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place.
    Somehow it heartened Am to think that out in the ocean there were invertebrates essentially practicing his own trade. It allowed
     him the kind of connection that mystics would have ascribed as demonstrating the universality in all nature, but all the same,
     Am wished he had never heard of the fat innkeeper. Everyone attributed the naming to him. Court jesters (let alone the palace
     guard) know better than to dub their rulers “stinky,” or “slimy,” or worst of all—“wormy.” That was essentially what Am had
     done. He had figured (or more likely, hoped) Hiroshi’s nickname would be short-lived, but now it was part of the Hotel nomenclature.
     Sometimes nicknames do stick—like his own. His real name was Ian, but that had been in another life, before hotels. Now he
     was Am, an abbreviation of the assistant manager he had once been.
    The door opened and the Fat Innkeeper (“Mr. Yamada, dammit,” Am reminded himself) entered the room, followed by Takei, Matsuda,
     and Fujimoto. Contrary to popular opinion, the three men really didn’t look that much alike (Sharon said most Japanese were
     convinced all Americans looked alike, so apparently it’s a universal prejudice), even though all of them were roughly the
     same age, around forty-five, and wore the same dark suits and red ties. Takei, in charge of daily operations, was the thinnest
     of the lot, his face almost skeletal. Matsuda was the numbers man, the chief financial officer who supervised the Hotel finances.
     He had more gray hairs than the others, and a nose that was big by Japanese standards. Fujimoto oversaw the food-and-beverage
     operations, and was the sportiest of the three. Am suspected he sometimes moussed his hair, and on a few occasions he’d even
     been spotted wearing paisley ties.
    Am jumped to his feet, and walked toward the men. He hadn’t expected all of the Japanese bigwigs to be meeting with him, but
     he wasn’t totally surprised either. The Three Musketeers might have coined the phrase, “One for all, and all for one,” but
     the Japanese live it. The Fat Innkeeper made the introductions. The Hotel has more than a thousand employees, so it wasn’t
     too surprising that Am had never talked with Matsuda or Fujimoto. Takei was another story, if not a more pleasant one. Am
     thought the man more termite than human, so great was his love for paper. Takei was always asking for reports and contingency
     plans from security. Am admired his diligence, but he was tired of reinventing the wheel. Takei loved minutiae, seemed delighted
     to come up with more “what ifs” than Rod Serling. He had planned for countless disasters. Sharon said there were several reasons
     for this: the Japanese pursuit of perfection; their need for a sense of control; and, most of all, the almost instinctive
     Japanese fear that there is trouble waiting around the corner. It is as if they always expect, she said, the worst. Takei
     had wanted to see earthquake plans, and fire-safety procedures. They’d gone over how to deal with bomb threats and power failures.
     About the only thing they hadn’t put down on paper was what to do in the event of a murder. Welcome to America.
    The Fat Innkeeper announced the Japanese names first, then he offered up Am’s name and his position. With the timing of a
     veteran performer, and the accompaniment of a slight smile, Hiroshi then added, “He is also the Hotel samurai.”
    The Fat Innkeeper explained further in Japanese. Paranoia is always quick to surface when you’re being discussed in a language
     you don’t understand. When he finished, no one was laughing. Not that Am ever expected belly laughter out of this group, but
     the silence weighed in as more oppressive than usual. The only noise was from Takei. Almost so as not to be noticed, he was
     sucking air through his teeth. Am had been warned that such inhalation was the Japanese equivalent of a Bronx cheer, though
     in their usual understated