Free The Fat Innkeeper by Alan Russell

tail. Wallace Talbot was out for a walk with
     his black cocker spaniel Cinder. For more than half a century Wallace had lived at the Hotel. He acted like a character out
     of the silent films, was famous for his courtly gestures and fanciful ways. Wallace was wearing a colorful ascot, a French
     beret, and a white poplin suit. On another man the clothes might have looked foppish, but it was an outfit Wallace wore well.
    Between man and dog, and trying to avoid being tripped up by the leash, was an attentive woman Am assumed was an artist. More
     and more painters were now seeking Wallace out. He must be gratified, thought Am, that his art was finally being recognized
     on a national, if not international, level. Most of Wallace’s canvases featured the vistas of the La Jolla Strand. He had
     done more than a thousand paintings of the area, but the octogenarian claimed he had “barely scratched the surface of its
     possibilities.” Am hoped a dead whale wasn’t going to emerge from his brush anytime soon.
    Am worked his way forward to say hello. As he drew nearer, he began to reevaluate his assumption that the woman was an artist.
     The sketchpad and brush he had thought she was holding turned out to be a pen and memo book. A purse was hanging from one
     shoulder, and a small tape recorder from the other.
    Reporter, Am thought. Probably doing a story on Wallace Talbot. But on the odd chance she wasn’t…
    Am started to turn away, but Wallace espied him. “Holden,” he yelled. “Don’t be shy.” To make sure of his capture, Wallace
     released Cinder. She went to Am straightaway, trained by the many treats he had brought her over the years. Even though his
     hands were empty, she was still glad to see him. She settled her head between his fingers, confident of a good scratching.
    With his usual theatrical air, Wallace motioned with his arms in grand sweeps while making introductions. “Holden Caulfield,”
     he said, “also known by the enigmatic first name of Am, I’d like you to meet Marisa Donnelly.”
    Am was used to Wallace calling him Holden, after
The Catcher in the Rye’s
Holden Caulfield. Salinger’s character had obviously impressed Wallace, for he always gave the name special emphasis, as
     if it were a title. As far as Am was concerned, it was significantly better than
Urechis caupo.
    “Pleased to meet you,” said Am, shaking her hand. Marisa was not the kind of woman Am usually ran away from. She was about
     thirty, had a smooth olive complexion, raven hair, and large green eyes. Her eyebrows were dark and thick, her hair long and
     slightly wavy. Marisa’s white and shapely teeth, set off by rose gums, should have been used to promote some toothpaste, that,
     or her all-too-brief smile could have been the basis for a lot of UN accords.
    “Holden is the Hotel’s glue,” explained Wallace. “Every great hotel needs its magic, and Holden is the magician that makes
     everything right.”
    “Security director,” said Marisa, reading his name tag.
    “Catcher in the rye,” announced Wallace.
    “Formerly assistant general manager of the Hotel,” explained Am, “but currently assigned to the safety and security department.”
     It wasn’t that Am felt he had to apologize for his job, or at least not exactly. But some people assume you are what you work.
    “Marisa is a reporter with the
Union-Tribune,”
said Wallace.
    “Formerly an editor at Harcourt Brace Jovanovich,” she said.
    Am felt better. He wasn’t the only one explaining.
    “She’s out here doing a story on our unexpected visitor,” explained Wallace.
    “Actually,” she said, “I’m here on two stories. Since I was already at the Hotel covering the UNDER convention, I was told
     to write a sidebar piece on the whale.”
    For a moment, Am almost asked her if she had written the story on Dr. Kingsbury’s death. He had assumed that most of the information
     had come from the obituary on file. You know you’ve made it, he