BY THE TIME OLIVER ARRIVED, the staff had assembled itself into a crude semicircle in the hotel ballroom, what he now considered the scene of his most recent crime. Managers and supervisors congregated on Sherman’s left while the bellman, valets, and chambermaids fanned out in loose clusters around unclothed banquet tables. This organic segregation between the haves and the have-nots, between salaried-with-benefits and wage earners, was the hospitality equivalent of the caste system.
Mr. Sherman did not discriminate however. He faced his staff, not so much berating as sermonizing, careful to make deliberate eye contact and temper his voice with the proper balance of authority and sincerity.
Oliver eased the door closed behind him, but was betrayed by the metallic clank of the latch snapping into the strike plate. Sherman paused midsentence, then glared at Oliver over the rims of his bifocals. The only thing Sherman hated more than negative publicity was tardiness. A quick scan of the room did provide a small measure of consolation, however. Barry Sherman—Mr. Sherman’s nephew, part-time front-desk clerk, and eventual heir to the Harrington Hotel empire—was nowhere in sight. Oliver may have been late, but at least he’d made an appearance.
The staff exchanged conspiratorial glances as he made his way down front to one of the two empty seats in the room.
“Mr. Miles,” Sherman said. “So good of you to join us. We were just discussing the, um …” He coughed, as if it actually pained him to dislodge the next word. “… incident that occurred in my absence.”
He seemed more offended than angry, as if his own privacy had been violated. Sherman had begun his career in the hospitality industry when he was eleven, toiling away in the laundry room of his grandfather’s Memphis hotel. Years of ladder climbing had taught him that appearances trumped all else. He was not in the business of acquiring customers, but of serving guests. Anyone could furnish crisp linens, hot meals, and miniature bottles of conditioner. Sherman provided an experience, an escape. And part of the façade was never letting them see you sweat. Over time, he’d developed a serene exoskeleton of wool suits and half-smiles that made him impossible to read. He’d also developed the unconscious, if not catastrophically unfortunate, habit of picking his nose when he thought no one was looking.
“Ms. Holmgren was just giving us her version of the events from the other night.”
So much for apologizing to Mattie before she talked to Sherman.
Oliver imagined her regaling her new colleagues with a blow-by-blow description of discovering the hotel security guard rehearsing his painfully unfunny stand-up routine instead of patrolling the grounds and protecting the guests. He risked a sideways glance, noticing she looked as drowsy and discombobulated as he felt. But her expression was unreadable.
“Where were we, Ms. Holmgren? Oh, yes. You were about to remind us what time you clocked in?”
“I thought I just did,” she said.
“Humor me.”
“Twelve forty-eight.”
“And your shift was to begin at what time?”
“I believe your exact words were, ‘as soon as you can get here.’ “ Mattie paused, then added a rather blatant, “Sir.”
The room grew agonizingly still. Sherman’s staff meetings adhered to strict protocol—he talked, everyone else listened. But this new Mattie person was talking back.
“I don’t mean to accuse you, Ms. Holmgren. I’m simply trying to clarify.” Of course, this sounded exactly like an accusation to anyone who worked for Sherman for more than a few hours. “Is there anything else you’d like to add to your account?”
It seemed to take Mattie a few moments to realize it was her turn to speak again.
“Like I said before, I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary, no funny business.” She cut her eyes at Oliver, a hint of a grin in her expression as she stared into her lap.
“So how about you, Mr. Miles? Anything you’d like to add? Did you notice any peculiarities? Shenanigans? Funny business?”
He wished now he’d hit the snooze button a few times, or maybe slept in altogether. The extra rest would come in handy when he started looking for another job later that evening. Eventually, he said, “No, sir. I’m sure whatever Mattie saw is exactly what I saw too.”
Sherman made a funny face, even for him.
Against his better judgment, Oliver kept talking. “I mean, I don’t think we’ll make the papers, if that’s what you mean.”
Sherman seemed to recoil. Then one of the valets faked a cough to cover his laughter. Although Oliver wasn’t really trying to be funny, he did find himself savoring the familiar swell of pride in his chest.
Simply put, Sherman revered the written word—at least as it pertained to his career and his hotel. What he craved more than anything was landing a feature in some glossy magazine. His biggest fear seemed to be “making the papers,” which was Sherman-speak for bad press. But just like ghosts or haunted hotel rooms, his staff was forbidden to talk about it.
“This is only the third robbery since the Harrington opened in 1918.” Sherman took the time to make excruciatingly deliberate eye contact with each of his subordinates. “I fully expect it to be the last.”
Sherman then adjusted the links in his already immaculate cuffs and turned the meeting over to Gordon, the very large and savagely infantile front-desk manager. A collective sigh gathered in Sherman’s wake, then released when the ballroom door clicked shut behind him.
As rumor and innuendo filled the void, Gordon played moderator to the rampant speculation bandied about by the mostly ignorant, gossip-mongering hotel staff. Everyone had their own version and they all spoke with eyewitness authority, although none of them was actually there when the robbery occurred. Apparently the Johnsons were rude guests, bad tippers, and towel thieves. Somehow they also managed to be gracious, generous, and may have saved a toddler who was about to step in front of a city bus. There was talk of public drunkenness and gang activity. But when the conjecture veered into mafia connections and possible terrorist plots, Gordon recommandeered the meeting with a thunderous throat clearing, followed by a steely glare.
“Let’s get down to business, people.” From there he launched a detailed review of the hotel’s event calendar, sought a few volunteers to work a banquet the following evening, then ranted about too much overtime before sending everyone back to work.
No one hurried out. Instead, the staff mostly lingered and loitered and eventually meandered toward the exit. The valets made creepy ghost noises, which prompted two of the ladies from housekeeping to cross themselves. The first-shift employees fanned out toward their respective posts, while the second- and third-shifters filed down a narrow hallway toward the time clock.
Oliver fell in beside Mattie, who was bringing up the rear, and tried to think of a clever way to segue into an apology.
“Something on your mind, Oliver?”
“I just wanted to say thanks.”
“Thanks?” Her features crinkled into a question mark. “What did I do?”
“Apparently, you didn’t rat me out to Sherman?”
“And what would I have told him?” she said. “Or do I even want to know?”
Oliver tried to slow his pace in hopes she would match. The idea was to create a discreet distance from their co-workers. But she either missed his cue or ignored it. And Oliver had to work to keep up.
“Just that, you know … like how you found me, um, goofing off in the ballroom.”
“You said you were making your rounds.”
“Yeah, well—”
“I mean, if you were up to no good in there, we’re going to have a major problem. I can’t really afford to lose another job.”
Another job? “Oh, no. It’s nothing like that. I was just sort of acting silly on my way out of the ballroom. That’s all.”
“I just figured all that talking to yourself was to keep you from getting spooked. I do that sometimes too, especially when I’m all alone in strange places. Nothing to be ashamed of.”
“Oh, right.”
“Of course, I don’t usually tell jokes though.”
“…”
“Or use a dead microphone.” Mattie seemed to be biting back a lopsided grin.
“…”
“And I prefer a disco ball to a spotlight.” Mattie’s smile bloomed in stages. The left side of her mouth arced, forming a small dimple as it made its ascent. A millisecond later, the right side followed suit. It was a good smile, delightful, one of the best. Even if it was at his expense.
Oliver forgot about segues. He was about to blurt out his apology when Mattie tilted her chin toward the ceiling, gulped a mouthful of air, then another. Then she sneezed. Compared to the buildup, it was mostly a muted Shhh! sound, followed by a little squeal that trailed off like cartoon gunfire.
Oliver joined a friendly chorus of Bless you’s and Gesundheit’s while trying not to smile and wondering if he’d ever heard such a cute sneeze before.
“Oliver?” It was Barry Sherman. He’d somehow materialized by the time clock. “There you are. General Sherman wants to see you in his office. Like, now.”
Heads swiveled, first toward Barry and his audacious use of Sherman’s nickname, then toward Oliver. Their collective gaze seemed to whisper, Better him than me. Barry loomed in the narrow hallway, exerting undeserved authority and ushering everyone out the door with a fake smile. Mattie was the only one who seemed unfazed as she clocked out and disappeared through the parking garage.
“Man, she’s something,” Barry said when they were alone.
“What do you mean?” Oliver knew exactly what he meant, but it didn’t seem appropriate to admit it.
“Mattie. She’s totally hot. You know, in like an old-school, Mary Tyler Moore sort of way.”
“Huh, I hadn’t noticed.”
As Oliver contemplated this inadvertent fib, Barry grabbed his right hand and attempted to press it against his own forearm.
“You feel that?”
Oliver yanked his hand back before making contact with Barry’s hairy, and now deformed, arm. “What? No, no way. What is it?”
“It’s a knot. And I think it’s moving around under my skin. Do you think that’s normal?”
“No, I think it’s creepy.”
“But you haven’t even felt it yet.”
“It’s creepy enough that you actually want me to feel it.”
Barry looked hurt as he continued to fondle what looked like a giant marble trapped under his skin.
“So,” Oliver said. “What’s up with Mr. Sherman? Did he sound upset?”
“Does he ever sound upset?”
“Good point,” Oliver conceded. “But what do you suppose he wants?”
Barry nudged the lump on his arm a half inch in either direction. “Man, I hope this isn’t terminal.”
“Everything is terminal if you give it enough time.”
Barry ignored him. “Look, Oliver. I could really use your help.”
“What is it, Barry?”
“Don’t you have another job? Some kind of performance art thing?”
“It’s more like a glorified hobby.”
“But you do gigs, right?”
“Yeah, I guess you could say I dabble in comedy.” Oliver knew better than to admit this, especially to Barry. Most of the comics Oliver knew were shameless self-promoters. They dragged family members to their shows. They hassled co-workers, accosted strangers, and emailed every former classmate or distant relative in their vast social network. They put up flyers in coffee shops, on college campuses, and stapled them to telephone poles. Oliver did none of these things. Since the death of his mother’s computer (a viral infection), his social network had been limited to actual people that he actually spoke to. His relatives were not just distant; they were remote. And whenever he stepped onto a college campus he tried to remain invisible. As far as work was concerned, the thought of strong-arming valets or bellhops or front-deskers was as creepy as the knot Barry was still fondling on his hairy forearm.
“Perfect,” Barry said. “A stand-up comedian.”
“How is that perfect? Thought you said you needed help, not a comedian.”
“Actually, what I need is a job, Oliver.”
“What’s wrong with the job you have? Other than the fact that you show up late? Or that you don’t really work that hard? Or seem to care that much about the hotel business?”
Barry shrugged, sheepish but not ashamed.
“Never mind,” Oliver said. “I withdraw the question.”
“Look, we both know why I’m working at the hotel.”
“We do?”
“What’s my last name, Oliver?”
“Yeah, I know. Sherman. Speaking of which, why do you think he wants to see me?”
“See, most people mistakenly think my dad owns all thirty-two hotels. But it’s really Gramps. In fact, he was looking at purchasing a couple of small chains to add to his empire when he got sick.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“Not sure what caused it, probably another stroke. But now he’s in a coma. And it doesn’t look good.”
“I’m sorry, Barry. I hope he’s okay.”
“So,” Barry said, having moved from ignoring Oliver’s questions to ignoring his grandfather’s health. “About that job?”
“Why do you need a job? Aren’t you supposed to be an heir?”
“It’s complicated. The sons are first in line to inherit everything. Which means I’d have to work for my stupid uncle for a couple of decades before I can even sniff at any kind of ownership. The only way to accelerate that process is for me to show some initiative, some entrepreneurial spirit. So, what I need more than real-world business experience is for someone to vouch for me, Oliver. Which is where you come in.”
Vouching for Barry was the last thing Oliver wanted to do. However, since the Shermans seemed to thrive on nepotism, humoring Barry a while just might provide some needed job security, at least until this robbery business blew over.
“So what are you proposing exactly? You want to be my manager?”
“Exactly.” Barry snapped his fingers, then winced at the pain in his knotty forearm.
“But there’s nothing to manage,” Oliver said. “I make very little money and I really have no prospects. Even my act is in disarray, or at least in a bit of a transitional phase.”
“Maybe that’s why you need a manager.”
“I really think this is a bad idea. You’d be wasting your time.”
“Perfect. So what do you say, Oliver?”
“I’ll think about it.” Oliver pointed toward Sherman’s closed door, now a mere fifteen feet away. “In the meantime, would you please tell me what your uncle wants to see me about?”
“Oh, I see how this works. You want my help with Sherman. But you’re not willing to reciprocate?”
“Okay, fine, whatever. You can be my manager. Just tell me what he said.”
“Cool,” Barry said, then added, “And nothing.”
“What do you mean nothing?”
“He didn’t really tell me to find you. I just made it up.”
“And why, pray tell, did you do that?”
“I needed your undivided attention. You know, to ask about the managerial gig.”
“So why make the big announcement in front of all my co-workers then?”
“To give them a thrill. You know how they all thrive on gossip. We just did them a favor, shortened their shifts by giving them something to talk about all day.”
“Didn’t do much for me though.”
“It’s show business, Oliver. It’s what we do.”
“Speaking of things we do … any chance you could work a shift or two this week?”
In theory, Oliver was supposed to work five days a week with Barry covering the other two shifts. However, Barry seemed bent on disproving this theory. Since the last part-time security guard quit six months ago, Barry had worked exactly one half of one graveyard shift.
“I’d love to help you out, Oliver. I really would.”
“Does that mean I can count on you for a couple of nights this week?”
“No way, it just means I’d love to.”
Barry clapped Oliver on the shoulder, pushed his way through the glass lobby doors, and sauntered off, still massaging his forearm. Oliver was about to follow suit when Sherman’s office door opened and he said, “Oliver, might I have a word?”
It just sounded like a request.
Oliver stepped into his boss’s office and was struck again by how immaculate everything was. It made him wonder whether Sherman was the most organized man on earth, or if he just sat around his office all day posing for imaginary pictures. Oliver couldn’t decide whether to start with an apology for being late for the staff meeting or for the wisecrack about not making the papers. But Sherman spoke first. “I wonder if you might give me your impressions of Mattie?”
“The new girl?” Oliver’s mind scrambled to find whatever it was Sherman was hinting at. “Well, you know, she seems nice. And obviously very good at math.”
“I was thinking more about her character, her work ethic, who she is on the inside.”
“I’ve only really ever noticed her outside.”
Sherman grinned at this, not quite lascivious, but not quite his benign hotel grin either. Oliver had never seen him look more like his nephew before. “Now that you mention it, she is quite pretty. However, need I remind you that office romances are strictly verboten here at the Harrington?” Then Sherman winked, confusing Oliver all the more.
“Well I’ve only known her for like a weekend. We just say hello when we pass each other in the lobby and stuff. So I really don’t know her much at all.”
“I see,” Sherman said, but in a way that made Oliver wonder what his boss was actually seeing, or if he really saw anything at all. “Well then, we need to see to it you do.”
“Do what exactly, sir?”
“Get to know her. Or at least keep an eye on her for me.”
“Am I looking for anything in particular?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to cause alarm or cast undue aspersions. It’s just that she’s new. And I do have my hotel to protect.” His use of the personal pronoun was not lost on Oliver. The Shermans seemed to be a territorial bunch. “Besides, you said yourself that we don’t really know her all that well. Not yet.”
“I see,” Oliver said. But he really didn’t.
“Just remember,” Sherman said. “My door is always open.”
Then he stood, promptly ushered Oliver out, and closed it.