Night Fall

My radio was picking up Co

The fat lady was singing “Parigi, o cara” as I pulled into the guest registration space. I waited for her to finish and drop dead, which she did, and I shut off the engine and went into the hotel.

It was past Labor Day, and the lobby was quiet at this weekday hour. The bar doors were closed, which was a disappointment.

Peter, my favorite desk clerk, was on duty, so I skipped the formalities and said to him, “I need to speak to Mr. Rosenthal.”

He looked at his watch, the way people do when they want to emphasize some silly point about the time, and said, “Sir, it’s nearly one o’clock in the morning.”

“Do you know what time it is in Yemen? I’ll tell you. It’s eightA.M. Time for work. Give him a call.”

“But… is this urgent?”

“Why am I here? Give him a call.”

“Yes, sir.” He picked up the phone and dialed Leslie Rosenthal.

I asked Peter, “Do you have the keys to the basement?”

“No, sir. Only Mr. Rosenthal.” Someone answered the phone on the other end, and Peter said, “Mr. Rosenthal? I’m very sorry to disturb you at this hour- No, nothing wrong-but Mr…”

“Corey.”

“Mr. Corey from the FBI is here again, and he’d like to speak to- Yes, sir. I think he knows what time it is.”

I said helpfully, “It’s five minutes after one. Give me the phone.”

I took the phone from Peter and said to Mr. Rosenthal, “I really do apologize for calling you at this hour, but something urgent has come up.”

Mr. Rosenthal replied with a mixture of grogginess and controlled a

“I need to see the archives. Please bring your keys.”

There was silence, then he said, “Can’t this wait until morning?”

“I’m afraid not.” To put his mind at ease, I said, “This has nothing to do with illegal immigrant workers.”

There was another silence, then he said, “All right… I’m about twenty minutes from the hotel… I have to get dressed…”

I said, “I appreciate your continued cooperation.” I hung up and said to Peter, “I could use a Coke.”

He replied, “I can get you one from the bar.”

“Thank you. Put a shot of Scotch in that and hold the Coke.”

“Sir?”

“Dewar’s, straight up.”

“Yes, sir.”

He unlocked the doors to the bar and disappeared inside.

I went over to the doors that led to the library and peeked through the paned glass. It was dark in there, and I couldn’t see much.

Peter returned with a short glass of Scotch on a tray. I took it and said, “Put it on my room tab.”

He asked, “Are you staying with us this evening?”

“That’s the plan. Room 203.”

He went behind his desk, played with his computer, and said, “You’re in luck. It’s not occupied.”

Peter wasn’t getting it, and I informed him,“You’re in luck. You don’t have to kick anyone out.”

“Yes, sir.”

I swirled the Scotch and sipped it. After a nearly dry month, it tasted like iodine. Is this what this stuff actually tasted like? I set it down on an end table and asked Peter, “How long have you been working here?”

“This is my second year.”

“Do you loan videotapes from the library?”

“No, sir. There are no VCRs in the rooms.”

“Were you here when the hotel had videotapes in the library?”

“No, sir.”

“Okay, how do you loan books to guests?”

“The guest chooses a book and signs for it.”

“Let’s take a look.” I motioned to the library, and Peter took his passkeys, opened the double doors, and turned on the lights.

It was a big, mahogany-paneled room lined with bookshelves, decorated as a sitting room.

In the far left corner was a long desk with a telephone, cash register, and computer, and behind the desk was a glass cabinet filled with sundries. To the right of the desk was a newspaper and magazine rack, all typical of a small hotel with limited space for services.

The lobby entrance seemed to be the only way in or out of the room, unless you went through a window.

If I understood Marie Gubitosi correctly, the desk clerk, Christopher Brock, did not see Don Juan again after he checked in. But maybe his lady was in here to buy a newspaper or a sundry item, or specifically to borrow a book or videotape to pass the time before hitting the beach for some romance under the stars.

I should have paid more attention to this room when I was here the last time. But even great detectives can’t think of everything on the first go-around.

I asked him, “How do guests sign for a book?”

“In a receipt book.”

“Which you keep behind your desk.”

“Yes, so books can be returned at any hour.”

“Let’s see the receipt book.”

We went back into the lobby, and Peter retrieved the book from behind his desk, and I retrieved my Scotch.

I asked Peter, “Do you keep these books after they’re filled up?”

“I believe we do.” He added, “Mr. Rosenthal keeps all records for seven years. Sometimes longer.”

“Good policy.” I opened the receipt book, and it looked the same as Roxa

I looked at an entry at random, which read, “August 22, Received, ‘Gold Coast,’” followed by a barely legible signature, and a room number, in this case, 105. A handwritten notation said, “Returned.”

I asked Peter, “Does the guest need to show identification?”

“Not usually. For any room charge, bar, restaurant, and so forth, if your name and the room number you give matches what’s in the computer, that’s sufficient.” He informed me, “Standard practice in most good hotels.”

“Okay…” Having lived in a bad hotel for the last six weeks, I wouldn’t know. I thought of Don Juan’s lady, who might not even know what name he’d checked in under. I asked Peter, “Let’s say it doesn’t match.”

“Well, sometimes it doesn’t because a second person in the room may not have the same last name as the registered guest. Then, usually the showing of a room key is sufficient, or just the name of the guest to whom the room is registered.”

“Okay, if I forgot my room key, and I can’t even remember the name of the person I’m sleeping with, would you let me sign out a book?”

This was Peter’s chance for revenge, and he looked at me closely and said, “No.”

I flipped through the receipt book, but I didn’t see any information on the guests, other than a signature and the room number. Now and then, there was a second name written on the receipt, which I assumed, as per Peter, was the name of the registered guest, which was not the same as the book borrower.

I asked Peter, “Since my last visit, has anyone from the FBI come here?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Okay, let’s check me into Room 203.”

Peter did what he does best, and within five minutes, I was checked into Room 203 using my American Express card, which hadn’t gotten much of a workout in Yemen. The post-season price had dropped to a hundred and fifty bucks, which was cheap if I hit pay dirt here, and a paper trail for the OPR if I didn’t.

Mr. Rosenthal was taking his sweet time, and I, being a man of both action and extreme impatience, considered kicking down a few doors, just like in the movies. But that might upset Peter.

I sat in a wing chair in the lobby and waited for Mr. Rosenthal, who had the key to the archives, and possibly the golden key that opened the door to the short path through the bullshit.