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his pockets, then stepped into his shoes.
    And found that damn piece of seaweed.
    He didn’t pause, didn’t give McHugh the satisfaction of seeing his expression change. Shoes untied, he continued forward.

Chapter Six
    In the middle of the Fat Innkeeper’s office was a map of the earth. What was disconcerting about this map was that Japan implicitly
     dominated the rest of the world. The Land of the Rising Sun was set center-stage, and larger than life, its dimensions not
     drawn to scale with the rest of the planet. Am kept staring at the map. It was hard for him getting used to seeing the United
     States positioned off to the side.
    Guess I’ll have to orient myself, he thought.
    Like any messenger with bad news, Am waited pensively. Mr. Takei had intercepted his call to the Fat Innkeeper. No one had
     yet seen Takei smile. He was considered to be the power behind the throne, speaking for Hiroshi Yamada while directing policies
     and work to be done. It was hard to see his eyes, hidden as they were behind his thick glasses. He was thin and pale, quite
     the opposite of the Fat Innkeeper.
    Am inwardly winced. That nickname was going to catch up with him. It wasn’t really his fault; it was Richard’s. It was dangerous
     to have a friend like Richard. The man was entirely too smart, a research scientist at the Scripps Institution of Oceanography,
     who habitually applied marine nicknames to almost everyone. Most of the time the nicknames were only used by, and only made
     sense to, Richard. Though Richard had bestowed hundreds of aquatic nicknames, the Fat Innkeeper was the first to catch on.
     It was, Am supposed, an improvement on some of Yamada’s earlier nicknames. The staff had initially referred to him as “yo’
     mama,” or “the fat Jap”; now, there was something almost nostalgic about those names. Ask a Hotel employee who Hiroshi Yamada
     was, and you might draw a blank, but ask anyone on staff who was the Fat Innkeeper and they could tell you. Most could even
     give you his scientific name:
Urechis caupo.
    Richard said the appellation had come to him almost like a burning bush (further interrogation revealed his inspiration arrived
     shortly after his sixth gin and tonic). He had heard some of the Hotel gossip about Hiroshi, and when he had seen him on the
     evening news, “everything clicked.” Archimedes yelled, “Eureka.” Richard yelled, “Urechis.” Archimedes was thinking about
     gold; Richard was contemplating a sea worm.
    That’s what a fat innkeeper is, an invertebrate that lives in a U-shaped burrow, but not alone. The innkeeper shares his lodge
     with other guests (“symbionts” was Richard’s preferred term), including some species of pea crab, small bivalves, and different
     species of worms and goby fish.
    The convivial innkeeper sees to the needs of its guests (“commensals,” Richard was quick to tell anyone, was the better word)
     through its fussy eating habits. The twenty-inch worm sports a ring of mucus glands around the top of its trunk, glands it
     expands against the side of the burrow. A mucus net is sent out that filters out tiny organisms and particles flowing through
     its den. As the filter fills, the worm moves forward and devours the bag and its contents—or some of them. The larger detrital
     matter, and whatever other food the innkeeper eschews, passes down the line to its tenants.
    Richard had called and told Am about his fat-innkeeper revelation, then had supplied him with articles, pictures, drawings,
     and assorted miscellaneous information about
Urechis caupo. Am
had made a few copies for his co-workers, and then watched everything snowball. The most popular off-duty staff shirt featured
     a fat innkeeper sitting contentedly in its burrow. Even the perennial Hotel California softball team had changed its name.
     Now they were the Urechis Caupos, with their nickname “the worms.” The new name hadn’t helped the team. They were still in
     last