Am returned not to Kendrick’s office, but to his own. He closed the doors, turned off the lights, and made himself a cave where he could lick his wounds. On his desk was a bottle of Stolichnaya vodka with a note saying it was compliments of Mr. Harmon.
He wasn’t in the habit of drinking on the job. With free-flowing liquor all around, the hospitality business either attracts, or breeds, a disproportionate amount of lushes. Though Am knew it was the oldest excuse in the world to say he’d earned a drink, this was one time he almost felt justified in mouthing that lie. He kicked his legs up on his desk, leaned back, and eyed the bottle. His love interest was gone, his job was going, going, and almost gone, and his dreams were getting maudlin. He felt like fodder for a country music festival.
His hand worked over to a mug that looked fairly free of mold. He unsealed the Stoly with slow, languorous fingers. Almost, he could imagine himself undraping Sharon the same way. He poured three fingers into the mug, stopped, then reconsidered and added another finger.
“To the new general manager of the Hotel California,” he said aloud.
He took a long sip, then started laughing. It was a good thing he had closed the doors. His laughter bordered on the hysterical. Harmon had gotten the last laugh, having substituted water for the Stoly.
There were so many toasts Am could make: To illusion; the emperor’s clothes; Vanity Fair; the Emerald City; the fantasy Hotel; the human comedy; and to the genie emerging from the bottle.
Am laughed until tears rolled down his face, then collected the bottle, if not his wits, and drove home. That night he slowly sipped away, savoring every drop of the Russian counterfeit, getting drunk on the water and his thoughts. Colorado River water never tasted so sweet.
He knocked at her door at midmorning. Sharon was surprised to see him.
“What you did was wrong,” Am said. “And I think it best you not return to the Hotel. But…I did a lot of thinking last night, and I finally realized what time it is: it’s a time to heal.”
His olive branch was disarming, but she also felt it was still damning. “Maybe it’s just a time to explain,” said Sharon, her words defensive. “I didn’t take this assignment to hurt anyone.”
“I think I know that.”
“I was supposed to get a sense of the property, something beyond a P and L sheet. I was there to help.”
“That’s usually the greatest sin of all.”
“Don’t be so superior, Ian Caulfield.”
He flinched. It had been so long since Am had heard his real name, it sounded unnatural and condemning.
“You’re not the only hotel detective, you know. You challenged me to find your real first name, and I did, Ian.”
She put gleeful emphasis on the name, as if it were something she should be proud of and he ashamed of. Am responded in singsong kind: “You’re just jealous because you’re stuck with the name of Sharon instead of being blessed with an exotic nickname.”
“What’s wrong with Sharon?”
“It’s old-fashioned. It exudes this wholesomeness, this picture of some apple-cheeked woman presenting a pie.”
“Oh, and now that I’m in Southern California I should be called Moonbeam, or Freedom, or Wave?”
“No. Those are too common. Maybe I’ll call you ‘Are.’ “
“R?”
“I, Am, you, Are?”
They offered each other a smile. It was a start.
“Don’t think I’ve given up on finding the story behind your nickname, Ian Caulfield. I’m sure someone in this city knows its genesis.”
“I do,” he said.
“Tell me.”
He took a deep breath, reminded himself that the genie was already out. “It was my first promotion,” he said, “and my first memo. It taught me how important it is to proofread whatever you write. I signed the memo, proudly affixed my new title, and circulated it around. What I didn’t notice was how I had abbreviated my title. I shortened assistant manager to ass man, and that’s what everyone called me. Of course, in front of guests, they referred to me as Am. That’s what stuck.”
“Ass man,” she said.
“Truth to tell,” he said, “I’m more of a leg man.”
“And that’s the whole great secret?”
“That’s it.”
“Ian,” she said, doing a name comparison. Then, “Am.” She sampled the names as though they were food, chewed on them some, then announced, “If the ass fits, wear it.”
“I don’t exactly feel like I’ve been knighted.”
“Jousting is a part of every knight’s training.”
“Is that the only way to win a lady?”
“Are you trying to win a lady?”
Instead of answering directly, he asked, “What are you doing today?”
“I’m working on a report,” she said. “You just interrupted me. I was describing security at the Hotel California. The interim director, and I think I’m directly quoting, has ‘the deductive talents of Sherlock Holmes, the tenacity of Lew Archer, the charm of Travis McGee, the inquisitive mind of Hercule Poirot, and the inner toughness of Sam Spade.’ “
“Don’t stop now,” said Am.
Sharon suddenly became serious. “Yamada’s son is going to take over the operation of the Hotel,” she said. “He’ll be bringing a management team along with him. There’s not going to be a bloodbath, but your old position won’t be available. I’m recommending that you be retained as security director.”
Angrily Am said, “As if I’d accept that demotion.”
“At your same salary.”
As much as he wanted to, Am didn’t immediately naysay the job. He had always pictured himself as the GM of the Hotel, had never in his wildest dreams imagined himself as its security director. For a moment he played his own devil’s advocate, went through the pros and cons of the job, before letting his pride speak: “I don’t think so.”
“Give it some consideration.”
Am shrugged. He didn’t want to admit it out loud, but he liked solving mysteries, and there was something romantic about him being named the defender of the Hotel. He could still be that catcher in the rye. “Tell me that part about Sherlock Holmes again.”
“Do you want to come in and have some coffee?”
“No,” he said. “I want you to come with me.”
“Where are we going?”
“We’re going to take a train. Every morning and every evening for the last ten years I’ve lived in Del Mar, I have heard it calling. Today is the day we follow the Sirens.”
“What’s our destination?”
In a stationmaster’s voice, Am said, “Oceanside, San Clemente, San Juan Capistrano, Anaheim, and Los Angeles.” Then, speaking normally, he said, “I figure we’ll just keep getting off until we find that someplace that looks right. Or we’ll just keep going.”
“We could find a hotel on the beach.”
“We could act like tourists.”
“And complain about the service.”
“And make a mess.”
“And take the towels.”
“And palm the silverware.”
“And make noise all night.”
“I like the sound of that,” said Am.
She leaned over and kissed him lightly. He didn’t complain.
“I stopped by the Hotel this morning,” Am said, “and I told everyone I’d be gone for a few days.”
“You were confident.”
“I was hopeful.”
“Any calamities?”
“No. The mail had already arrived. I thumbed through the guest comment cards and noticed some familiar handwriting.”
“No!” she said.
He handed her the comment card. Carlton Smoltz had mailed it from the San Diego County Jail. It was probably the first hotel guest questionnaire ever mailed from a prison. Carlton had judged his stay as excellent and in the comments section had written, “I had a wonderful visit, and can’t wait to return.”
“I hope,” said Sharon, “he doesn’t recommend it to his friends.”