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The remembrance of his father always disturbed him. He answered now, “Maybe I used wrong words, but it doesn't change the sense.”
Warren Trent nodded without comment and took out his old– fashioned watch. “You'd better tell young McDermott to come and see me. Ask him to come here. I'm a little tired this morning.”
The two were in the lavishly furnished living-room of Warren Trent's suite, the older man relaxed in a deep, soft chair, his feet raised upon a footstool. Peter sat facing him.
“Something I'd like to deal with concerns the room clerks.” Peter described the Albert Wells incident and saw Warren Trent's face harden at the mention of the room change.
The older man growled, “We should have closed off that room years ago. Maybe we'd better do it now.”
“I don't think it need be closed, if we use it as a last resort and tell the guest what he's getting into.”
Warren Trent nodded. “Attend to it.”
Peter hesitated. “What I'd like to do is give some specific instructions on room changes generally. There have been other incidents and I think it needs pointing out that our guests aren't to be moved around like checkers on a board.”
“Deal with the one thing. If I want general instructions I'll issue them.”
The curt response, Peter thought, showed what was wrong with the hotel's management. Mistakes were dealt with after they happened, with little or no attempt to correct their root cause. Now he said, “I thought you should know about the Duke and Duchess of Croydon. The Duchess asked for you personally.” He described the incident of the spilled shrimp Creole and the differing version of the waiter Sol Natchez.
Warren Trent grumbled, “I know that damn woman. She won't be satisfied unless the waiter's fired.”
“I don't believe he should be fired.”
“Then tell him to go fishing for a few days – with pay – but to keep the hell out of the hotel. And warn him from me that next time he spills something, to be sure it's boiling and over the Duchess's head. I suppose she still has those damn dogs.”
“Yes.” Peter smiled.
A Louisiana law forbade animals in rooms. In the Croydons' case, Warren Trent had agreed that the presence of the terriers would not be noticed officially, if they got in and out by a rear door. The Duchess, however, paraded the dogs each day through the main lobby.
“I had some trouble with Ogilvie last night.” Peter reported the chief house officer's absence.
Reaction was quick. “I've told you before to leave Ogilvie alone. He's responsible directly to me.”
“It makes things difficult ifthere's something to be done…” “You heard what I said. Forget Ogilvie!” Warren Trent's face was red, but less from anger, Peter suspected, than embarrassment. The hands-off-Ogilvie rule didn't make sense and the proprietor knew it.
Abruptly changing the subject, Warren Trent announced, “Curtis O'Keefe is checking in today. He wants two adjoining suites and I've sent down instructions. You'd better make sure that everything's in order, and I want to be informed as soon as he arrives.”
“Will Mr. O'Keefe be staying long?”
“I don't know. It depends on a lot of things.”
For a moment Peter felt sympathy for the older man. The St. Gregory was to Warren Trent more than a hotel; it had been his lifetime's work. The hotel's reputation, too, had for many years been high. It must be hard to accept that the St. Gregory had slipped behind the times. And Peter thought that new financing and a firm, controlling hand on management could work wonders[62], even, perhaps, restoring the hotel to its old competitive position. But as things were, both the capital and control would have to come from outside – he supposed through Curtis O'Keefe. Once more Peter was reminded that his own days here might well be numbered.
The proprietor asked, “What's our convention situation?”
“The Congress of American Dentistry begins tomorrow, though some of their people checked in yesterday and there'll be more today. They should take close to two hundred and eighty rooms.”
Warren Trent nodded approval. At least, he reflected, the news was not all bad. Conventions were the lifeblood of business, and the dentistry convention was an achievement.
“We had a full house last night,” Warren Trent said. He added, “In this business it's either feast or famine[63]. Can we handle today's arrivals?”
“I checked on the figures first thing this morning. There should be enough checkouts, though it'll be close. Our overbookings are a little high.”[64]
The most miserable moment in any hotel manager's life was explaining to indignant would-be guests, who held confirmed reservations, that no accommodation was available. He felt awful as a fellow human being and also because he was absolutely sure that those people would never again come back to his hotel.
In Peter's own experience the worst occasion was when a baker's convention, meeting in New York, decided to remain an extra day so that some of its members could take a moonlight cruise around Manhattan. Two hundred and fifty bakers and their wives stayed on, unfortunately without telling the hotel, which expected them to check out so an engineers' convention could move in. Recollection of the chaos, with hundreds of angry engineers and their women in the lobby, some waving reservations made two years earlier, still caused Peter to shudder when he thought of it. In the end, the new arrivals were sent to motels in outlying New York until next day when the bakers went innocently away. But the monumental taxi bills of the engineers, plus a substantial cash settlement to avoid a lawsuit, were paid by the hotel – more than the profit on both conventions.
Warren Trent lit a cigar, motioning to McDermott to take a cigarette from a box beside him. When he had done so, Peter said, “I talked with the Roosevelt[65]. If we're in a jam[66] tonight they can help us out with maybe thirty rooms.” Even fiercely competitive hotels aided each other in that kind of crisis, never knowing when the roles would be reversed[67].
“All right,” Warren Trent said, a cloud of cigar smoke above him, “now what's the outlook for the fall?”
“It's disappointing. I've sent you a memo about the two big union conventions falling through.”
“Why have they fallen through?”
“It's the same reason I warned you about earlier. We've continued to discriminate. We haven't complied with the Civil Rights Act[68], and the unions resent it.” Peter glanced toward Aloysius Royce who had come into the room and was arranging a pile of magazines.
Without looking up the young Negro said, “Don't yo' worry about sparing my feelings[69], Mistuh McDermott” – Royce was using the exaggerated accent – “because us colored folks are right used to that.”
Warren Trent said, “Cut out the comic lines[70].”
“Yessir!” Royce left his magazine sorting and stood facing the other two. Now his voice was normal. “But I'll tell you this: the unions have acted the way they have because they've a social conscience. They're not the only ones, though. More conventions, and just plain folks, are going to stay away until this and others like it admit that times have changed.”
Warren Trent waved a hand toward Royce. “Answer him,” he told Peter McDermott. “Around here we don't mince words.”[71]
“It so happens[72],” Peter said quietly, “that I agree with what he said.”
“Why
творить чудеса
то пусто, то густо
У нас превышение заявок на номера.
Гостиница в Новом Орлеане
Если мы окажемся в затруднительном положении
когда им придётся поменяться ролями
Закон о гражданских правах
Можете со мной не церемониться
Прекрати паясничать
Здесь мы говорим напрямую.
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