The Resort (21 page)

As they started up the winding road, Clete thought it was lucky the trusties and the Browns had gotten a good head start. It’d be a mess to explain if they were all still down here.
Brown is a real fuck trying to escape.

“Mr. Fetterman,” Clete said, “you a businessman, in L.A. I mean?”

“Student,” Fetterman said.

“What college you go to?”

“UCLA.”

He sure wasn’t very communicative. Awful lot of Jews go to that UCLA.

“Some people try to make it all the way from L.A. to San Francisco in one ride, but it’s harder’n hell on this road.”

“My girl’s up at Palo Alto.”

“Terrific,” Clete said. “My girl works right here at Cliffhaven, which is convenient. Not too convenient for you, Palo Alto.”

“I guess I could have made it on U.S. 101, but I get sleepy on freeways if I keep going all day. I thought this road might keep me awake.”

“Well,” Clete said, “it’s a mighty pretty road.”

Fetterman said nothing. He seemed preoccupied. Clete thought he’d better keep the conversation going because they were going to pass the others on the road soon.

“Your girl expecting you tonight?”

“She’s not expecting me.”

“That’s good. Will you want to phone her anyway?”

Fetterman seemed a bit embarrassed. “We had a kind of argument on the phone. That’s why I’m driving up. I thought I’d surprise her tomorrow.”

The headlights of the Mercedes caught the backs of several of the trusties trudging up the road. The sticks they were carrying were clearly visible. When they heard the car, they moved to the side of the road, revealing the Browns. Clete honked so Brown would move to the side of the road.

“Kitchen help,” Clete said. “Night shift coming to work.”

“We could give some of them a lift,” Fetterman said, motioning to the rear seat.

“Against the rules,” Clete said, wishing Brown would get his ass out of the way. He was glad he’d thought to keep the car’s air conditioning on and the windows up.

He saw Henry Brown suddenly turn toward the passenger side of the car. He was yelling something.

Brown was shouting now, the stupid bastard. One of the trusties was on him. Clete accelerated up the road, hoping the gizmo would hold. If he lost the scooter, he’d keep going anyway, not take any chances.

“Some of those night workers are real weirdos,” Clete said to Fetterman, who had turned to look out the rear window. “We keep them away from the guest areas, naturally.”

*

Henry Brown realized two things at once. His warning had been useless, and the angry trusty, who had waited till the car was around the bend, was now coming at him with a raised club.

“Watch out!” Margaret yelled.

Henry raised his left arm to ward off the blow. “There’s no reason for that,” he shouted, as the club came down on his forearm, sending a shock of pain to his shoulder. He went for the man’s throat, which may have been a mistake he realized too late as the man swung his club sideways, hitting him squarely in the side of the head. The flash of pain seemed luminous as he fell.

Margaret knelt at his side as the other trusties formed a half circle, keeping their distance. She put her hand, then her ear, to his chest. There was a small amount of blood oozing from the side of his scalp.

Margaret looked up at the trusty who had hit him. Her glare was ice. “I’m a doctor,” she said as if to explain what she was doing.

It didn’t matter. The trusties closed their semicircle, and two of them picked her up by her armpits and dragged her, resisting, up the road, leaving the trusty who had clubbed Henry to watch his prostrate form. “We’ll send a car down,” one of them said before disappearing from sight.

Henry could feel the throbbing in his head, the ache in his left arm, knew that his feigning unconsciousness had fooled the trusties but not Margaret. She would be worried enough. It amazed him in the midst of his pain how an idea had careered through his mind. He wondered about that trusty. A Jew who had quickly taken a club to another Jew on behalf of these crazies. What kind of man was he? Where was he from? What in his past had made it possible for him to turn into a
Kapo
capable of violence? He needed a moment or two more. His breathing was still hard. If only the man would come closer.

As if in answer, the trusty came over and then, setting his club down, knelt by Henry’s side. In one continuous motion Henry turned toward the squatting trusty and brought his good right arm around with whatever force he had in his body behind it, smashing the man in the face, knocking him easily off balance, and in a second, Henry, like the animal he felt himself to be, dug his right thumb into the man’s left eye socket hard. The trusty’s scream of pain seemed loud enough to be heard in heaven. Henry put his hands around the man’s throat. His left hand throbbed with pain from the pressure, but he kept both hands locked until he knew the man was unconscious. Alive but unconscious.

He picked up the trusty’s club before fleeing downhill into the woods.

*

Jacob Fetterman proved to be an unusually observant young man. When Clete showed him the room, he was genuinely impressed with its modern splendor. He had never stayed in a place this fancy. His parents were camping enthusiasts who at every vacation opportunity, even long weekends, took their children and themselves into a reachable wilderness. Once, when Jacob was eleven or twelve, they were caught in a terrible downpour within sight of a motel, but Jacob’s father insisted that they erect their tents and spend the night as they had originally planned, out-of-doors.

“It’s very luxurious,” he said to Clete.

“I’m glad you like it, Mr. Fetterman. Will you be dining with us this evening?”

“It’s kind of late.”

“The kitchen is still open. It’s a three-star restaurant, you know.”

“I’m pretty pooped after all that driving,” Jacob said. “And I had a snack on the road. I think I’ll just turn in. What’s that?”

His eye had caught the small camera at the juncture of the wall and the ceiling. It was the first time in Clete’s experience that someone had seen it right off the bat.

“Oh that,” Clete said. “You won’t be needing that.”

“What is it?” Fetterman insisted.

“We try to have all the newest things, you know, like the Jacuzzi near the swimming pool. Well, some folks like to tape themselves, lovemaking, that kind of stuff. They have a good time here and sort of like to watch reruns back home.”

“That’s a hard place to reach up there.”

“It’s the right angle. We use a small ladder. Anyway, if you’re not going into dinner, I’ll say goodnight unless you have any other questions.”

“Well,” Fetterman said. “You know those creepy-looking people we saw on the road, some of them were carrying what looked like clubs. I mean, is it safe here?”

Clete laughed. “Of course, it’s safe. Those weren’t clubs, they were walking sticks. Most people who walk up that road use walking sticks. It really helps. Now I’ll just park the Mercedes in the lot and leave your key at the front desk.”

“Oh thank you very much,” Fetterman said, taking two singles out of his wallet. “I appreciate your help. I’ll probably get a real early start tomorrow. I’d like to get to Palo Alto as early as possible.”

“Of course. If you need anything, just call the desk and ask for Clete.”

“Thanks.”

When Clete left, Fetterman looked up at the camera again. He’d heard about motels that showed X-rated movies, but this was a new twist. Incredible what people do.

He was putting his pajamas on when a thought occurred to him.
Clete hadn’t left the room key.

*

Clete dangled the room key in front of Paula at the reception desk. “New one for you, honey. Jacob Fetterman, room 34. Smart young fellow. Spotted the camera.”

As Paula took the key, the door was swung open by one of the staff members in the blue-and-orange Cliffhaven uniform. Out of breath, he yelled, “Your guy Henry Brown’s on the loose again. Just found one of the trusties unconscious on the road.”

“Shit,” Clete said. “He can’t get far. Where’s his wife?”

“Locked in her room.”

“Good. Let’s round up a couple of the guys.” He held his hand out palm up to Paula.

She reached into the desk and pulled out a standard California Highway Patrol .38. Clete put the pistol in his belt and held his hand out again. Paula put the clip of bullets in his hand. “Remember Mr. Clifford’s warning.”

“Don’t worry,” Clete said. “I know the rules.”

12

It was the shortest help-wanted ad Daniel Pitz had ever seen:

RESORT MANAGER, BOX 1665

At first he thought it was a dumb ad. With that little said, a hundred guys could answer. But somebody who didn’t really need a job wouldn’t answer something like that. That eliminated the merely curious. You couldn’t phone and find out more. You had to write. To a box number at the
L.A. Times.
You couldn’t guess what kind of place it was or who you were writing to. It was all up to you. Your letter had to do it all. Nobody would get in touch with you unless your letter made you sound like the right type for them, whoever them was.

Dan Pitz decided that somebody smart had placed that ad. He liked smart people. Whenever he thought of himself, it was not as good-looking, which he was, or physically strong, which he also was, but as real smart. When he had got caught pulling the fire alarm in grade school, his homeroom teacher had said to him, “You think you’re smart?” When he answered, “Yes ma’am,” she had slapped his face. Well, he’d gotten even on her, hadn’t he? Four flat tires on her car.

Dan spent all of Sunday afternoon and part of the evening composing his letter carefully.

“Dear Sir or Madam,” it began, “I am intrigued by your laconic advertisement.”

He chose the word “laconic” carefully. It proclaimed that the applicant was a man of good vocabulary who assumed the recipient would be also:

I have managed resorts successfully both in California and in the East.

My father died when I was eight years old. My mother and an older sister raised me. I have a B.A. from UCLA, with a major in Drama and a minor in Psychology.

While in college I had several bit parts in motion pictures, but after graduation found the entertainment industry uncongenial. I got a lucrative position as salesman in a well-known clothing emporium, but found the owners uncongenial. My break came when I was selling real estate on commission. Some people I dealt with were impressed by my abilities and offered me an opportunity to be deputy manager of a motel. At the time the manager died in an accident, the motel was in the red. Within three months of my appointment as manager, the motel was making money. The owners asked me to take over a much larger motel and restaurant they had in central California, and I was able to turn that around also. After a successful eight-year career with the same ownership at various locations, I was lured East to manage a very large and long-established resort in the Catskills. I found the environment uncongenial and have since returned to California to pursue my career here.

I am single, have no dependents, and am free to relocate provided the responsibility and remuneration are appropriate to my experience. References in California are available on request.

In the living room of their mansion, Merlin Clifford showed the pile of replies to Abigail, who used a pair of gold-framed eyeglasses that hung from her neck by a black satin cord to glance through them. Clifford watched his wife’s expressions. She wasn’t liking what she saw either. When she looked up, he handed her Daniel Pitz’s letter.

“This man’s a pompous ass,” he said. “But interesting.”

Abigail Clifford read Pitz’s letter several times. “You’d better find out more about what he means by uncongenial,” she said.

“I can guess. I have several other matters to explore with this young man.”

“How do you know he’s young?” she asked.

“He hasn’t mentioned anything that would clue me to his age. If he thought he might be too old for the job, he would have mentioned his high energy. The writer of this letter takes high energy for granted. Unless he’s left out a lot of employment deliberately, he’s young and worried about it. Also, Abigail, there comes a time in life when even a pompous man says money instead of remuneration.”

Abigail had to laugh.

*

“Mr. Daniel Pitz?” the man’s voice asked.

“Speaking.” The caller, Dan thought, had a very authoritative voice.

“I’m calling in response to your letter applying for the position of resort manager.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How old are you?”

There was a moment’s silence.

“Please don’t lie,” the voice said. “It’s something that is objectively ascertainable.”

“I’m thirty-six.”

“Good,” the voice said, to Dan’s relief. “You said your father died when you were eight. What was the cause of his death?”

“A trauma.”

God, thought Clifford, he really is pompous. “What kind of trauma?”

Again a moment’s hesitation.