The Hotel Metropolitan stood as a monument to what the city used to be - grand and beautiful and artistic. It was not far from the bay, in what was once the entertainment district. Posh restaurants, theaters, nightclubs - and speakeasies, in their time - had lined the surrounding boulevards. To the south, nearer the waterfront, had been warehouses and industry. To the north, the more genteel avenues of brownstones where the city's elite had lived during the winter social season.
It boasted 22 floors - two more than the Plaza, which had been the whole point. It was an amalgamation of marble, polished wood, objets d'art, discrete and exotic potted plants, and frosted glass. When it had opened, over a century ago, it had seemed to represent everything that the growing, bustling, exciting city had symbolized. But that had been before two World Wars, a Depression, a massive flight to the suburbs, and an interstate highway system that had left the old downtown area isolated and forgotten as chain restaurants and big box stores and sports bars sprang up like mushrooms along the city's outskirts.
Now it stood like a dowager, clinging to its name and reputation, trying to scrimp on maintenance and cleaning and hoping nobody would notice. The surrounding areas had decayed, become dirty and crime-ridden, and then in recent years experienced the beginnings of gentrification. Busy, young professionals had gradually colonized the area, and it was no longer unthinkable to go there after dark.
It was late October, and there was a chill in the air. Dusk was coming earlier, and pumpkins had sprung up on stoops and in windows across town. Lonny and Laurie Morgan, both 25, had come to the city on their honeymoon. They had dated all through college, gotten jobs after graduation, worked hard and saved for a few years. They had not wanted to get married until they could afford the wedding, and the honeymoon, of their dreams. And now, here they were.
They were booked into one of the brand-new, chain hotels out near the airport, and since arriving in town a week before they had seen a football game, taken a bus tour, attended the theater, gone to the zoo, a comedy club, a nightclub, and a costume party. They had shopped all up and down The Avenue, and had eaten and drunk better than they had ever imagined.
Now it was their last night in town, and they had come downtown. Deep-down they were rebels, or at least that's what they told themselves, and they were looking for something out-of-the-ordinary, something they had been told could be found here.
Their Lyft dropped them right in front of the Metropolitan's main entrance, and as they stepped out onto the cracked and stained sidewalk they looked all around, nervous at being here in the heart of Old Towne after dark. As they climbed the hotel's worn marble steps and went through the tarnished doors they felt out of place, as if there were eyes on them from all up and down the street. They were sure that everybody in the lobby would immediately turn to stare at them.
In truth, though, the lobby was almost empty. A large bellhop, who almost certainly doubled as a security guard, eyed them for a moment or two as they came through the door but then went back to his cell phone. One desk clerk worked at her computer terminal while another talked on the phone. Neither even looked up as the Morgans walked self-consciously past. In the corner, near a fireplace that had been converted to gas at some point, a well-dressed, elderly man made his laborious way through the newspaper. A glass of some amber liquid sat on the side table next to his chair.
They walked through the lobby and past the bank of patiently waiting elevators, then down a sweeping marble staircase. Back when the Metropolitan had been built, it had been considered gauche to have the washrooms in plain view. Instead, they were hidden away on the floor below the lobby. At the bottom of the staircase was a spacious lounge filled with old-fashioned, plush chairs and settees and wholly-unnecessary end tables. At either end were the entrances to the men's and women's toilets.
Directly across from the staircase, however, was a nondescript, unmarked door. As soon as the Morgans went through it, it was as if they had stepped into a different world.
A narrow stairway led down to the building's basement level. It was lit by cheap light fixtures every few feet. The stairs consisted of old, scarred hardwood and a threadbare runner. The walls were covered with aging, occasionally stained wallpaper. From the dim space at the bottom of the stairway a woman's voice wafted up to them, singing an old, romantic ballad.
The original owners of the Metropolitan, influenced no doubt by the grand mansions of the Gilded Age, had envisioned the hotel staff actually living on premises. A number of small apartments had been constructed in the basement, and they were connected to the rest of the hotel by these stairs. The idea had been a complete failure, of course, but a decade after the hotel had opened Prohibition had provided the owners with an escape from their miscalculation.
After the partitions had been knocked down to create a large space from all of the small apartments, the owners had had the perfect place to open one of the finer speakeasies in the city. Patrons hadn't even needed to enter the hotel itself to purchase illegal liquor. Access could be had via a narrow set of stone stairs, originally intended for staff use, which led down from the alley behind the hotel.
When Prohibition had been repealed, the need for secrecy ended and the Staff Entrance, as it was known, continued as a historic downtown watering hole. Its fortunes had sunk over the years along with those of the hotel and the neighborhood, but it was still there.
When the Morgans stepped into the dim room from the more brightly-lit staircase it took their eyes a moment to adjust. This was intentional, as it gave everybody in the bar a moment or two to check out the newcomers. They took in Lonny, tall, skinny, bushy brown hair, scraggly beard, dressed in a maroon Henley, black jeans, and boots. They took in Laurie, a short, curvy redhead, with generous breasts and hips. She wore a red dress that showed off cleavage and complimented her lips and eyes. Strappy, black heels and a black choker completed her outfit.
Once their eyes adjusted, Lonny and Laurie scanned the room. It wasn't opulent. The floor was basic wood, as badly in need of refinishing as the stairs. The walls, also wood, nicked and gouged and occasionally scorched in places, were decorated with historic photos. Most showed patrons, some famous, from ages past.
A bar and a small stage occupied the right wall, and old, deeply recessed booths stretched the length of the left. High-tops and tables were scattered through the space between. The chairs, while sturdy, were mismatched. Two bartenders and two bored-looking cocktail waitresses dressed as if they were from the Roaring Twenties seemed to comprise the entire staff.
From the stage a middle-aged women continued to croon Jazz Age standards in a voice that sounded remarkably like Diana Krall. Lighting was uneven. A spotlight shown on the singer, whilst cannister lights illuminated the bar so that staff could do their jobs. Widely spaced fixtures gave those at the tables just enough light to eat and converse.
The old-fashioned barstools were mostly occupied, some by single men, others by buddies or couples. A couple of the tables were occupied by parties of older men and women, others by couples having dinner, as you could order from the hotel kitchen from here. Almost all of these folks, having given the Morgans the once-over when they arrived, had now turned back to their own business and were ignoring them.
The booths, though, were different. Lit by only a single candle each, they were located in by far the darkest part of the room. Each was occupied by somebody whose time and company were for sale. Most advertised online and were simply here as a convenient, public place to meet their clients. Others were clearly here to work the hotel lounge crowd. This is what Lonny and Laurie had come for.
Lonny's first inclination was to take a table and have a drink, to bolster his courage. He didn't want to be too obvious and head over to the booths immediately. Instead, he thought it best to scope the place out and get used to it before making his move.
Laurie had other ideas, though. She knew if they sat down, shyly glancing over at the booths while pretending not to be interested, they'd probably lose their courage instead of bolstering it. When Lonny went to the right, she tugged at his hand. When he stopped and turned to look at her, she set off to the left, virtually dragging him behind until he gave in and walked with her.
