The Fat Innkeeper (21 page)

“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 error. 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.”

Everything was out on the table, with the exception of the doctor’s wallet. It was a tough poker game, with the last bet already
called. With a loud sigh, as if this were the most ridiculous thing he had ever suffered, the doctor raised his hand toward
his jacket pocket, then, abruptly, he lowered it again. Turning to his date, Dr. Joseph said, “Show them the money, dear.”

The woman’s face expressed shock. “I didn’t…” she started, then tried again: “You invited me…” Finally, in tears, she said,
“I don’t want to go to jail.”

“No one’s going to jail,” said the doctor. Unconsciously, both of them turned to Am, who said nothing to allay their fears.

“Perhaps we can talk in a quieter spot,” said Dr. Joseph, his speaking voice suddenly soft.

“I would prefer you remain seated, sir,” said Am, his words deferential, but at the same time all but accusing the man of
being ready to run off and skip out on his bill.

“I must have forgotten my wallet.”

Am looked away and coughed. Short of shouting “Liar!,” it was the most effective way of announcing “bullshit” to the entire
restaurant.

“I can be back in less than an hour with the money.” Dr. Joseph didn’t try to hide the pleading in his voice.

“I think,” said Am, “that the police should be involved in this affair.”

His date started crying again. Am considered her tearful countenance, sighed, and then appeared to relent. “All right,” he
said.

Some of the doctor’s confidence returned. He stood up, motioned for his date to do the same. The game, his all-too-erect back
seemed to be saying, had been played to a draw.

“But,” said Am, “we will need collateral.”

Annoyed, Joseph said, “What do you mean?”

“We have to make sure that you will return to pay your debt,” said Am, leaning over and examining their dinner bill. With
drinks, their check came to seventy-five dollars. “Adding in a twenty-dollar tip,” Am said, “no, I’m sure you’re a generous
man, including a twenty-five dollar tip, you owe us a hundred dollars. We will need something of at least that value to secure
your return.”

The doctor opened his mouth, and then closed it. He patted down his body, then stared at his date. “No way,” she said, then
added bitterly, “you’d probably just leave me here to rot, or have me do dishes until your debt was paid off.”

“I was thinking of your jewelry,” he said.

“Use your own damn jewelry,” she said.

She was familiar enough with him to know that around his neck were several strands of gold. He reached up to his collar, loosened
his tie, then managed to pull off the chains. The design was serpentine. Am wasn’t surprised.

“They’re worth several hundred dollars,” he said, handing them over.

Am weighed them in his hand like a suspicious pawnbroker. To his mind, they didn’t quite tilt the scales of justice. “And
your watch,” he said, sticking out his hand.

Aware that the eyes of every patron in the restaurant were on him, Dr. Joseph tried to remove his watch. It took him several
efforts. “I hope you’re satisfied,” he said, handing it over.

Even though Am appeared eminently so, he didn’t comment. “I’ll give you a receipt for these items,” he said. “They will be
safely stored in the security safe for a period of…”

“Stuff your receipt,” said the doctor.

Am nodded, then leaned close to him and whispered something. Everyone strained to hear, but the words remained between Am
and the doctor, though their effect on Joseph was unmistakable. He was a man inflated by his own pompousness, but now he was
leaking every which way. His escape from the restaurant was like the last gasp of a balloon let loose; roundabout, erratic,
and frenzied. His date tried to follow him, then gave up. After two false starts, and literally bumping off one table, he
found the exit, and was gone. With his absence, everyone in Poseidon’s Grill started talking. As Am returned to his own table,
he was the recipient of furtive, and not so furtive, glances.

“All right,” said Marisa. “What did you say to him?”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Don’t play cute.”

Am picked up a spoon, looked at it, milking the scene for all it was worth. He saw Marisa start, as if she had just remembered
something, but she didn’t say anything, merely waited for his explanation.

“I’m not so brave,” said Am. “I had some insider information which I was willing to gamble on. The local restaurant association
recently circulated a flier on our Dr. Joseph. His girlfriend, former girlfriend, that is, wrote a quite damning letter about
him. She said that whenever he went out to restaurants he made a point of never paying. According to her, this behavior first
surfaced when they went out for dinner a year ago and he realized that he had forgotten his wallet. Rather than explain the
situation to the manager, he decided to complain about the meal. Getting everything comped gave him a rush. She said that
after that evening, whenever they went out to eat, the doctor always made it a point of leaving his wallet at home so as to
‘improve his performance.’ He said the meal always tasted that much better to him knowing it cost nothing. She apologized
for going along with all of his deceits, but claimed that she thought it was just a passing, if sadistic, phase of his. Part
of the reason for her leaving him, she said, was that he became more and more of a bully over time, browbeating servers and
staff—and her.

“When I asked him for his watch, I was thinking about all those powerless servers and staff he had bullied. Many people don’t
last in the hospitality business because they don’t like having to be a willing punching bag for the obnoxious. I pushed the
moment, went against my training, because I wanted him to know how it felt.”

“How did you know she didn’t have money?” asked Marisa.