The Hotel Detective (21 page)

“Murderers!”

It wasn’t a good day to hear that ringing announcement. With her husband’s voice temporarily impaired, Whiney had the whole
floor to herself. Her bony finger was pointed Am’s way, drawn, no doubt, to a familiar face to wag it under.

Nils Olsen looked puzzled. He wasn’t getting the hero’s reception he expected for saving Mr. Weintraub’s life. Nils had been
in the United States for half a dozen years, had come from Sweden as a student, and had not wanted to return to his country’s
cold winters. Then again, he hadn’t bargained for this much warmth.

“You didn’t warn us about the bones! Are you operating with a license to kill?”

While Whiney’s attack was heating up, Nils motioned Am over and whispered in his ear. In the middle of her ranting, Am made
so bold as to interrupt.

“There were no bones, Mrs. Weintraub. Your husband had the veal marsala….”

Whiney raised her voice a few decibels. It was an old tactic of the Weintraubs. If they ever looked as though they were losing
an argument, the hysterics started. “My husband almost dies of food poisoning, and you have to make like a wiseguy. Is that
right? Is that decent?”

“Your husband was choking on a piece of veal,” Am insisted. “That hardly qualifies as food poisoning….”

“It was dry. He told me that, said it before his throat was land mined. Stanley! Are you all right?”

He waved again, motioned that he was ready to rise to his feet. Nils started to assist him, but that wasn’t to Whiney’s liking.

“I’ll help him,” she said. “Stanley! Are you all right?”

He was flapping his whole arm now. Soon, Am knew, too soon, he’d be flapping his mouth.

“Mrs. Weintraub, will you be needing any assistance up to your room?”

“Why do you ask? Do most of your restaurant guests need to be carried out on stretchers?”

“Perhaps Mr. Weintraub would like to sit for a minute, have a glass of water….”

“We’ll need a taster before we ever sit here again.”

Am shut his mouth. It was either that or bite off his tongue. But rather than having to endure future accountings of how the
uncaring staff had left her dying husband to crawl to his room, and instead of delegating the unpleasant chore of accompanying
the Weintraubs to another employee, Am decided that he should escort the couple to their room.

Whiney’s diatribe never stopped. She was surprised that the Hotel was still in business; why, when they had checked in, they
were forced to wait two hours for their room (“But didn’t you check in at ten in the morning, Mrs. Weintraub?”) and even then
hadn’t gotten the room they wanted (“As I understand it, Mrs. Weintraub, the room you wanted was a suite, but when it was
offered, you wanted it for the same rate as a studio guest room”). And now her husband had been poisoned. Poisoned. Am decided
not to argue that point. He wasn’t certain he could sincerely object to the idea.

“It isn’t enough that people jump from their balconies,” she said, “and get murdered in their rooms. No. Now you’re trying
to kill people in your restaurants. Is this a war zone or a hotel? What? Do you give people the choice of doggie bags or body
bags?”

Whiney was still complaining on her doorstep when Am announced, “Thankyouandgoodnight.” He suspected Whiner’s voice was already
back, but even he couldn’t get a word in when his wife was on a roll.

Common sense dictated to Am that he should cut his losses and leave, but there was still the matter of making Marcel see that
his actions could not be condoned. It would have been nice if a contrite Marcel had been waiting in the kitchen, but the chef
had been called to a table. Wonderful. Whenever praise was heaped on Marcel, he was twice as insufferable.

“Am?”

Nils Olsen had an expectant look on his face.

“Mr. Weintraub’s fine, Nils,” he said.

He nodded. But that wasn’t his question. There was another priority. “They didn’t sign their guest check, Am. Gunther said
I should ask you about it.”

Translation: Is it all right if I add the gratuity to their check?

Servers always try to be mind readers. When stiffed, they invariably imagine that the patron meant to leave a gratuity but
somehow forgot—that, or they assumed it was part of the guest check. The rule in the Hotel California’s restaurants was never
to assume a guest’s intentions. If they didn’t include a gratuity, that was that. Of course that was an edict that had been
handed down by nontipped management, and this was an out-of-the-ordinary situation.

“Had the Weintraubs pretty much finished their dinners?” Am asked.

“There wasn’t a thing left on their plates,” said Nils. “He choked on his last bite of veal.”

Am debated for a moment. “Put yourself down for fifteen percent, Nils,” he said, “and close it out to their room number.”

“Thank you, Am.”

He started walking away, but Am called him back. “If you save his life again, Nils,” he said, “you’re fired.”

Nils searched Am’s face. Even after years in the country, he still wasn’t sure of American humor. “That’s a joke, yes?”

“Ask me next week.”

There are worse places to wait than in a cavernous hotel kitchen. Rather than go home and open a can of beans and a can of
beer and contemplate the longest day of his life, Am decided to take advantage of one of the great perquisites of hotel management
and eat a fine meal. Of course, a condemned prisoner gets that same privilege. Am didn’t feel like waiting for food, so he
wrote out a slip for prime rib. Staff always takes care of staff very well. He was cut off the better part of a cow and given
enough potatoes and vegetables du jour to feed three people. As he walked by with his bounty, the pantry chef told him to
save room for some fresh puff pastries smothered in chocolate-dipped strawberries “that anyone would die for.”

The aromas in a great kitchen are almost meals in themselves. The scents primed Am’s appetite even before he sat down. He
hadn’t known how hungry he was and in short order did the impossible: finished his plate and even had room enough for one
of those decadent puff pastries.

Marcel still hadn’t returned, and once again Am considered just leaving, but his stubbornness wouldn’t let him do that. He
decided to go out to the restaurant and look for him. That proved to be a tactical mistake. The chef was sitting at the critic’s
table. From his rapturous expression, he might as well have been in bed with him. All he needed was a pillow and a cigarette.
Am tried to retreat, but it was too late.

“Ham! Ham!”

Reluctantly he walked over to the table. The critic and his friend might have had to eat opossum, but no doubt that was a
tastier dish than crow.

“Ham,” Marcel said, “zis gentleman zink I am a genus, and I zay, who am I to argue?”

Three people laughed.

“A genus, yes,” said Am. “But we’re still not sure of the species.”

No one smiled, and the critic went so far as to decide Am needed another lecture. “A great chef always innovates, is never
complacent. Chef Marcel tells us he never attempted this dish before.”

“He gambled,” Am admitted.

“He won,” said the younger man. “It was delicious. Gamey yet tempered.”

Temper did have something to do with it, Am thought. “I could listen to zis all night,” said Marcel.

“Marcel is fond of telling us what he served at the Last Supper,” said Am.

Marcel's possum was apparently much better loved than Am's quips. He excused himself, afraid if he watched much longer, Marcel
might bloat up to the point of exploding.

Only management was allowed to use the kitchen as a shortcut, probably because management knew that it was rarely a shortcut
at all. On his intended way to the parking lot, Am was waylaid by the sight of one of his favorite desserts: double chocolate
amaretto mousse. He paused to ask the pantry cook if there was a spoon to lick, and his inquiry resulted in a parfait glass
chock full of the mousse. It took Am a few minutes to work through his rapture. He probably shouldn't have stopped by his
office, but there was a note he remembered he should write.

He felt oddly content. Having a full stomach might have had something to do with that. For most of the day the world had seemed
to be collapsing under his feet, but now that his maw was filled he felt the cosmos had somehow become aright.

Just as Am entered his office, the phone rang. He saw that the call was originating from Gunther's extension. With each ring
the phone seemed to ring louder, but Am resisted the temptation to pick it up. It was late, and he didn't have it in him to
fight any more dragons. The ringing stopped, and Am praised the Almighty. The note he had thought it necessary to write was
becoming less important by the moment. Then the phone started ringing again. This time it was the front desk calling, and
again Am wouldn't answer. I can sneak out, he thought. But he had neglected to lock his office door. The Weintraubs had visited
him countless times before and knew only too well where to find him. They en

tered from the lobby, walking inside without knocking and looking like spaghetti western villains out for revenge. “Went back
to the restaurant,” he said.

“Returned to the scene of the crime,” she said.

“I thought we might get hungry later,” said Whiner. “Midnight snack,” Whiney chimed in.

“So I asked what happened to my dinner.”

“'Where is it?' he asked.”

“And they told me they had thrown it out.”

“Threw it away without asking,” she said.

They looked at Am expectantly. That was his clue to offer apologies and compensation. Ile continually amazed guests with his
stupidity at not understanding what they thought was obvious.

“I talked with your server, Mr. Weintraub,” he said. “He told me that both you and your wife had finished your dinners….”

Whiner held up his right arm and his index finger. “But I hadn't finished,” he said.

“The only thing you didn't eat was that last piece of veal that—“

“A man pays for his meal, isn't he entitled to all of it?”

Am looked from one face to the other. He hoped they were joking, but they weren't smiling.

“Mr. Weintraub, I find it difficult to believe—“

“I find it difficult to believe that you charged me for a meal I didn't finish. You did that, didn't you? Authorized that
bill to be signed over to our room?”

“When you left the restaurant you weren't in any condition—“

“Now I've returned. And I'm hungry. But my meat isn't there. I don't think 1 should have to pay for that entrée. Or I should
have another one made for me.”

“In all fairness, don't you think—“

“Another entrée, or I refuse to pay.”

“We’ll make your entrée,” said Am.

That wasn’t the answer Whiner wanted, but it was still victory enough. “Have it sent to the room,” he said.

“We wouldn’t dine in one of your restaurants again,” she said.

“It will be sent up,” Am promised.

They walked out of his office, and Am walked back to the kitchen. Marcel was sitting in his office, smoking a cigar. His preferred
spot was directly under the No Smoking sign. Marcel’s burlap bag was on the floor. Am reached deep inside it and pulled out
a particularly sorry specimen of squashed opossum. Even Marcel, who always seemed oblivious to smells, sniffed disdainfully.

“Weintraubs,” said Am.

“Mon Dieu,”
said Marcel.

The chef had heard displeasing words from those—those—cretins before.

“He never finished his veal marsala,” said Am. He held up the opossum. “This,” he said, “is going to be the veal marsala.”

“But you need to marinate ze possum meat, Ham,” said Marcel. “You need to add ze herbs, and stoop it in ze spices, and—”

Am dropped the opossum in front of him. “This,” he repeated, “is the veal marsala. They won’t eat it tonight. And you know
how the taste and complexion of meat can change overnight.”

“But what if zay complain? What if zay say eat’s not veal?”

“Then we play possum,” said Am.

Most large hotels have resident managers. The perks of such a position are many. A casual observer might consider the job
as being the closest thing to royalty. Meals are provided by the hotel, along with daily maid service and laundry privileges.
But the sword of Damocles also comes with the job. Am had lived at hotels before but had never much liked it, could never
shake the feeling that he was on the job twenty-four hours a day and that doom was always hanging over his head. Whenever
the phone rang, he anticipated it to be a problem, not a friend. And there was the fishbowl feeling, the staff monitoring
the goings-on of his life as if it were spectator sport. But had he still been a resident manager, Am reflected, staff wouldn’t
have had much to talk about lately. Nowadays he was having trouble getting a life separate from work. The antidote for many
suffering job burnout is a change of scenery, an escape to some hotel where they can be pampered. But that didn’t work for
Am. Whenever he visited other properties he felt like a magician analyzing another practitioner’s tricks. A getaway would
be good, though, maybe a surfing trip down the Baja peninsula or a camping excursion to some secluded canyon in the Anza-Borrego
Desert. The desert, located within the boundaries of San Diego County, was itself larger than some states, while the county
as a whole could claim more square miles than half a dozen states. Within San Diego County were mountains, deserts, and the
ocean. Anyone with time and money would be hard-pressed to ask for a more diverse and pleasant locale, but Am always seemed
to be short either the hours or the cash.

Too tired to read, too numb to move, Am resorted to the intended soporific of television. His timing couldn’t have been worse.
The lead story on the eleven o’clock news was the murders at the Hotel. According to the report, Jane Doe still hadn’t been
identified, and neither had the murderer. There was a clip of McHugh responding to (or was that evading?) the reporter’s questions.
Am thought there was more to be learned by the detective’s omissions than in what he said. On air, McHugh never mentioned
the cleaning up of the crime scene or how the suspected murderer had gained access to the guest room in the first place.