Chapter One
It was five minutes until midnight and I was facing the prospect of another bar and another witching hour. I took a few deep breaths and hoped that my heavy breathing would energize me. It was time to work, time to be the human sponge.
I was staying at the Blue Crab Inn along the Miles River in Maryland’s Chesapeake Bay. The resort featured two restaurants and one bar. I was shopping the property, a euphemism for spying. My job was to offer management my impressions and suggestions. I was the anonymous guest, the fly on the wall, and sometimes the fly in the ointment.
The Jimmy Sooks Lounge overlooks the Miles River. Male blue crabs are called Jimmies, and the females are referred to as Sooks, thus the name of the bar. I knew the lay of the land, having audited the Blue Crab Inn three times in the past year. It was a good account, meaning they were happy with my work and they paid promptly. Five years ago I started my company, The Last Resort. At the time, the company name might have been a personal confession as well. The work is mostly corporate undercover. The company stationery lists my Maryland private investigator’s license number, but that’s strictly for show. When pressed by strangers as to my profession, I always say, “I am a hospitality consultant.” That’s the same answer hookers usually give.
Another deep breath. Of late, it was the only kind of heavy breathing going on in my life. It was show time. I walked into the bar and registered my impressions with one look at the room.
Jimmy Sooks Lounge less than a third full. One bartender, one cocktail waitress on duty. ESPN on television. Muzak in background. Overall, lounge appears to be clean and kept up, though some debris under the table closest to hallway is clearly visible to anyone entering the room.
There were three seats available at the bar. In less than a second I decided on the best place to sit, a spot that afforded me a direct view to the register and the point of sales printer. As I made my way to the counter, I gave off the impression of being just another business sort out to finish my work day with a nightcap. I was wearing my Invisible Man outfit, a blue blazer, gray slacks, and a loosened red paisley tie.
Condiment tray needs attention. Fruit flies hovering over limes and cherries. Some swizzle sticks on counter. Toothpicks and a bar napkin on floor. Liquor display in disarray. Bottles not arranged neatly, some of the labels not facing forward. One patron with an empty glass. Bartender One slouching against back counter talking with what appears to be a friend, a white male, approximately twenty-five, with short, curly black hair, earring.
I took a seat, and casually craned my neck around for a look-see. There was a mirror stretching along the bar wall that would offer me the eyes that some people swore were in the back of my head.
Cobwebs in southeast corner of bar. Nautical memorabilia also needs attention from housekeeping. Dust on anchor and dip net displays. Cellophane wrappers and other debris visible on crab traps hanging on wall. Eleven patrons in lounge. Four at counter; Earring Man; Empty Glass who’s an older white male; and Lovey-Dovey Couple, both white, she blond hair, him brown. In the lounge are three businessmen at a table, all clean shaven, two white, one black; white male in corner; a Hispanic couple in the back booth closest to hallway; a white female in booth closest to wall.
With my peripheral vision I took in the unhurried approach of the bartender. He stood in front of me and said, “What can I get you?”
No opening pleasantries, no smile. Management needs to coach staff on proper method of approaching a guest. Bartender One is Todd, a white male, six feet tall, two hundred pounds, wearing a uniform and name tag. He has short brown hair, a mustache, and a tattoo of a bull dog on left wrist.
“Vodka and tonic. Light on the ice. And a water back, please.”
“You got it.”
Bartender One makes no attempt to upgrade drink order. House vodka is Smirnoff. Judging by call bottles, he could simply have asked, “Stolichnaya?” Or, “Skyy?” Or, better yet, “Do you have a preference of vodka?” Bartender One uses glass to get ice instead of using ice scoop. If glass breaks in ice it is a potential hazard. Recommend that all bartenders be required to use ice scoop. He free pours the drink. Five count pour. Recommend to management that bartenders use shot glass and splash for a consistent pour. Lime garnish placed in drink.
The bartender returned with the two drinks, placed the napkins down on the counter and put the glasses atop them.
“That will be four seventy-five.”
No offer to run a tab. No inquiry as to whether I am a guest in the hotel. Lost opportunity for personalization of service. Management should encourage Bartender One to start a tab as it facilitates more drink orders.
I removed a twenty dollar bill from my wallet. When performing an audit, you always pay cash at the bar so as to see if the staff is following what bean counters call cash control procedures. One of my jobs is to bloodhound the path of the money. Since time immemorial publicans have worried about ducats safely landing in the till instead of in an employee’s pocket.
Bartender One immediately retrieves tendered twenty dollar bill. Money picked up without acknowledgment of appreciation. Management should stress that all servers thank guests upon payment.
I don’t particularly care for vodka, but I always make a point of ordering a clear drink because it’s easy to look through. Raising my drink, I pretended to take a long sip. What I was really doing was peering through the looking glass. As the bartender approached the register, the tingle in my neck clued me to what was going to happen a moment before it did. Maybe it was the bartender’s momentary pause at the cash register, or it could have been the surreptitious tilt of his head followed by the almost imperceptible look to the right, and then to his left. I always wondered if my foreknowledge was the result of physical giveaways, or if I was sensitized to some unseen vibration. It was the kind of thing I never probed too closely for fear of losing the magic.
At 11:58 Bartender One hits the No Sale key on the register. He puts the twenty dollar bill into the till, acts as if he’s depositing money for the drink, but actually removes twenty dollars in change. In his hand he palms a five dollar bill.
The bartender returned with my change, muttered, “Thank you,” then walked off.
No receipt offered for obvious reasons. Management might consider having bartenders dispense receipts with all drinks. Fifteen dollars and twenty-five cents in change returned to me at 11:59.
I tracked the bartender’s movements. He stopped as if to tidy up some glasses on the back counter, but his subterfuge was obvious.
At 11:59:45 Bartender One slips five dollar bill into tip jar.
There was a small sense of letdown. Part of the anticlimax was this feeling of having witnessed too many venal sins in my thirty-five years. There was also this sense that the last act had already been played out, but that my job as critic required me to watch the rest of an overly long scene. Management and ownership would feel cheated if I didn’t stay in the bar for at least an hour. They always liked the details and comments in my reports. I was living proof of the devil in the details.
Though the kitchen is still open, Bartender One makes no attempt to sell appetizers and food. Management needs to stress that all lounge staff make this offer to patrons.
Epitaph on my tombstone, I thought: Do you want fries with that order?
Only one table tent with bar menu visible at counter. Management should coordinate with bartenders re table tents to make sure an adequate number are on display.
From the corner of my eye, I watched Empty Glass signal for a refill. The bartender, looking almost directly at the man, missed his gesture. Obliviousness in serving staff always reminded me of David McCord’s summation of a waiter’s being called to heaven: By and by, God caught his eye.
“I’m ready for another one,” I heard the man say.
At midnight, Bartender One manufactures drink for Empty Glass. He dispenses five count of Dewars and splash of soda. Drink rung up and placed on existing tab.
I took another sip of my drink and heard the printout from the point of sales register. Without any hurry the bartender tore off the order from the printer, read it, and then started to make the drink.
There was several point of sale terminals situated around the lounge where the cocktail servers could punch in orders. The system was designed to allow expediency of serving. It was a big lounge, and the set-up allowed servers to stay on the floor instead of having to walk to the bar to turn in orders. P.O.S. systems are designed to prevent confusion and collusion between bartender and cocktail server. The drinks are specified on the order ticket going into the bar terminal. This prevents accidental and purposeful mistakes. By eliminating the “calling” of orders, management tries to control the flow of drinks into the lounge, as well as discourage the potential teaming up of bartender and server in their own side business.
I looked up at the television, pretended interest in the news story about the hotly contested presidential primaries, and then gradually let my eyes wander through the lounge. The cocktail server was chatting with the group of three businessmen. Though they were about fifteen feet away from me, I was able to tune in to some of their conversation. I also made out the writing on the server’s name tag. One girlfriend I used to take on audits said I had the eyes of an eagle, and ears of a beagle. She sometimes also added that I had the soul of a frog, to which I would say that my amphibian makeover was merely awaiting the kiss of some princess to transform me to my true regal self. That same girlfriend eventually broke up with me over an argument about my business, or at least that was the final culmination of other arguments. She said that she was tired of being my shill, tired of acting out her small role. I said to her, “There are no small roles, only small actors.” I remember she gave me a last pitying glance, and then took her leave from my life. So much for getting the last word in.
Cocktail Server One is Mercedes, five foot two inches, one hundred ten pounds, Hispanic female.
I picked up my drink, swiveled a little on the bar stool, raised my glass and did my sneak-peeking and sipping.
Cocktail Server One appears friendly and interacts well with guests but needs to police her station better. Several straws and bar napkins on floor. At least half a dozen empty glasses on tables that need bussing.
My head never moved, only the eyes over my glass. It was my alligator impression. Like the reptile, I tried to disappear save for my peering eyes atop the water. My view of the swamp suddenly got a little interesting. Two heads went on alert at the same time. The heads belonged to the two singles in the lounge, the woman in the booth and the man along the far wall. I used the bar mirror to see what had perked their interest and saw a man entering the room. The new arrival paused to study the interior of Jimmy Sooks. The man who was seated gestured almost imperceptibly with his head in the direction of the woman in the booth. The signal was immediately understood. The newcomer made eye contact with the woman, and then started walking towards her. Instead of watching what was going on, the man who signaled made a point of looking the other way, suddenly absorbed in the river view.
My neck felt like it was holding auditions for flamenco dancers. Something was going on, but I didn’t know what. Through the bar mirror I studied the man as he made his way through the lounge. He presented himself as looking about forty, standing six foot two, and weighing around two hundred and twenty-five pounds. The man had short dark hair, and behind horn-rimmed glasses were dark brown eyes. In this case, looks were deceiving. The wig was the first giveaway. It was very good, but I had several that were better. I suspected that the glasses he was wearing were as unnecessary as his tinted contacts. There was padding going on inside his high collared leather coat, and lifts in his shoes. The man was smaller, lighter, and older than he actually appeared. Because my work often requires me to change my own appearance, I can spot a toupee at a hundred yards. What wasn’t obvious was why the man was altering his appearance. This was Maryland, not Hollywood.
The man’s posture was erect, and there was a little swagger to his walk. Definitely a military background, I thought. He had an officer’s kind of bearing, wearing his authority and power like others would a vestment. Back in my spit shine days my cronies and I had referred to his type as Major Dick.
I shifted in my seat, raised up my water glass disguise, and took a moment to study her. White female, dark shoulder length hair, medium build, about thirty years of age. That would have been my description in a report. In my own mind though, I was adding a lot more adjectives, with that list starting at the word beautiful. Though she was seated, I could see she had a long torso, and would be on the tall side. Her clothes were understated, a silk blouse and cashmere sweater, but looked tailored to her frame. She had bags under her eyes, and her face was pale, but instead of detracting from her looks that added a further allure to her clear blue eyes. Judging by the twisted remains of several straws, her wait had been a nervous one. Though it was apparent she didn’t know the approaching man, it was also clear that she was expecting him.
My ears were straining to hear their introductions. Beagle power. “Claire?” the Major asked, extending his hand. She reached for it, and then moved further into the booth so that he could take a seat next to her.
At 12:03:30 Cocktail Server One approaches booth and takes drink order from couple.
I couldn’t hear the order, and the interaction was brief. Claire and her new friend were already having an intense, quiet discussion.
At 12:04 Cocktail Server One places drink order on point of sale terminal.
I watched the printout appear at the bar printer. Bartender One reluctantly stopped talking with Earring Man and ripped off the order slip.
At 12:05 Bartender One manufactures a Cuba Libre with a four count pour of Bacardi Rum, a splash of lime juice, and cola dispensed from the gun. He pulls a bottle of Budweiser from the cooler, and places it along with a chilled beer glass and the Cuba Libre on the server’s station counter. Cocktail Server One picks up order and delivers it to booth at 12:06. Customer declines offer to run a tab, and shakes off server’s offer to pour the beer into the glass. He pays with a ten dollar bill.
By the Major’s body language, it was evident he told the cocktail server to keep the change. I watched him grip the neck of his beer bottle with a napkin, then tilt it and take a conservative swallow. Some people use napkins with their drinks because they don’t like getting their hands wet. Some people also extend their pinkies when holding a glass and drinking. He didn’t strike me as the kind of person to do either of those things. It crossed my mind that he didn’t want his fingerprints left on the bottle.
His eyes shifted from hers, and he took a moment to sweep the room with a glance. I quickly dipped my nose into my V&T, preventing him from catching me doing my mirror peeping.
After a few seconds passed I shifted in my seat and casually craned my neck. Major Dick’s partner appeared to be studiously ignoring the couple, but I could tell he was playing my game and using the window to watch their reflection. The man’s face was averted from me, and he was wearing a black overcoat with the collar up, but I had taken notice of him earlier. He had the tight facial structure and coloring of a William Defoe or Christopher Walken, and like the actors his blue eyes seemed to have an unblinking quality. His eye sockets barely seemed to contain those eyes, much like those of a pug or Boston terrier.
I sipped from my drink, and went back to my mirror viewing. The Major was holding what appeared to be pictures, and leaned close to Claire for her to see. One of the pictures slid out of his hand and over the edge of the table to the floor. Claire went to retrieve the photo, putting her head under the table to look for it.
The Major did his own leaning as well, dropping something into her drink. I was pretty sure it wasn’t an Alka-Seltzer.
She resurfaced with the picture, put it back on the table, and then picked up her drink. I swallowed my shout of warning, and she swallowed her drink. It wasn’t a case of my being unsure about him doctoring her drink, but more that I was still trying to figure out what was going on.
I knew the logical thing to do was call the police. Maybe these two jokers worked as a team. They could be into something ugly like date rape, which would explain Major Dick’s disguise, and his putting something into her drink, but that didn’t explain the serious conversation taking place between them, nor the pictures they were scrutinizing. This wasn’t some classified ad date. The missing puzzle pieces kept me seated and quiet. I have always been a better observer than thinker, so that’s what I did. If I was hoping for some grand revelation to emerge from my watching, it didn’t happen. Her wooziness came on a lot faster than any of my insights. Five minutes after first sipping her adulterated drink she began to react to its effects. Claire’s hand went up to her forehead and she wiped her now wet brow. I watched the Major reach across and lightly touch her arm with a solicitous gesture. His false benevolence decided things for me. It was time to make that call.
Because I don’t like to be disturbed while I do my spotting, I had left my flip phone in the hotel room. There was a pay phone in the lobby, though. I tossed a dollar on the counter - come tomorrow, the bartender would likely need it - but then stayed my departure. The Major was a fast worker. Through the mirror I could see him helping Claire to her feet. “A little air,” I heard him say, “will do you some good.”
My hesitating had put her in a bad spot. There wouldn’t be time to call the cops. Arm in arm, the two of them began to make their way out of the lounge. I raised my glass, sipping and surreptitiously watching the second man, Mr. Pug eyes. He was clearly interested in the departing couple, but he made no move to follow them. I waited until the Major and Claire were out of the Jimmy Sooks before getting up.
The Blue Crab Inn and its more than two hundred rooms are spread out over three acres. The resort sports plenty of foliage and garden areas, secluded spots with koi pools and little waterfalls. The lush landscaping is part of the property’s ambiance. For those unfamiliar with the term, ambiance means a minimum of two hundred dollars a night.
The Major seemed to know where he was going. South of the lounge was a garden area with large rectangular planters set in a maze-like grid. They were navigating through those planters, and her legs were looking more and more unsteady. I might have been imagining it, but it looked as if she was trying to put on the brakes.
“Claire!” I yelled. “Is that really you?”
Their three-legged race came to an abrupt halt. Though the light wasn’t very good, I could still make out the baleful expression on the Major’s face. Medusa probably gave off more welcoming looks. I pretended not to notice and approached the woman with open arms.
“What are you doing here?” I said, sweeping her into a hug.
The Major had to reluctantly relinquish his grip on her. It was a good thing he was looking at me and not her, because drugged or not, it was clear Claire had no idea who I was. Still, she didn’t seem too anxious to leave my arms. I gave her a wink and a smile and she appeared to make the quick decision that I was all right, or at least the lesser of two evils.
“Claire isn’t feeling well,” the Major said. He stepped towards us, ready to reclaim his prize.
With concerned voice and look I said, “You’re not?” Then I moved her like I would a dance partner just out of the Major’s reach.
“Sit down,” I told her, “and let me look at you.” To him I announced, “I am a doctor.”
Had my mother been alive she would have been very happy to hear that. For most of her too short adult life she was an R.N., and when my brother and I were young she never discouraged us from dissecting snails or performing so-called heart transplants on grasshoppers that we diagnosed with bad tickers. Mother made us draw the line at mammals, though I once bandaged up the family dog for what I declared to be a case of phlebitis.
“The boys will be doctors,” my mother often said. It was wishful thinking on her part, of course. The longstanding Travis tradition was to produce males that became warriors. I was named after William Barret Travis, who became famous for his command at the Alamo. Lost in the fine print is the fact that he was one of the first to die there. Dying for country is also a Travis tradition. The family motto is “Nec temere nec timide,” which translates to, “Neither afraid nor timid.” I have always been convinced the family edited out the last line of the motto, which probably reads, “And not very bright, so perfect for the army.”
I steered Claire to the rear of a planter, sat her down, and then kneeled down myself. Claire looked hazy, but wasn’t so out of it that she didn’t realize her situation had taken a turn for the worse and I was there to help. She gave me a slight nod showing me her willingness to play along.
Exit sign twenty feet off. Stairway leads to subterranean garage. Elevator at least thirty yards away. No one in spa. No one in sight.
The Major moved to my side, his shadow lurking over me. I tried to remember what a doctor would do, recalling the few times I had undergone physicals. I felt under Claire’s neck, took her pulse, and then examined her eyes. I stopped myself before asking her to look to the right and cough.
“Track my finger with your eyes,” I said. The Major didn’t need to be told to do the same. His eyes were burning a hole in my head. In my mind’s eye I recollected other visits to the property.
Fire alarms located at every fifteenth room. Nearest one about a dozen strides away. The only security cameras are located in the lobby.
“Are you taking any medication, Claire?”
She shook her head.
“Your pulse is very slow,” I said, “and your pupils aren’t as responsive as they should be.”
“She had some drinks,” the Major said. “You’ll have to excuse us now. We have some very important business to take care of.”
Staying low, I turned my head halfway towards the Major. With Caducean contempt I sniffed, “I am afraid not. Claire clearly needs medical attention. Observe her labored breathing and her sallow complexion. She could be undergoing toxic shock, or having a severe allergic reaction. Did you eat any shellfish, Claire?”
“No.”
For all my pronouncements, I was observing the Major more closely than I was my patient. I caught him scanning the garden area. It appeared he was expecting company.
“I have a medical bag in my room,” I told him. “If you don’t mind, I would like you to go get it.”
The key-cards weren’t designated by room number. I was planning on sending him to a distant room that wasn’t my own, but his answer made me think my doctor act might not have been as convincing as I thought.
“Why don’t we wait another minute?” he said. “The night air might revive her.”
He did his talking while looking over my head. I followed the direction of his gaze. He was buying time for reinforcements.
Part of my mind was still in auditing mode: Suggest more lighting along interior gardens of hotel. Inadequate illumination poses potential hazards to guests.
Not to mention spotters.
“Better put on my coat, Claire,” I said.
As I draped my blazer over her I removed my fountain pen from an interior pocket. It wasn’t much of a weapon, but it might offer an element of surprise.
“I’m feeling nauseated,” she said. “Can you pass me my handbag? I would like to get a tissue.”
I reached for her bag and hefted it up. It was heavy, and felt as if she was hauling the proverbial kitchen sink. She dipped her hand inside and started rummaging around. The coat began to slide off her shoulders and I reached up and draped it over her again. I thought I saw movement behind the planter to my right, and then heard the soft shuffle of feet. The Major apparently didn’t hear the footfalls, but he did perk up at a second sound. There was the unmistakable metallic click of a bullet being chambered. I wondered what the hell I had gotten myself into.
My hands were on Claire’s arms and I could feel her trembling. I wasn’t sure if it was from the chill in the air or the realization of our situation. The Major decided it was a good time to edge away from us. That’s what people do when they are afraid of being in the line of fire. If he was thinking that way, I needed to be as well. He moved back one step, and then another. When I saw him signal with a nod of his head, I shoved Claire to the ground and made my lunge. I did it all in one motion and had the Major twisted around in a bear hug when the shots went off. A cap gun would have made more noise, but the small gun with its silencer was real enough. After a few moments, the Major stopped struggling in my arms.
The shooter was the second man from the bar, the one I thought of as Pug. Either he didn’t know what had happened, or he wasn’t deterred by his errant marksmanship. He continued to advance while I was forced to dance with a dead man. The shooter looked all too calm, all too sure of himself, and the gun rested too easily in his upraised arm. His unblinking eyes bore into me.
The sudden blast seemed to go off right in my ear, and it surprised me as much as it did him. I turned my head and saw that Claire had evidently found a gun along with her tissue. The gun clattered to the ground as her hands were pushed back by the recoil. It was clear she wasn’t familiar with firearms, but the shooter didn’t know that. He dove for cover behind a planter, and I took that opportunity to drop the Major and sprint in a zigzag direction toward the hotel rooms. The fire alarm was where I had pictured it in my mind, and I broke the protective seal and yanked on it. From my perspective, there was a long stretch of silence, though it probably didn’t last for more than a second. I was sure my back was probably already in the shooter’s sights. During that eternity, I thought my last will and testament was going to be a final critique.
Part of management’s hotel safety and security program should have involved fire alarm testing. Because the goddamn alarms didn’t work, I died.
But then the clanging started. There was nothing timid about the alarms. From seemingly every corner of the hotel there was ringing. No one was going to ignore or sleep through the noise. Almost at once, windows and doors began to open.
Across the garden a figure fled. I ran back to see how Claire was doing. The gun she was holding looked like a cannon. She somehow fitted it back into her handbag. No wonder the damn thing had felt so heavy.
“I’ll call the police,” I said. My voice didn’t sound like my own. It was high-pitched, and my throat was so dry I almost had to peel the words off my tongue.
She shook her head. “We have to get away from here. It’s too dangerous to stay.”
I considered her words, but still didn’t move. In my business I am used to a lot of things happening at once, but this wasn’t a case of a bartender handing out free drinks, or a cook taking a side of beef out the back door. There was a dead man a few feet away from me. Just to be sure of that fact, I went and played doctor again, kneeling by the Major’s side and feeling for a pulse. There wasn’t one.
“We can’t linger,” Claire said. “They’ll be coming back. This was all a trap. They want me dead.”
The alarms were still going off, but now it seemed as if most of them were inside my head. Combined with my pounding heart, that made for quite a chorus. “Why?”
“It’s a long story. I’ll tell you it once we get away from here. I would drive myself, but I don’t think I am in any condition to drive. Do you have a car?”
“I had a valet park it.” Part of every hotel audit is to interact with as many employees as possible. I had left several marked bills in the change drawer of my car as an honesty check.
“Let’s take my car then. We have to go now.”
Her voice had taken on an unmistakable urgency. More and more people were milling about outside their rooms. No one had noticed the body yet, but soon they would.
Still, I didn’t move. Once upon a time I had prepared for battle, but no one had ever shot real bullets my way. This wasn’t the baptism of fire I had expected. Hell, I didn’t even know what battle I had joined, or what I was fighting for or against.
“Please,” Claire said.
I have always been a sucker for good manners. “We can get to the garage this way,” I said.
She followed me to the stairwell and we started down the steps. Claire was leaning heavily against me, her adrenaline having run its course and her doctored drink kicking in.
Even with all that had happened, I was still in the eyes wide open zone. Sometimes I am convinced that my ability to observe and remember things is more curse than blessing. It is neither total recall nor eidetic memory, but it is the kind of retention that some people find freaky which is why I never pass myself off as being some kind of savant, except maybe the idiot kind.
One of the lights is out on the southeast stairwell. Cigarette butts on garage landing. Trim in need of paint.
I thought about how I was going to write up the bar audit. It promised to be one hell of a report.
........
.gif){kind=logo}
