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way.
    “Your business cards,” said Takei at last, “are open to misinterpretation.”
    That was about as straightforwardly censurious as the Japanese were ever likely to get. When in doubt, Sharon had told him,
     employ
sumimasen—apology
without end. But Am wasn’t about to play Uriah Heep for anyone.
    “I will discard the old cards immediately,” he said, “and have new ones made up at my own expense.”
    And I’ll try to suppress the suddenly very strong urge, thought Am, to have the new cards announce myself as a proctologist
     in Japanese.
    It wasn’t
sumimasen,
but no one objected to his solution. Am waited for the other men to find their seats, Sharon’s words again in his ears: “Sometimes
     they play a form of musical chairs. They know who belongs in the seat of honor, but there’s often a hierarchical infighting
     for the other chairs.”
    Am’s mother had taught him to say please and thank you. He knew to excuse himself after inadvertently belching, kept his nails
     clean, and closed his mouth when he chewed. Am was good about cleaning up after himself, and the sermon of his youth had been,
     “Treat others as you would like to be treated yourself.” He didn’t spit in public, and didn’t even much spit in private. Having
     been able to impart those behaviors onto him, Am’s mother had reckoned herself a success. Mom hadn’t prepared him to be Japanese.
    He took the last seat. The meeting didn’t begin with a call to business, or an agenda. The Fat Innkeeper commented about the
     heavy fog, and Am found himself explaining about the coastal marine layer. It was something, Am figured, that Hiroshi was
     already acquainted with. The Japanese way was scripted; he had only to remember his part. An American owner probably would
     have asked, “What the hell happened in room three seven four?” Hiroshi would get to the same question, but not without the
     proper sacrament. What Am feared, though, was that they might talk to cross-purposes. Sometimes even the Japanese didn’t understand
     one another, losing their way among the etiquette.
    The talk of fog was winding down. Am wondered if it was time to bring up the death of Dr. Kingsbury. It was tiring to have
     to think before speaking, definitely not in keeping with the American way.
    “In this country,” said Am, “every year the hotel industry puts up guests for more than a billion room nights.”
    Am let the figure sink in. “By the odds of probability alone,” he said, “sometimes bad things happen.”
    First the Fat Innkeeper nodded, then the other three dark heads followed. They had found that all-important point of agreement.
     “Tell us about the bad thing that happened,” said Hiroshi.
    They heard about Kingsbury, and his death, and McHugh’s suspicions that he might have been murdered. “The detective had received
     a call from Dr. Kingsbury the day before he died,” said Am. “They set up a meeting for eight o’clock tonight. Although Kingsbury
     wouldn’t detail the specifics of their proposed get-together, he did tell McHugh that a fraud was being perpetrated, and that
     he had uncovered enough incriminating information to warrant a police investigation.
    “McHugh tried to get him to say more over the phone, but Kingsbury prevailed upon him for a face-to-face. The detective got
     the feeling that the doctor might have been fishing, seeing if he really did have a crime the police would be interested in
     pursuing. McHugh sensed that Kingsbury wanted the police involved for the sake of a public forum. That’s one thing the good
     doctor always excelled at—getting publicity.”
    “Dr. Kings-bur-y,” said the Fat Innkeeper, stretching out his name to three words. “I have heard of him.”
    “He was also known as Tommy Gunn the Magician,” said Am, rhyming the name with his stage profession. “Kingsbury studied magic
     and illusion to learn the tricks of the trade, to get an understanding of just how people could be