Whatever happened to those IBM signs, thought Am, the ones that used to say THINK?
In the sixties, there had probably been millions of those placards on walls. It hadn’t taken very long for the variations to follow, THIMK being one of the most popular. Now there weren’t even any THIMK signs to be seen. Either the country hadn’t been into thinking for a few decades (and not just limited to the Reagan era), or thought processes didn’t need to be exhorted by signs.
It was early in the morning to have to think so hard, but Am still tried. The results, he feared, were closer to thimk. He decided the best way to try to get one particular answer was to place some personal ads in the local newspapers, as well as post his inquiry around high schools in the area. He worked on the wording, then called in his ad to the newspapers. Judging by the bored voices of the receptionists, they had taken much stranger personals.
There was only one incident report from the night before, and it involved neither Carlton Smoltz nor the Bob Johnsons. There had been several noise complaints stemming from a celebratory party thrown by Ducky Duckworth. The Padres had signed Duckworth, the possessor of one of the best arms in baseball, to a thirty-million-dollar pact. He and his friends had celebrated away over ten thousand of those dollars between the hours of 9 P.M. and 2 A.M. Security had been dispatched several times to quiet them down. The merrymaking hadn’t been confined only to Duckworth’s room. A dozen of the revelers had ended up swimming naked in the north pool. Am decided two notes were in order, one to the food and beverage director and the other to housekeeping. By running up so much alcohol to the room, the restaurant had fueled the party. What was good for F&B was not always necessarily good for the Hotel, and this was one instance where service should have been slow or even nonexistent. His note to housekeeping included a copy of security’s report and a request for them to look over Duckworth’s room before he checked out. Am was afraid that the party might have resulted in the kind of interior decoration the Hotel didn’t want. If the room was trashed, he wanted Duckworth to pay for the damages. From experience he knew it was always easier to collect payment before a guest checked out. Afterward they were likely to blame any damages on anything from an earthquake to the maid.
The notes written and dispatched, Am decided some coffee and maybe a Danish would taste good. He wandered over to the staff cafeteria but found Marcel Charvet standing between him and his coffee. It was a dear price to pay for his caffeine habit.
“Ham, Ham!” he said, slapping Am enthusiastically on his shoulder. “The myzteree is zolved!”
“Misery?”
“Myztery. Come with me.”
Am reluctantly followed Marcel to his office. When the chef picked up a bag, Am was afraid he was going to get a noseful of opossum, but instead Marcel dramatically revealed a bag full of walnut-size balls.
“Ze truffles,” Marcel said triumphantly.
The missing truffles. The ones Am had said he would be on the lookout for. He picked up one of the unprepossessing fungi. It didn’t seem the thing of culinary orgasms. Am sniffed at it but failed to discern anything more than a slightly musty odor.
“Good, no?” asked Marcel.
Agreeing was easiest. He nodded.
“Would you like to meet ze detective?”
Competition. “Sure.”
“Voilà.”
Am had thought the tablecloth was covering a food delivery. In a way it was. A pig was in a cage, but Marcel didn’t make introductions.
“Zis peeg keep pushing at his box,” said Marcel. “He sneef like he smell a sow in heat. So I wonder what smell so good to him. And behind ze door, under a towel in ze corner, I find ze truffles.”
“What’s the pig doing here, Marcel?”
“Ze luau tomorrow night.”
Oh, no, another ersatz Hawaiian dinner. Any other chef in town would have ordered an already butchered pig. Knowing he shouldn’t ask the question, Am still did: “Why a live pig?”
Marcel started explaining, throwing in a lot of his spittle to boot. He told Am things about sweetbreads and other culinary concoctions that sounded like endorsements to vegetarianism. The chef had plans for everything from the blood to the offal.
“And ze, how you zay it, curl-le-Q tail, zay are delezious fried….”
So much for the other Hotel detective. “Got to go, Marcel,” said Am. “Lots of work.”
“Ham,” he said, “Ham! One more thing.”
The pig wasn't the only one destined for the spit. Marcel moved in close for the kill.
“Ze Weintraubs,” he said, liberally spraying on Am, “came in for dinner last night.”
Oh, no, thought Am.
“Zay both wanted ze veal marsala. Zay said zay wanted them just like zay had had ze night before, not like at dinner, but like ze one delivered to their room.”
It had been a busy morning for Augustin Ramirez. Sundays were always popular for room service, with guests lounging in their beds and reading their thick newspapers. But this morning hadn't been like most Sundays. Maybe it was a full moon. The guests he had served had acted very strange. Most of them had answered their doors as if deathly afraid, and their acting scared had made him feel the same. Some had even asked to see his identification. And all the strange people had the same name: Bob Johnson.
He felt his pocket. It didn't have the usual full feeling. The tips so far had been disappointing, and Sunday morning was usually one of his best days. The policia hadn't helped. All three rooms had ordered enormous breakfasts, but none had tipped worth a damn. And this after their rooms were free, and their meals were being direct-billed to the city of San Diego. But Augustin knew that over the course of a shift the good usually evened out with the bad. Though he'd endured the stinkers so far, you never knew what the rest of the day would bring.
What was this? He checked a ticket waiting for him in the kitchen. Ah, this was more like it. Room 322 had ordered a champagne breakfast, and not just any champagne. Dom Pérignon.
Augustin knocked on the door, always three knocks, no more, no less. The door opened. Some of the room service waiters liked to wheel their carts inside, but Augustin thought it was more classy to carry in a tray or two, to show his straight back and firm arm.
He started inside, paused to bow, and in that moment almost dropped the tray. In his forty years as a room service waiter, he had never dropped a tray. But in front of him was…
It was only his lifetime on the job, years of rote service, that allowed Augustin to get through the next few minutes. He stammered and stumbled; he mixed up silverware; and it took him three attempts to uncork the champagne. His hands were trembling, and he spilled the precious bubbly. But Augustin was lucky. The man didn't pay any attention to him, and neither did the woman, so focused were they on each other.
The champagne poured, the table laid out, Augustin readied to leave. There was the matter of collecting the money, or having the check signed, but the room service waiter was too scared to approach the man. He wanted only to get out of the room.
“Hey!”
The word stopped Augustin. He was found out.
“Didn't think I'd forget you, did you?”
Augustin didn't look in his eyes. He couldn't. He started with his silent prayers, and that's when the man slipped three bills into his front pocket. “Keep the change,” he said.
“Thank you,” said Augustin. He walked outside and almost collapsed. He had to find Am. There was no time to delay!
But for all the urgency, the room service waiter still stopped to peek at the money that had been thrust upon him. Three hundred dollars! On a bill of a hundred and eighty-five dollars, that was some tip.
For a murderer, Augustin decided, the man wasn’t half-bad.
It had been a magic evening for Carlton and Bobbi. They had taken a cruise around San Diego Bay, had dined in a downtown restaurant that overlooked the beckoning lights of the city, then had found a nightclub where they listened to some jazz and ended up swaying away on the dance floor.
Arriving back at the Hotel very late, they had kissed and held all the way to her room (one of the police sentries was in the restroom when they passed, and another didn’t look very closely; he was looking for a single man, not a couple). At her door, Bobbi had invited Carlton in.
And there, the magic of their evening never really stopped.
What Augustin had told Am was impossible to believe. He was surely mistaken. But after learning that room 322 was registered to a Bobbi Lee Johnson, Am had dashed out of his office. Now, almost at the room, he was second-guessing himself. He didn’t even have the stun gun. And wouldn’t it make sense to retrieve McHugh from room 208 and have him accompany Am to 322? But he couldn’t bring himself to delay. What if Carlton Smoltz disappeared again? No, he had to proceed alone.
He knocked on 322’s door. Loudly. There wasn’t an answer. What if Smoltz was jumping out the window? Or worse, what if he had murdered yet another woman?
Am inserted his pass key, but the door opened before he could turn it. There, in only a robe, holding a flute of champagne, was a man Am would have known anywhere.
“What’s the meaning of this?” the man asked.
After his run, Am was breathing heavily and looked disheveled. He pointed to a spot on his blue blazer that invariably sported his name tag, only to see that it was missing, a likely victim to his exertions. Like other top management, Am wasn’t required to wear the Hotel uniform and wasn’t identifiable as an employee. He took a deep breath but even with the wind couldn’t come up with an immediate response. Cops were lucky. They always had Miranda to fall back on. Carlton straightened, appeared both protective and authoritative. “Bobbi, call Hotel security.”
Belatedly Am had his opening. “I am Hotel security,” he said. “My name’s Am Caulfield.”
“Oh,” said Carlton. His “Oh” said it all. He deflated slightly. Now that Carlton thought about it, the man did look familiar. He was the Hotel detective who had given the talk. His being here could only mean one thing. This was the moment of reckoning he had expected. Carlton took a sip of champagne. He had discovered champagne went well with both real and imagined police.
“Won’t you come in, then, Mr. Caulfield?”
Am entered very slowly, very cautiously. He followed Carlton into the room and watched him sit down on the sofa. The host motioned for Am to sit on a nearby leather chair. Am did so but positioned himself at the end of the chair, ready to respond if Smoltz pulled a knife or a gun.
“Dear,” announced Carlton, “we have company.”
Bobbi Johnson was sitting at the table, finishing up her breakfast. She gave Am a big smile. “How do,” she said. She was a voluptuous woman, big and meaty, and like Carlton, she had on only the Hotel robe. “Champagne?” she asked. “No, thank you,” said Am.
Bobbi joined Carlton on the sofa. They gave each other a look that had too much significance for Am's comfort, but Carlton disarmed his suspicions with the question: “Do you have a clergyman in this Hotel?”
Am breathed a sigh of relief. The murderer did feel remorse. Although the Hotel had a chapel, there was no Hotel clergyman on property. “No,” said Am, “but I can get you one. As they say, confession is good for the soul.”
It took Carlton a moment before he understood. “Oh, not that,” he said. The words were uttered with a grimace and what appeared to be all sincerity, but they were words spoken with a finality, the firm shutting of a sad hook.
Carlton regained his bearings, took a moment to squeeze Bobbi's arm. “It's just that we want to be married,” he said, “and we can't think of any other place we'd rather have our wedding than here.”
The couple held hands. Am wasn't sure whether to be complimented or insulted. The man had murdered his wife on Thursday and now wanted to be married on Sunday. In a roundabout way, he supposed, Smoltz believed in the sanctity of marriage.
Bobbi poked Carlton in the ribs and whispered something in his ear. Am tensed again, suspecting they might be plotting something. “That's right,” said Carlton. “Perhaps a judge would be better. We were hoping I might legally change my name before the ceremony. I promised Bobbi that I'd become a Bob Johnson. She's kind of partial to that name, and so am I.”
The two of them smiled at one another.
“Mr. Johnson,” said Am, “I mean, Mr. Smoltz, do you realize the seriousness of this situation?”
“I do,” he said. “I have found the woman I love, and nothing is so important as to make things right with her.” Am shook his head. “I mean—“
“If you're referring to what happened the other day,” said Bobbi, “Bobby”—Carlton! Am wanted to scream—“told me everything. He said he didn't want to drag me into the mud, and didn't want to woo me under false pretenses. Any other man I know would have done his poking first and his talking later, but not Bobby. He's a gentleman, and what happened was an accident. If you ask me, that two-timer and her no-good lawyer got what they deserved….”
“Now, Bobbi,” said Carlton.
They reached for each other's hands. “Bob still accepts all the responsibility like a real man,” she said. “But I'm telling you, that strumpet and her Lothario forced him to act as he did. That's the way I'm betting any jury is going to see it, and even if they don't, I'll stand by my man.”
In the face of all her clichés, Am was speechless.
“I now have a reason to fight,” said Bob/Carlton, “and to live.
His eyes teared up. He tried to rub away the tears, but instead his brushing opened up the ducts, and the dam. “Oh, Bobby,” said Bobbi, holding him and kissing his wet cheeks. He returned her kisses, then looked to Am, slightly embarrassed.
“I am not without remorse, Mr. Caulfield,” he said. “I will forever be troubled by what I did. There is no justification for my actions, and there will be retribution—my own, and the state's. But understand that I don't want to mourn away the few minutes of freedom I have remaining. There will be time enough for that. For now, selfish as it seems, I want to declare my love.”
Bobbi took his hand. “We want to declare our love.”
Am didn't know what to say. He worked in a business that had inculcated in him the primary goal of making the guest happy. But what did you do when that guest was a murderer?
“Mr. Smoltz,” he said, “a wedding is out of the question. The Hotel cannot condone murder, nor can we cater to murderers.”
Bobbi started to cry. Carlton was more understanding. Head bent, he nodded sadly, then tried to comfort his fiancée.
The sobbing eventually got to Am. What the hell, he thought. He cleared his throat, got Bobbi’s and Carlton’s attention.
“Perhaps an impromptu engagement party,” he said, “wouldn’t be absolutely out of the question.”