bar bill.
Am would have expected him to have gone out with more of a splash.
Sometimes you get a feel for guests through their hotel bills, but two days of charges didn’t tell Am all that much about
Tim Kelly. Besides, sometimes hotel bills deceived more than enlightened. When people escaped from their routines, they frequently
allowed themselves freedoms they wouldn’t indulge in on their home turf. They watched an adult film, or drank too much, or
took a nocturnal swim without clothes. “Guests,” said one of Am’s former GMs, “act like Mormons out of town.” Not that religion
had anything to do with it. Just human nature.
Tiring of looking at the bill, Am accessed the guest history data base and entered Kelly’s name. This visit hadn’t been Kelly’s
first. He had stayed at the Hotel the two previous years, both times with the Contractors Association annual convention. Curious,
Am called up the group history. Hotels were getting to the point where they could almost crank out their own TRW credit reports.
At the Hotel, group expenditures were tracked more faithfully than baseball scouts analyzing batting averages, and group bookings
were prioritized by their spending habits. The Contractors Association was evidently “A” team material. They liked to spend
money.
Let me count the ways, thought Am. He scrolled through the file, paying close attention to both individual and group requests.
Everything was documented, from room setups to banquet menus. High rollers are catered to, and the guest rooming assignments
had been prepared carefully rather than slotted in the usual block of rooms. As a repeat group, many of the conventioneers
had known what they wanted and hadn’t been shy about making those desires known. The usual litany of requests were indicated,
from bed size to location to type of accommodation, with the usual petitions for everything from feather pillows to special
lighting. Kelly hadn’t been among those with requests.
Had he known he was going to commit suicide when he’d checked in? Am started speculating, then chastised himself mentally.
It was a moot point, not to mention a waste of time. Maybe Kendrick was right, as much as that possibility hurt him. Maybe
he could best serve the dead by “ah-sisting” to the bereaved, sending those all-important fruit baskets. Condolence calls
on behalf of the Hotel were also in order. Sighing, Am assembled a list of people who should be contacted. John Leonard, the
Contractors Association group leader, was his first call.
“I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Leonard,” said Am. “My name’s Am Caulfield and I’m the assistant general manager here. On behalf
of the Hotel, I’m calling to express our deepest sympathies.”
Am’s attempt at sorrowful sorries didn’t get very far. “I really didn’t know Tim very well,” Leonard said.
And by the tone of his voice, Am didn’t think Leonard was going to be starting a retrospective any time soon.
“Well,” said Am, “might the Hotel be of any assistance to your group at this difficult time?”
Leonard thought a few moments before answering. To Am, that wasn’t a good sign. “Steve Daniels is the one you should talk
to,” he finally said. “Steve’s in five twenty-two. He was a friend of Tim’s, so he’s pretty much handling everything.”
Daniels’s line was busy, which was excuse enough for Am to walk up to his room. A small man who looked like a depressed version
of Harpo Marx answered his knock. Am barely got the chance to utter a few platitudes before the guest swept him into his room.
Maybe it was the face-to-face, or maybe Daniels just needed someone to talk to. “I still can’t believe it,” he said. “Tim’s
the last guy I would have figured for this.”
Am sat down on the sofa and let Daniels talk. He heard that Kelly had walked out on a good life. The deceased had run a successful
development company in Menlo Park
Am would have expected him to have gone out with more of a splash.
Sometimes you get a feel for guests through their hotel bills, but two days of charges didn’t tell Am all that much about
Tim Kelly. Besides, sometimes hotel bills deceived more than enlightened. When people escaped from their routines, they frequently
allowed themselves freedoms they wouldn’t indulge in on their home turf. They watched an adult film, or drank too much, or
took a nocturnal swim without clothes. “Guests,” said one of Am’s former GMs, “act like Mormons out of town.” Not that religion
had anything to do with it. Just human nature.
Tiring of looking at the bill, Am accessed the guest history data base and entered Kelly’s name. This visit hadn’t been Kelly’s
first. He had stayed at the Hotel the two previous years, both times with the Contractors Association annual convention. Curious,
Am called up the group history. Hotels were getting to the point where they could almost crank out their own TRW credit reports.
At the Hotel, group expenditures were tracked more faithfully than baseball scouts analyzing batting averages, and group bookings
were prioritized by their spending habits. The Contractors Association was evidently “A” team material. They liked to spend
money.
Let me count the ways, thought Am. He scrolled through the file, paying close attention to both individual and group requests.
Everything was documented, from room setups to banquet menus. High rollers are catered to, and the guest rooming assignments
had been prepared carefully rather than slotted in the usual block of rooms. As a repeat group, many of the conventioneers
had known what they wanted and hadn’t been shy about making those desires known. The usual litany of requests were indicated,
from bed size to location to type of accommodation, with the usual petitions for everything from feather pillows to special
lighting. Kelly hadn’t been among those with requests.
Had he known he was going to commit suicide when he’d checked in? Am started speculating, then chastised himself mentally.
It was a moot point, not to mention a waste of time. Maybe Kendrick was right, as much as that possibility hurt him. Maybe
he could best serve the dead by “ah-sisting” to the bereaved, sending those all-important fruit baskets. Condolence calls
on behalf of the Hotel were also in order. Sighing, Am assembled a list of people who should be contacted. John Leonard, the
Contractors Association group leader, was his first call.
“I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Leonard,” said Am. “My name’s Am Caulfield and I’m the assistant general manager here. On behalf
of the Hotel, I’m calling to express our deepest sympathies.”
Am’s attempt at sorrowful sorries didn’t get very far. “I really didn’t know Tim very well,” Leonard said.
And by the tone of his voice, Am didn’t think Leonard was going to be starting a retrospective any time soon.
“Well,” said Am, “might the Hotel be of any assistance to your group at this difficult time?”
Leonard thought a few moments before answering. To Am, that wasn’t a good sign. “Steve Daniels is the one you should talk
to,” he finally said. “Steve’s in five twenty-two. He was a friend of Tim’s, so he’s pretty much handling everything.”
Daniels’s line was busy, which was excuse enough for Am to walk up to his room. A small man who looked like a depressed version
of Harpo Marx answered his knock. Am barely got the chance to utter a few platitudes before the guest swept him into his room.
Maybe it was the face-to-face, or maybe Daniels just needed someone to talk to. “I still can’t believe it,” he said. “Tim’s
the last guy I would have figured for this.”
Am sat down on the sofa and let Daniels talk. He heard that Kelly had walked out on a good life. The deceased had run a successful
development company in Menlo Park