Free The Fat Innkeeper by Alan Russell Page B

all four of the Hotel’s restaurants, an indication that the doctor enjoyed trying new dining spots (that, or he
     hadn’t been impressed enough with any of the Hotel eateries to want to dine in the same restaurant twice). His meals were
     for amounts that made Am believe the doctor had not eaten alone, something he’d have to check on.
    The doctor’s Hotel bill was relatively debit-free. He had availed himself of few of the Hotel’s temptations, hadn’t played
     tennis, or used the pitch and putt course, or charged in any of the Hotel’s shops with the exception of the sundry store,
     and there for only a minimal purchase of four dollars and twenty-six cents. Kingsbury had taken no tours. He hadn’t participated
     in aerobics, dance lessons, or jazzercize, hadn’t had any facials, massages, or body wraps.
    Kingsbury had managed, though, in his short stay, to visit three of the six Hotel lounges, one of them on two occasions. He
     had made seven long-distance calls, and dialed up four local numbers. He had sent three faxes, and received two in return.
     And he had watched one in-room movie. Which one? Am tapped out his query. Unless requested by the guests, the movie names
     were not printed on the final bill, just the charges for them. There was a reason for that, a reason that appeared on the
     screen. The doctor had taken time from his scientific inquiries to watch
Tea for Three,
one of the soft-porn offerings currently available to the guests.
    He had been busy, thought Am. Dining, drinking, interviewing, attending the conference, getting and receiving faxes, making
     calls, and even taking in a prurient picture. And dying.
    The Hotel’s property-management system allowed Am a lot of fingertip information, but he wasn’t content to try and divine
     everything from a video-display terminal. He preferred looking at the paper charges, the more scribbles and ketchup stains,
     the better. Before the advent of computers, Am had often read just such tea leaves to decipher signatures, or figure out where
     the charge belonged. He called up the accounting department and asked for Ward Ankeney, the controller. Ward claimed he had
     been at the Hotel “since the cigar box and pencil ledger-entry days.” Like Am, he knew there were times when the computer
     couldn’t tell you everything. He didn’t question Am’s need to look at the charges, just said they would be available to him
     by early afternoon.
    Am’s phone rang. The display showed that Janet DeSilva was calling from sales and marketing. For a moment Am was tempted to
     let his voice mail take a message. He had been given the rare privilege of a few undisturbed minutes at work, and was now
     eager for a few more. Janet had taken over for Kim Yamamoto in sales several months earlier. Ironically Kim, who was third-generation
     American Japanese, had said her departure was due in part to her not wanting to work for “old world Japanese.” Janet’s ascendancy
     to sales and marketing director hadn’t been without its problems. Around the Hotel, Janet was getting to be known as “Dammit,
     Janet.” Someone had taped a sign to her door which said,
“Your
Lack of Planning Does Not Constitute
My
Emergency.” Many “someones” had agreed with the short-lived editorial.
    “We have a problem, Am.”
    “What—did another whale wash up on the beach?”
    “Worse,” she said.
    “I’ll be right over.”

Chapter Twelve
    Being greeted by the sounds of someone sobbing isn’t the most welcoming of receptions. Kate Kennedy was at her desk making
     fast work of a box of tissues. Janet was hovering nearby, ostensibly offering comfort to the crying woman, but from appearances
     she didn’t trust her hands anywhere near Kate’s neck.
    “Thanks for coming, Am,” said Janet.
    There was a third figure in the office. Melvin Carrelis was carefully taking notes. The Hotel’s legal counsel met Am’s eyes
     and nodded. Oh, God, Am thought. Whenever Melvin surfaced,