the waving flags. The driver
was out in a flash, had their doors opened and their luggage on the curb in double time. He said he hoped the ride had been
comfortable, and was sure they would enjoy their stay. A bellman, he informed them, would be taking their luggage to the front
desk. The driver said all of this in mellifluous and practiced tones, addressing them as if they were royalty. Bradford momentarily
debated whether the performance was worth a ten spot or a twenty, and settled for a ten on top and George Washington underneath.
He folded the bills so that the driver only knew he was getting Hamilton and a friend, which got them several more bows and
expressions of gratitude than if he’d merely handed over the tenner.

Cleo acted as if she had died and gone to heaven. She kept pulling at Bradford’s arm. The old Hotel did have a lot of charm,
he had to admit. He’d heard the Nips had bought the place a few months back. That had stirred up a hornet’s nest, but they
had made a bunch of promises that they weren’t going to tamper with the “Hotel’s unique ambience.” The new ownership had said
they were actually going to improve operations, make the place “run more efficiently.” That sounded just fine to Bradford.
He wanted everything chop-chop, and if the Japs could deliver that, fine and dandy.

The doorman, dressed in pith helmet and safari outfit, opened the door to the lobby. “Good day, sir,” he said. “Good day,
madam.”

Mighty damn fine, thought Bradford.

Cleopatra was chattering about this and that while they walked through the old lobby. For someone with as much money as she
had been born into, Bradford thought she acted
as
if she had been raised in a barn. There were a lot of attractions, to be sure—flower arrangements big enough to qualify for
their own zip code, crystal chandeliers that glimmered so much you’d swear the lighting was superfluous, and dramatic tapestries
that…

Bradford bumped into someone. Automatic words were uttered at the same time: “Excuse me.”

“Jinx,” said the woman he had nudged, “owe a drink,” then she counted to ten and laughed.

“She’s got you there,” said the man next to her.

Bradford looked puzzled. “Didn’t you ever play that game?” the woman asked.

She asked in such a way that Bradford wished he had. She was older than he was, about thirty-five, he guessed, but in fine
form. He tried not to stare at the cut of her blouse, which was very open, but he did take in a few peeks. She had red hair
and green eyes, was the kind of woman, he thought, who had a way of beckoning from her lips to her hips.

“Surely you must have played that game, Bradford,” said Cleo. “You know, when you say the same thing at the same time as someone
else, and you’re supposed to say ‘Jinx,’ and then name your price and count to ten. Whoever counts first wins. Me and Donna
used to always be saying the same thing and playing that game. We played for Cokes.”

“I play for more than that,” said the woman.

“I guess I owe you a drink,” said Bradford.

“Doug Walker,” said the man, “and the woman you owe a drink is my wife Missy.”

“Bradford Beck,” he said, “and my girlfriend, Cleopatra Harris.”

They shook hands all around. Bradford was certain that Missy grasped his hand with a little more pressing of the flesh than
was usual, and held on longer than was customary. Not that he was complaining. Far from it.

“You’re lucky my wife didn’t hit you up for something more,” said Doug with a wink.

“The conversation’s young,” said Missy. “Who knows, we might cross tongues again.”

“We weren’t watching where we were going,” said Cleo. “I think our eyes were in the stars.”

That’s it, thought Bradford. Make us look like yokels.

“We’ll have to plead guilty to that also,” said Doug. “Course they say when you’re looking up at the stars, you’re at the
mercy of the puddles of the road.”

Cleo and Doug laughed. He patted her on the shoulder, then rubbed her on the arm.

“Is this your first…”

Bradford and Missy said the same thing again. “Jinx,” she said, “owe a drink,” then outcounted him to ten.

The four of them were hard-pressed to stop laughing. “I think your boyfriend’s trying to get my wife drunk,” said Doug, patting
Cleo’s arm again.

“Who says he needs to?” asked Missy.

The laughing started once more. “I better keep my mouth shut,” said Bradford. “This could get damn expensive, especially if
your taste runs to Napoleon brandy or Cristal champagne.”

“I only swallow two kinds of drinks,” she said, “a Sloe Screw on the Wall, or a Screaming Orgasm.”

Bradford had heard of those drinks, but didn’t know of anyone who actually ordered them. For a moment there was silence, then
Doug said, “I swear to God it’s true. Those are her favorite drinks.”

They all laughed again.

“Are you staying here?” asked Cleo.

“We’re just about to check in,” said Doug.

“So are we,” she said.

“Well, I call that happy tidings. We just drove in with another couple, but they’re not nearly as fun as the two of you.”

He squeezed her arm again. By this time Cleo was used to it, and squeezed him back.

“Shhh,” said Doug. “Here they come now. Whatever you do, don’t abandon us.”

There didn’t appear to be much chance of that. Missy was giving Bradford some looks that he thought were promising, very promising.

“Gary and Suzy Corbett,” said Doug, “it’s time you met Bradford and Cleopatra.”

The Corbetts could have been Mr. and Mrs. Claus at about age forty, thought Bradford. Gary had a long beard, still mostly
dark, red cheeks, a slight pot belly, and a rubicund nose that could have passed for Rudolph’s. Suzy wore granny glasses,
had plump cheeks, and wore her hair in a bun. Both of them were oh, so happy. Suzy gave Bradford a big hug, and Gary did the
same to Cleo. It was as if they were all old friends. When the six of them walked up laughing to the front desk, it was impossible
figuring out who belonged to whom.

“Checking in,” said Doug. “The ladies are with me, and I don’t know who these men are.”

“That’s funny,” said Missy, “I do.”

The laughter started again, even before Missy goosed Bradford.

Margaret Talley was a recent graduate of Mesa College’s hotel-motel program. She was a reentry student, had been a homemaker
for the twenty years prior to her going back to school. Margaret’s world had been that of raising three children. She said
that in her two weeks at the Hotel she had gotten a new education on life and human nature. By the sounds of it, those were
insights she might have been better without.

“If you’ll please register,” she said, supplying them with registration cards.

The men did the registering. Usually males are about as proprietary with registration cards as they are with the television
remote control.

“This time you don’t have to sign us in as Mr. and Mrs. John Smith,” said Missy.

“Hard to break old habits,” said Doug.

“Get thee to a nunnery,” said Gary.

The laughter started again. Margaret didn’t ask them, “How many in your party?” She had seen even staid businessmen get their
testosterone flowing over that one.

“Two in each room?” she asked.

“Give or take a few,” said Doug.

Margaret offered a Mona Lisa smile. Being a veteran of a fortnight in the industry, she was now of the opinion that her schooling
should have included a course on “Introduction to the Obnoxious.” She tapped into the computer and managed to maintain her
smile, though suddenly she was nervous. These were some more of those people, those sex maniacs.

She was glad to see that T.K. had joined her. Margaret figured he was there to help. She didn’t know that he had been attracted
by the sounds of laughter.

“I’ll bet you all want a room with a view,” he said. T.K. was rather pleased with himself. Am had thought he was so smart.
He hadn’t suspected that there might be a third Forster book. But T.K.’s routine didn’t go quite as he expected.

“Screw the view,” said Missy. “Just make sure it’s got a bed.”

“Or two,” said Gary to some laughter.

“Or three,” said Bradford, not wanting to be left out. He wasn’t. The laughing redoubled.

Where was the joke? wondered T.K. Comedians are always desperate to get that laugh. They have to know what works, and what
doesn’t.

“T.K.,” said Margaret.

He tried to ignore the
new
clerk. This apparently wasn’t the E.M. Forster kind of crowd. Maybe he should tell them the story about the guest with the…

“T.K.,” she said again.

“What?”

“I seem to be having some trouble with the computer.”

“You know what hackers say,” said Doug, “garbage in, garbage out.”

“Not only hackers,” said Missy.

They were laughing again. Damn, thought T.K. He wasn’t the one getting the laughs. And what was even worse, he still didn’t
know what they were laughing about.

“T.K.,” said Margaret, pointing at the computer.

He looked at the monitor and tried to figure out what was wrong, what the rookie clerk had done. Everything appeared to be
okay. “What’s the problem?” he asked.

What did she have to do, hit him over the head? “This prompt keeps coming up,” she said, emphatically pressing her finger
to the group notation of Swap Meat.

“Oh,” he said, much relieved. So that’s what the laughter was about. Double entendres. These were some more of those mate-swappers.

Bradford had been watching the two Hotel employees. Something was wrong. He could tell the woman was communicating something
to the man, and he could guess what it was. He knew how hotels were famous for overbooking. No way were they walking him to
another property.

“We have confirmed reservations,” Bradford said over-loudly, and with not a little self-importance. He pushed his registration
card forward, issued it as a challenge.

Though Bradford was referring to his personal reservation, T.K. assumed he was speaking for the group. “Yes, sir,” he said.
“We were just making sure the rooms were ready. And they are.”

Were they ever. Housekeeping had just finished preparing the rooms from hell. T.K. took Bradford’s registration card and called
up his reservation on the computer. For some reason the loudmouth wasn’t listed as being part of the Swap Meat. That had to
be changed. Bradford Beck and Cleopatra (yeah, likely name, he thought) Harris were going to be put where they belonged—in
the pervert zone. The only thing that room block was missing was red lights.

“Why, it just so happens,” said T.K., with the smallest of leers, “that all of your rooms are next to one another. Even interconnecting,
if you choose.”

He handed Bradford a key. “You, Mr. Beck, will be the monkey in the middle.”

Bradford looked surprised. Those weren’t the words he was expecting. Monkey in the middle?

“Say,” T.K. announced, “did all of you hear about the psychiatrist who had to examine the patient to determine if he was sexually
disturbed?”

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 signalling 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.”

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.”