“A hotel thief,” Chief Horton had often said, “is as sneaky as a fart in church.”
Am had never pursued that conversation with the Chief, had always let his remark stand, but now that he was confronted with a potential theft, he was almost tempted to make that same announcement to Sharon, mainly because he didn’t know what else to say. The Chief (staff called him that—his real title had been security and safety director) had enjoyed colorful metaphors. Most of them, Am realized belatedly, revolved around flatulence.
“The job’s not easy,” the Chief had told anyone who would listen. “Sometimes you’re given a choice between taking a crap in public or going blind. So you gotta learn how to close one eye and fart.”
Reality stepped on Am’s muse in the form of one closed eye. At the front desk, T.K. Washington was offering him a none-too-subtle wink. There are more winks offered in movies and on the tube than are played out in real life. This was one of those Hollywood suggestive “we’ve got a secret” winks. Am didn’t try to divine T.K.’s wink. T.K. was the Hotel comic who aspired to a larger forum. Every week he tried out new material at the Comedy Store’s amateur night. His real name was Cornelius, T.K. being an invention of his own, a setup for guests to ask him what his initials stood for, a chance for him to say, “Toooo Kool.”
And the funny thing, he said, was that most guests believed him. “Hello, Tooquol,” he’d mimic in what he called “white voice.” “Good afternoon, Tooquol.”
Am made brief introductions, then asked, “Who, what, when, and where?”
T.K.’s astigmatism reappeared. “Kris Carr,” he said, showing all of his teeth. “Don’t know what was snitched, don’t know when, but do know you can find her in room four forty.”
“Where’s Roger?”
“Left for the night.”
Am sighed. It figured. Roger’s escapes were legendary. He was the Teflon front office manager, never letting anything stick to him.
“If you want,” T.K. said, “I’ll be glad to go up and take the report from the lady in distress.”
Again that wink. Something was supposed to be obvious to Am, but it wasn’t, and he didn’t feel like showing his stupidity by asking. Besides, Sharon already had the floor for questions. She was asking T.K. about the front desk operations, and he looked as if he were ready to go into his P. T. Barnum mode. It was evident that Sharon would be happier learning at the front desk than helping with a hysterical guest. Who could figure her preference?
Am didn’t hurry up to the room. Too many times guests had cried wolf. They were quick to claim losses, quick to point a finger at a suspected maid or lurking hotel employee, until they remembered how they had hidden the item in question under the mattress, or in the corner of the closet, or in the lining of their coat. On several occasions Am had had to restrain guests from acting like prosecutors at the Spanish Inquisition. There was usually an inverse correlation of the loudness of their entreaties for justice and compensation with the quietness of their admitting fault, even after the “stolen” property turned up in their room.
Am knocked on the door. Kris Carr. There was something familiar about the name.
“Who’s there?”
Clenching his teeth, Am said, “Hotel security.”
The door opened. Kris Carr was wearing a terry-cloth robe. It didn’t fit very well, and Am suddenly remembered who Kris Carr was. Whenever she visited the Hotel, her halter and bikini top exhibitions paralyzed a good part of the male work force. If she hadn’t made some plastic surgeon rich, she was in the process of redefining Newton’s laws of gravity. Just the day before, one of the Hotel painters had fallen from his ladder and broken his collarbone. Guess who had been out at the pool?
“My name’s Am Caulfield,” he said, doing his best to maintain eye contact. “I’m the, uh—acting security director here.”
“Kris Carr,” she said, extending her hand. “Did you say your name was Am? That’s an unusual name.”
“Nickname,” he said, reluctant to say any more.
She motioned him into the room, and he followed behind her. There was a pleasant perfume smell in her wake. “Am,” she said, giving his name a special deep-throated intonation, “I feel a little silly for having called you, but I’m missing some articles of clothing.”
Clothing. Thank Julian, he thought. At least it wasn’t jewelry. “Which articles?”
She gave a wry smile. “Some of my brassieres were taken.”
“Your what?”
“My bras.”
Am tried to maintain a stoic face. Not knowing what else to do, he pulled out his notepad and made an entry: Missing Bras.
“Anything else?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“And how many bras are missing?”
“Four. Two were left.”
Am stopped writing. The strange disappearance was getting stranger. “If,” he emphasized, “your bras were stolen, why do you think four were taken and two left behind?”
“I think he liked the frilled models.”
“Frilled?”
“He took the ones with embroidery and lace. They weren't exactly Frederick's of Hollywood, but they were sexier than the plain ones that were left.”
Am kept writing. It seemed like the safest thing to do. “Anything else distinguishing about the missing bras?”
She laughed, and Am felt stupid. Was there anything distinguishing about the World Trade Center?
“They're not padded,” she said.
This time Am laughed. Few males on the staff had ever really talked to Miss Carr. They had just gawked.
“Would it be presumptuous,” he asked, “if I were to ask the size of the missing bras?”
“Why? Do you plan to put out an all points bulletin?”
Am tried to regain control of the interview. “The size would help for identification purposes.”
Kris smiled. She had a pretty face. It was probably the least noticed part of her anatomy, which was a shame. Am guessed she was in her early thirties. She had long lashes, and her chin had a slight cleft. Her tinted hair reached down just past her shoulders.
“Fifty-eight double F,” she said.
Am forgot about her face for a moment and peeked southward. He made another entry on his notepad, remembering not to include an exclamation mark.
“Whoever stole my bras,” she lamented, “probably doesn't realize what a pain it is to get them replaced.”
“When did you notice they were missing?”
“Just now.”
“And how did that discovery come about?”
She laughed at Am's attempted seriousness. “The discovery came about when I walked out of the shower naked and found most of my bras missing.”
“How long were you away from the room?”
“Most of the day. I was at the beach. I come here twice a year just for the ocean. That's what I miss most in Las Vegas.”
“What do you do in Las Vegas?”
“I'm a brain surgeon,” she said, then laughed at Am's look of surprise. “Actually, I'm a topless entertainer. Don't knocker it.”
It was his fault for having asked the question, Am thought. “How much longer will you be with us, Miss Carr?”
“Four more days. Then back to the grind. And bump.”
She was determined to unstarch Am's collar, but he still tried to maintain a formality between them. Am usually lectured his staff that they should be friendly, but not familiar, with the guests. He walked back to the door, examined it, and determined that there was no sign of forced entry. The Hotel California guest room doors had automatic dead bolts, adequate protection but by no means state of the art.
“Are you in the habit of closing the door behind you?” he asked.
“Self-preservation runs deep in me,” she said. “I made sure the door was locked, and I didn’t leave any windows open, either.”
Having ruled out the obvious, Am tried to downplay the situation. “I’m certain that housekeeping inadvertently took away your underclothing with the dirty linen,” he said. “It’s happened before.”
“They just thought they were sheets, huh?”
Am acted as if he hadn’t heard. “As a precaution, though, I am going to have your door rekeyed. I’d also like the name and address of your undergarment company. I’ll try to get them to overnight a shipment to the Hotel.”
She wrote the name down on a piece of Hotel California stationery, and when she handed him the paper, he offered his business card. “I’m sure there’s some reasonable explanation,” he said, “but please call me if I can be of any help.”
They walked to her front door, and Am paused a moment before saying anything else, thinking about the best way to proceed if there wasn’t that “reasonable explanation.”
“In the odd chance your bras aren’t found,” he said, “I might consider salting the replacements.”
Kris looked more amused than incredulous. Men were in the habit of offering her unusual suggestions, but this was a new one to her. “You want to salt my bras?”
Am felt the heat rise in his face. “Salting” was a term he had picked up from the Chief. “Police lingo,” he explained. “By chemically marking your bras, we’ll be able to tell who has come into contact with them.”
“Salted bras,” she said, “and me on a low-sodium diet.”
“The tracer dust,” said Am, “is invisible to the eye, but under an ultraviolet light the dust casts quite a glow.”
“So we can catch the bra thief red-handed.”
“Lime-green-handed,” said Am, then added quickly, “Not that I really think there is a bra thief.”
Kris shrugged. “Anything to share in the bust,” she said.
She waved good-bye while closing the door. Am stood there a moment. First the dust, he thought, then the bust, then the lust. He wasn’t sure if the order was accurate, but he didn’t much care.