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“Rogues’ gallery?”
     she asked.
    “Mostly vagrants,” said Am. “Everyone up there was found trespassing on the property and warned not to return. They were given
     the speech usually reserved for the sheriff in westerns: Get out of town by sundown or else. If you want the rogues’ gallery,
     just keep walking.”
    Three steps brought her to a bulletin board. Dossiers were attached to the mug shots. As police blotters went, there wasn’t
     anything too bloodcurdling. The crimes ranged from credit card fraud to drunk and disorderly.
    “Welcome to the Hotel California?” she asked.
    “Knock wood,” said Am. He looked around to follow through on those words, but none was at hand. “We’ve been damn lucky in
     the past few years to have only experienced the penny-ante stuff you see in front of you. Not like what some other hotels
     have had to deal with.”
    He pointed to another bulletin board that featured investigative reports, police bulletins, and FBI posters. “Visitors we
     hope never to host,” he said.
    Sharon started reading aloud from the reports. What began as a cavalier tone quickly changed. The crimes that had been committed
     were anything but trivial. Together they examined the faces that had murdered, and assaulted, and raped, and burgled. Most
     of the criminals specialized in hotel crimes, foxes all too familiar with the ways of their hens.
    “Not the stuff of hotel brochures,” Am admitted. “This industry has its mean streets, even if they are flower lined.”
    Next to the criminal corner was a large display map of the Hotel California. Am started tapping at the many red marks on the
     map, enough so that his finger sounded like an outof-control flamenco dancer. “Entrances and exits,” he said. “Security is
     a matter of control, and this place is a security director’s nightmare. Controlling access and egress is difficult, and the
     guests usually don’t make it any easier. They don’t like their midnight walks on the beach impeded, or some polyester figure
     questioning their right to leave their doors or windows open. Who the hell are we to deny them their ocean breeze?”
    Realizing how impassioned he sounded, Am reddened slightly. Chief Horton had used that same sermon a number of times, but
     Am had only half listened. Funny how when someone else has the responsibility, the priority doesn’t seem as pressing. Still,
     he didn’t like sounding like Chicken Little. To his surprise, Sharon looked more engrossed than amused.
    “I didn’t realize the property was so—immense,” she said.
    “Four restaurants, six lounges, fourteen meeting rooms, seven hundred and twelve guest rooms, and over forty acres of worries,”
     Am recited.
    “And Visigoths at the walls,” she said.
    They both allowed each other a small smile. “Would that the enemy was so defined,” said Am. “On a busy day there are more
     than ten thousand visitors to the Hotel, clientele we have little control over. The Civil Rights Act of 1964 tells hoteliers
     that they can’t discriminate against any guest desiring accommodations. That means if Charlie Manson ever gets paroled and
     comes to the Hotel asking for a room, by law we have to rent it to him. And while Charlie hasn’t come a-knocking yet, we’ve
     had a few guests who probably would have fit in real well with his family.”
    They walked by several storage closets that housed emergency supplies that seemed sufficient to handle everything from flood
     to famine. Beyond the disaster relief area were the key lockers and cabinets. Just to get to some of the keys you needed a
     key. Sign-in and sign-out sheets marked the comings and goings of the keys.
    “Key control,” said Am. “Did Jack the Ripper stay in one of your rooms and neglect to return a key? Is there a master key
     that hasn’t been accounted for? I keep pressing for electronic locks, but Kendrick has declared those an unnecessary expense.
     Not that he’s the only GM who thinks