The Hotel Detective (12 page)

The lady, he could see, was in considerable distress. The more he tried to understand what she wanted, the more red her face
had become. They were repeating the same words to each other, each trying different variations of the same linguistic formula.
Their lingua franca seemed to center over one word: condom. Just getting that far had taken some interesting pantomiming.

“Am Caulfield,” Sharon said, uttering the name with considerable vexation, “wanted me to find out if any of your grounds crew
found—it—while cleaning the beach.”

Why wasn’t she saying it now? Could he have misinterpreted? “A
condone?
”

“A condom,” said Sharon, struggling in her attempt to be a dispassionate diplomat. “Yes.”

Enrique spoke in Spanish to her, his words slow and deliberate. Why had she taken French? Let’s see, thought Sharon, concentrating
on what he was saying.
Playa
meant beach. She knew that. Everything in San Diego was Playa this and Playa that. And
dia
was day. Even the gringos went around saying
Buenos dias.
” And she knew the other word. By this time she knew it only too well. “Yes,” she said, answering in English to his Spanish.
“A condom on the beach this morning. It was probably dropped from room seven eleven.”

Ennrique pondered the situation. There was a lot going on here that he still didn’t understand. He’d been asked to have his
crew look for many things before, such as watches and wallets and keys. But nothing like this. There was much to think about.

Sharon alternated between embarrassment and anger. A condom, dammit, she thought. It wasn’t like Galileo had been doing a
test on falling objects. Or condoms.

¿Cómo se dice…?
thought Enrique. How do you say … ? He searched his mind for the English. “Was it broken?” he finally asked.

“Broken?”

He could see she didn’t understand. That wasn’t the right word. “The
condone
—new or used?”

He was looking at her as if she should know. As if she had been a participant! “I don’t know,” said Sharon, stifling an urge
just to walk away. She held her hands up and out, the universal signs of incomprehension. Then she reconsidered her body language
and nodded. “We think so.”

Enrique was more confused than ever. But he pulled a walkie-talkie from his belt and paged Angel Jimenez. Angel had done the
beach cleaning that morning. In staccato Spanish, they discussed the situation.

Sharon was able to make out one word during their conversation. It was repeated a number of times.
Condones.

His change felt like a metamorphosis, thought Carlton. He had gone to the Hotel haberdashery and bought some new outfits,
and now he felt like a new man. The colors were vibrant, much richer than the browns he had traditionally worn. He felt like
an emerging butterfly.

He was also glad to be rid of his other suit. Not that the Hotel dry cleaning hadn’t done a good job with the cleaning, but
there were too many bad memories associated with the suit. He had thrown it away, had dropped it into a trash can, and immediately
felt better for doing so.

The shopping had made Carlton hungry, and he had selected the Courtyard Cafe as his dining spot. The cafe was just off the
lobby. He could look at all the guests coming and going, could wonder about their activities and their plans. It was a pleasant
morning, sunny and warm. The cafe was trellised with flowers, red bougainvillea, and pink mandevilla. Jasmine snaked around
the supports and scented the air. Carlton sniffed appreciatively.

Wouldn’t it be nice to start over, he thought. To take on a new life just as he had his new clothes. He wouldn’t make the
same mistakes again. He would enjoy life, just like those around him.

The daydream swept into a pleasant reality. Everyone was on vacation. They were laughing, and eating, and looking content.
They were alive.

The word echoed in Carlton’s head. It made him ashamed. If only he could take back those few crazed moments. If only he could
just be a guest at the Hotel California, be someone else, be free again.

He could get cash advances on his credit cards. Maybe he could even clean out his bank accounts. La Jolla was to plastic surgeons
as Silicon Valley was to computers. He could put on a new face. It could be as vibrant as the teal sports jacket he was wearing.
He could have hair plugs and liposuction, a new body to go along with his new thoughts.

In the bright cafe, with the aromas of espresso, and jasmine, and the Pacific, with the rainbow colors and his own peacock
plumage, these thoughts were possible.

Like all the other guests, Carlton was vacationing from reality.

The best definition for a hotel that Am had ever heard was “a circus without a tent.” He knew his role at the moment was to
be the ringmaster to the clowns, the performers, the wild animals, and all the acts. Even the high-diving one, he thought
ruefully.

Kim Yamamoto, convention and sales director, met him at the door of her office. “I know,” she said, cutting short his tirade.
“We’re working on Bob Johnson right now.”

“How did it happen?” asked Am.

She shrugged. Kim didn’t like to levy blame on others, even when they deserved it. “It just fell through the cracks.”

For the last four months Kim had been on maternity leave. Her absense had been a daily demonstration to the Hotel of her value.
Even though Kim had been back for two weeks, enough land mines had been set in her absence to make damage control an almost
daily event. “The cracks,” as Kim had put it, were closer in Am’s mind to the Grand Canyon.

“Because of the Murder Mayhem Weekend angle,” Kim explained, “the group was sloughed off on Mary. No one even thought about
getting a rooming list until yesterday. I told Mary we needed one right away, and she turned it over to me about half an hour
ago. Needless to say, I was disconcerted.”

Am wondered if the rooming list had come with one name and a bunch of ditto marks. When even Kim sounded exasperated, you
knew the situation was serious. She was unfailingly polite, had a tiny voice, but always managed to make herself heard when
the situation called for it. Some middle linebackers could have taken notes from her.

“We’ve decided to cross-index the Bob Johnsons, Am,” she said. “There are one hundred and twenty-five rooms in the Johnson
block, with one hundred and seventy-five Bob Johnsons scheduled to attend. Almost half of the Bob Johnsons are coming with
a spouse or girlfriend, so we’ll try to register those rooms under the women’s names. We’re also going to try to get a middle
name from every Bob Johnson who registers. That should help the operators clarify which Bob Johnson the caller wants. And
finally, we’re going to be listing all Bob Johnsons under their cities. We expect that will make for very little duplication.”

Am didn’t say anything, just tried to figure if there were other ways of separating Bob Johnsons. Kim misinterpreted his silence.

“It could be worse,” she said. “All the Bob Johnsons are scheduled to eat their meals together. That should eliminate a lot
of the confusion.”

Kim tried to be motherly. “I’m writing out the instructions for their check-in,” she said. “Don’t worry. Everything will be
fine.”

Thousands of groups booked into the Hotel every year. If they weren’t the gamut of humanity, they were close enough. Work
at any hotel long enough, and eventually you see everything. Sometimes the fates conspire with the bookings. The previous
year two conventions had overlapped: the Tree Toppers and the Little People of America. Membership in the Tree Toppers required
overactive pituitaries, while all the Little People were four feet eight or under.

Both groups were apprised of the other’s booking, and neither saw any conflict. Their respective memberships were used to
being viewed as spectator sport; dimorphism on a more extreme scale didn’t matter to either group. Their conventions proved
that opposites attract. The big people and the little people got along famously, peas of the same oversize and undersize pod.
Events were suddenly combined, seven-footers and four-footers gathering for picnics, sporting activities, and tours. They
even had a farewell dance together, where there was more dancing cheek to stomach than cheek to cheek.

Am let Kim reassure him. He didn’t believe a word of what she said, of course, but he enjoyed her soothing tones. Maybe she
was right in saying the Bob Johnson Society would end up being just another good parlor story. The thought appealed to Am’s
mind, even if his stomach didn’t buy it.

What’s that noise? thought Carlton as the repose of the courtyard was shattered by chanting. The clamor drew closer. Most
of the noise makers went straight into the lobby, but a few decided to march through the cafe.

It was the arrival of Bob Johnson, plural.

Everyone was wearing the same name tag: “My Name is Bob Johnson.” The Bob Johnsons came in all sorts of shapes, sizes, and
colors. They even came in different sexes. There were several Bobbie Johnsons.

The boisterous group started milling around the lobby, announcing themselves to the Hotel California with the refrain: “Bob
John—Son, Bob John—Son, Bob John—Son.”

Bob Johnson, Carlton thought. What a nice name. So different from his. He was probably the only Carlton Smoltz in the country,
if not the world. How convenient it would be to join a ready-made fraternity just by having the right name. And they seemed
like such a fun group, too.

Finishing his coffee, Carlton decided to walk through the lobby to get a closer look at the curious gathering. As he stepped
through the double glass doors, one of the Bob Johnsons bumped into him.

“ ‘Scuse me,” said Bob. “Little too long in the hospitality car.”

He winked at Carlton conspiratorially, patted him on the shoulder, and rejoined his milling brethren. It wasn’t until he left
that Carlton noticed the man’s name tag had fallen off. He picked it up and looked around for his Bob Johnson. Spying him,
he set off to return the name tag.

The main goal of any front desk is to make order out of chaos, but on any given day the objective sometimes is less lofty.
There are some days where staving off anarchy is a major accomplishment.

Am could see that Casper and his crew were clearly overwhelmed. They resembled actors in the throes of stage fright, Kim’s
instructions forgotten in the face of the onslaught of the Bob Johnsons. The staff was prepared for fire, theft, and earthquakes;
could deal with the loud, the obnoxious, and the drunk; were versed in evacuation procedures, CPR, and hospitality law. But
nothing had prepared them for the Bob Johnsons.

Entering the fray, Am stepped behind the front desk and took a deep breath. He had friends who got their thrills from parachuting
and bungee jumping, but Am had always found hotels free-fall enough.

“Bob Johnsons,” he yelled, “form seven lines.”

Am shouted the instructions several times, and gradually the Bob Johnsons heard, or chose to hear, and began forming lines.
Carlton was in the middle of the lobby when the queing up began, and he found himself gradually being herded into a line.
His search for the elusive Bob Johnson interrupted, Carlton took a few moments to study the name tag he was holding. It comforted
him somehow.

“My name is Bob Johnson,” whispered Carlton, reading, and thinking. Could he do it? he wondered. Wouldn’t he get caught? But
wasn’t he going to be caught anyway?

Carlton stuck the name tag on the lapel of his new sports coat. I am Bob Johnson, it announced. Ahead of him, a dozen Bob
Johnsons were waiting to check in, and behind him were a dozen more.

“Remember Kim’s instructions,” shouted Am to the line of shell-shocked desk clerks.

He welcomed the first Bob Johnson: “Will you register, please?”

To the staff, in sotto voce: “Middle names. Everyone get middle names.”

Am heard the staff voices start up around him, autopilot taking over for them. In his lifetime Am figured he had checked in
around fifty thousand people. He had speculated that one day his larynx would surely break like a worn elastic, stretched
thin over the words “Enjoy your stay.”

“Am,” said one of the desk clerks, her voice strained, “this Mr. Johnson doesn’t have a middle name.”

A moment of thought, a loud announcement: “Are there any other Mr. Johnsons without middle names?” A few hands. Am repeated
himself, this time even louder, which resuited in more hands. “Any Bob Johnson without a middle name please come to the front
of the line.”

There were seven, prompting Am to a quick decision. He announced the need for the Hotel to have middle names for all Bob Johnsons
and quickly christened the seven as Happy, Doc, Dopey, Sleepy, Grumpy, Sneezy, and Bashful. “Ignorance is bliss,” announced
Bob “Dopey” Johnson. Everyone but Bob “Grumpy” Johnson appeared amused with their new middle names.

Whistling “Heigh-Ho” (until Am shot him a critical glance), T.K. finished checking in Bob “Sleepy” Johnson and signaled for
the next man in line. For a moment Carlton considered bolting. This was surely the time he would be discovered. It wasn’t
too late to walk away, as the lobby was noisy and full of people. Even though half the Bob Johnsons had already registered,
none of them appeared to be in a hurry to leave.

An alarm sounded. Carlton certainly would have run then, save that he found himself pressed in on all sides, the milling about
at a momentary standstill. Heart racing, he turned his head. It wasn’t an alarm, he saw, but a cow bell being clanged vigorously
by a woman.

“Hospitality room’s open,” shouted Mary Mason.

Her announcement was met with cheers and was followed by a minor stampede. It was his chance to escape, but…

“Sir,” said T.K., offering Carlton a fountain pen and pushing forward a registration card.

Writing “Bob Johnson” was the easy part for Carlton. Then he had to come up with an address. He remembered a street and city
from his youth, then filled out a few more boxes before pushing back the card to the clerk. He almost expected to be graded.