golfing sweater. His shirt was open two buttons on the top. It went oddly with his square face and bristly gray hair. When he saw Masuto and Beckman enter, he jumped up to greet them.
“Anything I can do for you boys?”
“You didn’t find the clothes?” Masuto asked.
“No, sir, Masao. I turned this place inside out. You know, you’re the second party asked me that today. The Fed was here, bright and early this morning.”
“Arvin Clinton, the F.B.I, man?”
“Him and a buddy.”
“What did they want?”
“They asked me a few questions, same stuff about yesterday, and then they wanted to see the pool. So I took them down to the pool, and they stood there looking at it for about five minutes. Then they wanted to know what part of the pool the fat man was in. So I showed them. Then you know what they tell me, Masao?”
Masuto and Beckman exchanged glances.
“Tell us.”
“They tell me the fat man drowned. I know he drowned, I say to them. So they say to me, no, Mr. Comstock. The word’s around that he was murdered. That’s dangerous talk. That’s the kind of talk that makes a lot of trouble. You’re a decent patriotic American, and you don’t want to get involved in that kind of trouble. So you just remember that this is an accidental drowning. The fat man falls in the pool and he drowns.”
“And then?”
“And then they take off. The funny thing is, I been reading the L.A.
Masuto nodded. “I guess that’s the way it is, Fred. Tell me something, do you know of any hotel employee who didn’t show up for work yesterday or today?”
“Jesus Christ, Masao, there got to be maybe a hundred people work in the hotel, with the gardeners and the restaurants and the chambermaids. There ain’t no day when one of them don’t show up.”
“Who runs the bellhops?”
“Artie. That’s the big black guy over there.”
They walked over to the tall black man, who nodded and said, “I know you, Sergeant. What can I do for you?”
“How many men work for you?”
“I got four good boys.”
“Any of them call in sick yesterday or today?”
“No, sir. They are all on the job.”
“I’ll try the Rugby Room,” Masuto said to Beckman. “You go downstairs and do the laundry.”
The Rugby Room and the open lanai that was the outdoor connecting part of it was sparsely populated by the last of the late breakfasters. It was still too early for lunch. It was a warm, lovely June day, and the doors to the lanai were wide open, revealing the wrought-iron tables and the pink tablecloths. As Masuto stood there, studying the place, he was approached by Fritz, the maitre d’hotel.
“Sergeant Masuto, is it breakfast? As our guest, please.”
“I had breakfast. How many people work in your room, Fritz?”
“Bartenders, waiters, waitresses, busboys, the kitchen help-all of them?”
“Yes.”
“Forty-two, I think. We overlap because we are open sixteen hours a day.”
“Fritz, I’m interested in someone who didn’t turn up for work yesterday and today.”
“That’s every day, Sergeant. If not for goldbricking, I could get by with five people less.”
“I’m interested in yesterday and today.”
“There’s Johnny at the bar. He was out yesterday, but he came in today. Ah-let’s see. There is a kid we take on for busboy, maybe a week ago. Look, Sergeant, I don’t want no trouble about this. It’s hard as hell to find busboys-especially busboys who got more brains than a cow. So we don’t ask too many questions when we get one we can use.”
“Fritz, I’m not going to make any trouble for you. But this is life and death.”
“As serious as that? Sure. Anyway, this kid, he got too many smarts for a busboy. He’s not in yesterday. Today, he’s on the late shift, starts at noon. Hey, Max,” he called to one of the waiters, “is Frank in yet, that new busboy?”
“No sign of him yet.”
“His name is Frank-Frank what?”
Fritz shook his head. “I can get it for you.”
“Wait. What does he look like?”
“Very dark, black hair. Maybe twenty, twenty-one. Skinny.”
“Chicano?”
“No, not Chicano. Some of the boys try to talk to him in Spanish, but he doesn’t know Spanish. Some kind of accent, not German or French, because I can spot that. I figure he’s some kind of student maybe.”
“Fritz,” Masuto said, trying to control his eagerness, “the people who work here, they have to come off the street and change into their work clothes. Where?”
“We got a dressing room behind the kitchen.”
“Take me there.”
“Sure, sure. You think there’s something funny about that kid?” He led the way through the cocktail lounge into the kitchen and through it. “You know what kind of trouble we got already? You need a busboy, everyone says there are five million unemployed, but go try to find a busboy. So we can’t pick and choose.”
“I know, I know,” Masuto said.
They were in a narrow room now, a room about twelve feet long, a wooden bench running down the middle and rows of metal lockers on either side. Most of the lockers had padlocks on them. A waiter sat on the bench, lacing his shoes.
“Which is his locker, Fritz?”
“We look. The names are on them.”
The waiter stopped dressing to watch them. Fritz was farsighted, fumbling for his glasses as Masuto traced through the names.
“Here!” Masuto cried. “Frank Franco!”
The locker was padlocked.
“I want this opened, Fritz. Now!”
Fritz nodded.
“Now, damn you! Now!”
“Sure, sure.” He turned to the waiter. “Steve, go get the handyman.”
“What did the kid do? You can’t just-”
“Get the handyman,” Masuto said, his voice like ice. “I’m a policeman. You have him here in five minutes, or I swear I’ll take you in.”
“Sure. Okay. I’ll get him.” He got up, stared at Masuto a moment, then left.
“Fritz, does anyone know anything about this kid? Do you have an address for him?”
Fritz shook his head hopelessly. “All right, you don’t hire people this way. He said he was looking for a place to live. He had just come into town. So I let it go, and a couple of days ago, I ask him again. He says he thinks he got a place-”
“Goddamn it, are you telling me you hire like that? Where was he sleeping?”
“Sergeant, I swear, I’m telling the truth. It happens.”
“All right, it happens,” Masuto said more softly. “Who did he talk to? Did he make any friends?”
Fritz creased his brows. He was a large, soft man, and he knew he was in trouble. The whole thing frightened him. He had never been at ease with the complex of laws that surrounded hiring, Social Security, withheld taxes, and compensation, and in this particular case he had short-circuited everything. He took out his handkerchief, wiped his brow, and said, “I try to help, yes? I do my best. A few times, I see him talking to Maria.”
“Who’s Maria?”
