The Fat Innkeeper (22 page)

“I didn’t,” said Am. “I noticed her purse was rather tiny, but I was holding my breath when he tried to pass the paying off
to her.”

“You still haven’t told me what you whispered to him,” said Marisa.

“I told him his game was over. I told him if he ever complained in a restaurant in this town again we would be serving up
his ass as the special of the day.”

“Spoken like a true lawman.”

Am tipped an imaginary ten-gallon hat to her. Marisa didn’t curtsy. She was rather proud that she didn’t even know how to
curtsy. Instead, she pushed a table tent over his way. Am picked it up.
PRIME TIME IN BRINE TIME
, it said. The promotions
had been going on for the past year. The Hotel had revamped and expanded its Brine Time Lounge. It was now a forum for featured
comedians, singers, and performers, for entertainers that had at least nostalgic appeal, the kind that still appeared on cable
channels, or late-late night television, their routines the opening acts in Las Vegas or Atlantic City, or as headliners in
such venues as the Hotel. According to the table tent, for a limited time (two weeks), world-renowned Skylar was appearing
at the Brine Time. There was a picture of him, dark, brooding, and mysterious, which was all the more incredible because the
man was staring at a spoon.

“You were posing a minute ago,” said Marisa, “and your pose reminded me of the promotional material.”

Am shrugged. He hadn’t been trying to imitate Skylar, didn’t even know enough about him to imitate him. From what he remembered,
Skylar was a magician of sorts.

“I was also reminded,” she said, “of the enmity between Thomas Kingsbury and Skylar.”

She fished out several articles, handed them over to Am, who scanned the headlines. As Tommy Gunn the Magician, Kingsbury
had done more than entertain. Sometimes he had revealed the unthinkable—showed what really was up his sleeves. He didn’t like
his fellow “practitioners of the art” giving themselves exotic airs, putting themselves on mysterious pedestals. Tommy Gunn
loved what he called honest magicians, those who performed sleight of hand, who could conjure through illusion or practiced
method. What he couldn’t abide were those who claimed their powers came from sources other than the tangible or explanatory.
He had taken on Skylar years ago, when the so-called “mentalist” was at the height of his fame and attracting an almost cult-like
following. Skylar said he used the “potency” of his mind to perform his feats, but Doubting Tom went on record to declare
that the only way Skylar was using his mind was for self-promotion.

The headlines reminded Am about the public feuding and triggered a few memories. He remembered how Tommy Gunn, dressed very
much like Skylar, had demonstrated how he could bend keys and cause a timepiece to stop. Skylar said he did these things with
the power of his mind; Tommy Gunn was of a mind to show differently. He demonstrated how friction could quickly and inconspicuously
be applied to metal, how flesh could easily bend steel, and even stop time. (“This is one Timex,” he announced, “that took
my licking and now isn’t ticking.”) He called Skylar a fraud, with the resulting lawsuit dragging on for a year or two until
it was finally dropped.

“Thomas Kingsbury,” said Am, “would have used a bullhorn to tell the emperor he wasn’t wearing any clothes.”

“Yes,” said Marisa.

Am carefully examined the table tent, then looked at his watch. “Mr. Skylar still has another show to do tonight,” he said.
“I sense we’ll be paying him a late night visit.”

“Did you divine that,” she asked, “or are you just guessing?”

He held up a spoon, looked deep within it. Marisa rolled her eyes, and then positioned a spoon and a knife in cross-like form
as if she were warding off some evil. They laughed at their ridiculous posturing, didn’t care that they were still being watched
by the other diners.

The maître d’ approached their table. “No check for you tonight, Am,” he said. “I put your tab on management and promotion.”

“Thanks, Scott.”

“No,” he said, “thank you.” Then he lowered his voice so guests couldn’t hear: “You got to tell me, Am. What did you say to
make that jerk disappear so quickly and quietly?”

“A magician,” said Am, “never reveals his secrets.”

That is, he thought, almost never.

Halfway back to his room, Bradford heard the music of a mariachi band in the courtyard. Maybe that was the ticket, he thought.
Serenade Cleo with some music. That ought to put her back in good form.

He approached the wandering minstrels. All that their outfits were lacking, he sniffed, was neon. There were four of them,
and they were going from table to table. Ten dollars bought you two renditions of bad Herb Alpert. There weren’t too many
takers.

“You guys do room service?” asked Bradford.

Their leader was the fattest guy in the group, a Mexican with a Pancho Villa mustache and a cerveza belly. His English was
definitely north of the border: “It’s not out of the question,” he said, starting up the negotiations.

Bradford pulled out a twenty, but Pancho didn’t reach for it, didn’t even blink. He added another ten, but the leader still
wasn’t biting. Bradford started slowly to put the money away.

“For fifty we’ll give you ten minutes,” said Pancho. “You and your lady come out to the balcony, and we’ll sing up to you.
It’s a guaranteed success, man.”

Bradford didn’t want to be telling the help about the problem with their sliding glass doors. “Forty,” he said, “and I’ll
want you playing in the room. We’ll get the true effect that way.”

Pancho acted as if he were thinking about it, and finally shrugged. “Okay,” he said. “But we’ll have to mute the horns. Your
neighbors might complain.”

“You don’t know our neighbors,” said Bradford.

“What’s your names, and what’s the room number?”

Bradford told him, and was promised a visit within the next fifteen minutes. He handed the man a twenty, and promised the
other twenty after their performance. “I want something romantic,” he said.

“No problem,” said Pancho.

There was something about that Cleopatra, thought Jimmy Mazzelli, something special. She didn’t belong among those swingers,
and she certainly didn’t belong with that stuffed-shirt boyfriend of hers. He was probably the one leading her astray. Something
should be done about it. Something had to be done.

Nobility wasn’t usually Jimmy’s strong point. The bellman was a hustler, always in search of a quick buck. Perhaps instinctively,
he sensed that Bradford was a fellow hustler, and maybe that brought out his competitive juices, but for whatever the reason,
this was one time Jimmy wasn’t acting solely on the basis of money. There was a damsel in distress, and he was the one who
was going to help her.

Jimmy had foiled the first champagne delivery by insisting upon seeing Cleo’s identification. He had figured she was under
twenty-one, was trying to be older than her years. He had known that wouldn’t stop her boyfriend from getting another bottle,
but it had bought Jimmy enough time to figure out a new scheme. It was the kind of plan he probably should have run through
Am, or maybe even legal, but he didn’t have time. He was a man with a mission. Jimmy waited with two of the sex sentries,
had joined them in watching what was going on. You needed a flowchart to figure out who had gone where, and who was with whom.
No one, Jimmy was glad to see, had gone into Cleo’s room, that is, until her peacock preppie reappeared with champagne and
two glasses.

He’s probably trying to get her drunk, Jimmy thought, and then make her do things she otherwise wouldn’t. That made him mad,
made him want to act, but he knew that he had to give them a few minutes. He played out the scenario in his mind. By now the
jerk had probably opened the bubbly. Jimmy couldn’t act until she’d had at least a glass. Then was the time to strike.

At regular intervals, doors opened and closed. The only common denominator between all the swingers seemed to be their libido.
They looked and acted very differently, were of various shapes, sizes, and ages. Some wore costumes, leather outfits being
the most common. Feathers were displayed, many of them creatively situated. There was makeup that would have looked out of
place anywhere except at a Halloween party, and exhibitionists who wore nothing at all. Still, there were more business suits
than birthday suits, and a lot of conservative dresses, even if some men were wearing those dresses, and some women the suits.
Clothes-swapping seemed to be going along with mate-swapping.

“Geez,” said one of the sex sentries, a college student majoring in anthropology and getting to play Margaret Mead firsthand,
“it’s like we should be beating drums.”

“They don’t need the encouragement,” said Jimmy.

He looked at his watch. It was time. Jimmy left his post and walked to the hallway, but he wasn’t the first to make it there.
Ray Ortiz and his boys were scanning room numbers and evidently looking for a gig. Their mariachi outfits put most of the
swinger costumes to shame. They were wearing large black sombreros with red tassels, and had on black-and-gold vests that
were embroidered with Aztec designs. Their black leather boots were shined to a fine finish (it was a tradition of theirs
to have Felipe the shoe-shine man give them a once-over), and they wore billowy white shirts with ruffles. Mariachis with
an Elvis flair. Jimmy knew only too well that Ray’s group couldn’t play for shit, but they always did look like a million
dollars.

“Hey, Ray.”

“What do you say, Jimmy?”

The two had a long-standing business relationship. Jimmy got a five-buck kickback from Ray every time he sold some moon-eyed
couple on the idea of a little mariachi serenade. The usual arrangement was for Ray and his band to walk out to the beach
and perform, directing their tunes upward to some balcony like troubadors of old. Jimmy would provide the band with the first
names of the couple, and then Ray and the boys would belt out some string and brass tunes about a-mor-e, weaving the names
into their songs and making them a twosome for the ages. That always made Dick and Jane, or Barry and Linda, very happy. The
tradition (as explained by Jimmy to the couple) was for the woman to reward the minstrels by throwing down money and roses
from the balcony (Jimmy also got a kickback from the Hotel florist). On several occasions more than money and roses had rained
down on the musicians, with garters, negligees and other intimate apparel being among the fallout. It wasn’t as if Tom Jones
were performing, but love ballads always seemed to release the feminine passions. Ah, love, thought Jimmy. It made the world
go round and made him some good coin.

“Which room you playing?” asked Jimmy.

Ray consulted his sheet. “Two-twelve,” he said. “Bradford and Cleopatra. Tough names to remember, let alone work with.”

“I got something else for you to work with,” said Jimmy.

Those damn mariachis should have been along by now, thought Bradford. He had spent the time cleaning up the room. So much
for Japanese efficiency. No one had yet come to fix up the place, and he was tired of walking around in a sty.

Cleopatra had already had one glass of champagne, and it seemed to be having the desired effect. She was encouraging him to
sit down with her, “and relax.” He had told her there would be time enough for “relaxing” soon, but that a surprise was coming.
Cleopatra loved surprises. She kept asking him what it was, but he wouldn’t tell her.

There was a knock at the door. “The cavalry,” he said to Cleopatra, then told her to sit tight. As expected, Pancho Villa
and his troops were there.

Cleopatra was beside herself. This was all too romantic. Bradford accepted her excited hug as his just desserts. They sat
on a sofa and waited for their song. There was some competing music coming from the party next door, but it wasn’t as loud
as the partygoers. Bradford was glad they’d be sending some happy sounds of their own back. Take that, he thought. The musicians
took their places. The room was intimate, the lighting low (with a solitary twenty-five-watt bulb for the entire room, it
couldn’t be any other way). An unseen signal passed among the band.

Ray Ortiz had never thought he would end up running a mariachi band for his livelihood. In his younger days, he had played
around with several rock bands, had always prided himself on being an outlaw singer, a cutting-edge player. That was before
the wife and kids. Desperate for a job, he had filled in as a mariachi. It was the longest temp job in history. He’d been
playing the mariachi standards for over a decade, what he called Mariachi Muzak. People liked to hear the same songs, and
that’s what they gave them. To be able to do something different, to deviate from the same old routine, excited Ray. He started
the song. He hadn’t sung it for twenty years or more, but remembered the words. Or most of them. Jose Feliciano had been one
of his favorites.

The expectant smile on Cleopatra’s face stayed frozen in place. The song wasn’t quite what she had expected. It wasn’t lyrical,
or soft, or lulling. And the worst sin of all—it wasn’t romantic. But then again, “Light My Fire” will never be considered
one of the twentieth century’s great contributions to romance songs.

Ray wasn’t crooning, he was howling. If he was supposed to be emulating a dog in heat, he was doing a good job. He moved closer
to Cleopatra, started gyrating his rolls of flesh in her face. He looked like Elvis in his last days.

Bradford’s mouth was open. This spectacle was not what he had paid for. This was obscene.

The mariachis were gamely trying to belt out the song, but they were a group that was hard-pressed to handle tunes they’d
played a thousand times before. They weren’t about to
give
up, though. It wasn’t over until the fat man signaled, and Ray didn’t look as if he were anywhere near doing that. He was
into it, really singing, asking for his fire to be lit. Asking over and over, as if imploring the gods.