A media celebrity called Merlyn Dree was staying at the Camelot, and Corrigan had to pick his way through a flock of garishly clad fans who were being held at bay outside the door by hotel security staff. Inside, at the front desk, a fat man in an overcoat was pointing at a sheet of paper and remonstrating loudly with a harassed-looking clerk.
“No, Crammerwitz booked the room, but it’s under Mancini, okay? The basic goes to the company, and they pick up these calls, but not those calls. Dinner goes on the other company and not this one, because it’s a different account. What’s the problem?”
In a corner nearby, the latest experimental wonder in Artificial Intelligence that somebody had succeeded in selling to management stood ignominiously, dismantled and partly crated in preparation for being shipped back: automated, talking desk-clerks. They hadn’t lasted a week. Whoever coded their database was probably very smart but had obviously never worked in hotels. Corrigan went on through the lobby, grateful that nobody had come up with any ideas for replacing human bartenders. That would need Artificial Wisdom, which was another matter entirely.
He went up the main stairway to the second-floor landing and through the staff door to the room behind the bar of the Galahad Lounge. The roster pinned to the message board told him that Sherri would be working the late shift with him. At least she was one that he found he could talk to. She listened, and seemed genuinely curious to understand what made him different. Sometimes he thought that Sherri would be better doing Sarah’s job. But on the other hand, maybe that would mean he’d have to work with Sarah.
Maurice, who was in charge of the Camelot’s three lounges, came in while Corrigan was changing into his work outfit of dress shirt with bow tie and maroon jacket. Small, dark, with the shaped mustachios that he considered went with the bar-manager image, Maurice was a Horace incarnate with a New York accent—meticulous about detail, and most of the time sounding like an animated company-procedure manual. Since his staff handled cash and dealt directly with the clientele, that wasn’t all bad, Corrigan supposed. But Maurice confused all around him by being incapable of doing anything simply if a more complicated way could be contrived. On top of that, his particular brand of normality came in the form of a conviction that everyone in the trade was crooked, especially management, and customers worst of all. Corrigan stayed behind his shield of maladaptability and watched with baffled fascination.
“You were on yesterday afternoon before Jack, right, Joe?” Maurice was holding the notebook in which he entered the figures from the cash registers. Jack was another of the younger bar assistants. Maurice had confided that he knew Jack was on the take, because he styled his hair in the same way as Nelson Torrence of Underside, who conned wealthy widows and robbed banks.
“Yesterday? Yes, that’s right,” Corrigan replied. “Why?”
“Was everything okay when you cashed up? Last night, we were thirty bucks down.”
Corrigan groaned inwardly. Jack had been delayed on his way in, making Corrigan late for a game that he’d wanted to catch at Three Rivers. By way of amends and to help out, Jack had offered to cash up Corrigan’s shift for him so that he could be on his way. Although it was against the rules, just that one time Corrigan had let him—he had no qualms about Jack being honest. And just that one time, of course, something like this had to happen.
He sighed. “I didn’t do it. I was late for something and got Jack to cover.”
“What! You let him cash up your shift? You know better than that, Joe.”
Yes, Corrigan knew. But it happened from time to time nevertheless, as Maurice knew perfectly well. The problem was that trust was a concept that lay beyond Maurice’s powers of comprehension.
“My fault,” Corrigan said. “I’m wide open. I’ll eat the thirty, no problem.”
But that wasn’t what Maurice wanted. He moved a step closer and lowered his voice. “Come on, Joe, you know and I know that Jack’s a snitch, don’t we? He cooked your numbers and took a dip. But he doesn’t have to get away with it. All I need is a docket from you, and I’ll countersign that you put it in yesterday.”