INVESTIGATING ALLEGED CRIME SCENES was not Oliver’s forte. Unfortunately, talking to drunk people in the middle of the night was. So he was feeling at least partially qualified when he knocked on the door.
While he waited, he reviewed Mattie’s version of the events so far. She had parked her car, punched her time clock, and fielded the phone call from someone named Lindsey Whitaker, whoever that was. Then before Mattie could plug in her own personal adding machine, the phone rang again. It was the Johnsons from Room 218. According to Mattie, Mister Johnson sounded cryptic and vague, maybe even a little sleepy. Apparently his wife could be heard shouting details in the background.
Mattie had suspected they were both high on something. Now, after only a few minutes with the Johnsons, Oliver suspected she was right.
Their story unfolded in a series of inebriated corroborations. The husband handled the bulk of the narrative while his wife added unnecessary punctuation. She managed to correct, cajole, and threaten without adding a single helpful detail. They allegedly left the hotel around noon to attend an afternoon wedding followed by what was described as a drunk and disorderly reception. They returned a little after one a.m., noticed some “valuables” were missing, and eventually called the front desk.
“What exactly is missing?” Oliver asked.
Mr. Johnson started to speak but was interrupted by a series of obnoxious throat clearings. They shared an unreadable expression, then he said, “Um, just some cash.”
“How much?” Oliver asked, pen poised over a spiral notepad.
The Johnsons exchanged another round of pointed glances. Their dilated pupils made them look constantly surprised to see each other.
“A lot,” the husband finally said. He scratched at a scab on his forearm.
“Could you be a little more specific?”
“We’d rather not,” Mr. Johnson said.
“Speak for yourself,” said his wife, absently fingering the patch of fiery acne on her chin.
Oliver pretended to make another note, then pretended not to watch their soundless altercation: fists balled, fingers pointed, jaws clenched, but no actual words exchanged, reducing the couple to a pair of belligerent mimes in a silent film. The subtitles were not that hard to imagine …
Mrs. Johnson: Don’t just stand there. Tell him.
Mr. Johnson: Are you nuts? How are we supposed to explain that kind of cash missing?
Mrs. Johnson; Don’t be such a wuss. Either you tell him or I will.
Mr. Johnson; Yeah? Over my dead body …
(Mrs. Johnson cuts her eyes suspiciously to the security guard.)
Mrs. Johnson: Or maybe his.
When Oliver cleared his throat, it had the same effect as a referee’s whistle. The couple turned their glares on him, both breathing hard. When he asked if there was anything else missing, Mrs. Johnson said, “Not yet.”
Oliver watched the unhappy couple glare at each other some more, waiting for one of them to expound upon her cryptic answer. Instead, she wheeled around and locked herself in the bathroom.
“So, what’s next?” the husband said, attempting a weak smile, one meant to convey apology or embarrassment or both.
“I’ll file my report with the hotel. Then I’m sure the police will show up and want to fill out one of their own.”
Mr. Johnson then announced, loud enough for his wife to hear through the closed door, that, on second thought, they were actually too tired to deal with the police at three a.m. He added, “Right, honey?” To which she suggested he go to that fiery place filled with demons and pitchforks and politicians.
Oliver’s interrogation ended with a final halfhearted threat from Mr. Johnson about pressing charges and making the hotel pay—but only after they got some sleep. That left a few short hours for Oliver to fill out his report and dread telling his boss about the alleged burglary.
But that too would have to wait. The front-desk manager arrived at 6:30 a.m. and promptly informed Oliver that Mr. Sherman had been called to Memphis for an emergency meeting with Claude Sherman (Mr. Sherman’s father, aka the owner of the Harrington) and the Shermanettes (Gladys, Montel, Morty, and the rest of the Sherman family) and wouldn’t be back on property until Monday. Oliver found some solace in this news, but not much. As much as he hated delivering bad news, he still preferred getting it over with. The only consolation was that it afforded him a couple of days to coordinate stories with Mattie.
He intercepted her just as she was coming out of the ladies’ room. She looked bleary-eyed and exhausted, just like he felt.
“Hey, Mattie. Got a second?”
“Actually, I’m supposed to meet the controller in a few minutes to review my first audit.”
“Okay, I’ll be quick. I just wanted to compare notes one more time, while everything’s fresh in our memories. You know, before we talk to Mr. Sherman.”
“You make it sound like we have something to hide.”
“Oh, no. Nothing like that. It’s just that Mr. Sherman likes details.” Oliver held up his notebook as some kind of tangible proof. “Lots of details.”
She stared at him again, a human polygraph machine. “Didn’t we already have this conversation?”
Oliver wished now that he’d brought the official incident report he’d typed up. That way he could stare at it thoughtfully instead of avoiding the penetrating eyes of Mattie Holmgren.
“Sorry,” he said. “You don’t know Sherman.”
Mattie’s gaze ricocheted from her watch to the hallway leading to the executive offices and then back to Oliver. “Alright, let’s see. I clocked in, got the call where the guy basically just repeated whatever his wife was yelling at him in the background. I hung up, went looking for you, and eventually found you in the ballroom. That’s pretty much the end of it.”
“So that’s all you can remember? No other details or peculiarities worth mentioning? Nothing else you saw or heard that Mr. Sherman needs to know about?”
“Look, I really don’t know what else to tell you, Oliver.”
He knew he should leave well enough alone. But Oliver was suddenly consumed with the desire to explain himself—that he wasn’t just some hack or wannabe comedian indulging pathetic fantasies, that he’d been working out new material for a big audition he’d been hearing rumors about, that he routinely performed actual stand-up comedy in actual comedy clubs, that sometimes he even got paid for it (if by payment, you could include chicken wings, fries, and all-you-can-drink coffee), that he wasn’t just goofing off or shirking his responsibilities, that he was actually working on his real career. But he’d already asked her the same series of questions and she’d never once mentioned anything about the ballroom, the quality of his jokes, or his stupid uniform. Chances are, she didn’t notice. Or didn’t care.
Still, before his brain could convince his mouth to shut up, he said, “Well, it’s just, you never really said where you were before you found me. You know, between the time you clocked in and when you took the call.”
“Well, I didn’t stop by Room 218, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“No, Mattie. That’s not what I meant, not at all. I was just trying to—”
Actually, he was trying to apologize, but it wouldn’t come out right. He could feel the regret thrumming inside him; he just couldn’t seem to form it into a coherent sentence.
“Sorry,” Mattie said. Oliver followed her gaze to the grim-faced controller. “I have to go.”
But she didn’t sound sorry; she sounded accused.
• • •
When his shift was over, Oliver stopped by the hotel’s “Business Center” (an elaborate cubbyhole with a Formica table, a chintzy computer, and even chintzier printer) to check his email. Of the dozen or so new subject lines, Oliver only saw one: “Downers audition, invitation only.” He was amazed how the opportunity to fulfill a lifelong dream could be reduced to a four-word sentence fragment. Still, exhilaration sparked inside him like a lit fuse, and Oliver had to make himself wait for the printer to finish before he dared read the actual email. Afterward he folded it neatly and slid it into the breast pocket of his uniform, trying to ignore the sensation of his stuttering heart through the thin layer of polyester.
He was so preoccupied that he made it all the way up to his car, down the winding ramp, and finally to the mouth of the parking garage before he realized he was still in uniform. He flicked his blinker in the other direction, U-turned back into the gloom of the garage, and reparked his car. Head down, he jogged back through the side entrance and locked the security closet door behind him. His Adidas gym bag was right where he’d left it. Minutes later he emerged again, this time in blue jeans and a T-shirt, his uniform folded neatly into a duffel bag. He supposed it was possible that he may someday get “caught dead” in his security guard costume. But he vowed never to get caught wearing it in public.
Too wired to sleep, Oliver decided to go see his mother.