Page 135 of The Reluctant Hero

When I pass through, the floor turns into marble tile instead of carpet. I blink down at it in confusion, then look around. It’s an entrance, much like a hotel, with a concierge desk and wide open space. There are couches, side tables, and a giant chandelier in the center of a domed ceiling. I didn’t realize the descent was that far. Despite all of that, it’s dank and smells wet, a little moldy. With all the sand upstairs, I didn’t think that was possible.

No wonder no work has gone on up there. All the money was spent on this. How big could this place be?

There’s only one way to find out.

Since I’m here and determined to snoop I turn on the camera function for posterity. If I trip over anything, it will be caught on camera. Welcome to the tour no one asked for.

The place doesn’t look ready to open despite the posh atmosphere. There aren’t any computers for a check-in or an office behind the desk. A set of open double doors that runs floor to ceiling are on my left. It looks like a sitting room.

I move through it slowly, taking in the rich décor. Paintings that remind me of Loser’s style. Leather couches and armchairs. Tables with ashtrays. A bar without any alcohol or glasses and a humidor for cigars that sits empty. The damp chill has gotten worse, and so has the subtle smell of mold. The ceiling has ventilation in it. I don’t know where the ducts are up above. I’d have to trip over one to find it, I guess. They’re going to have to have a building to provide shelter for them. A shack over the door to keep it hidden.

But why is it hidden?

I pass through the next set of double doors into a restaurant. It could easily seat fifty people or more at a time. There are white tablecloths over each table. Everything looks ready to go, as if a waiter is going to come out from nowhere and offer to seat me.

A side door leads to a fancy kitchen that looks like a five-star chef’s dream come true. Giant ovens. Plenty of counter space. Ventilation everywhere. A walk-in freezer and a giant fridge.

On a whim, I open the fridge and gag. The smell is horrible. I slam it closed quickly, praying the smell will somehow dissipate. It doesn’t, clinging to me with an almost violent stench.

Someone was ready for this place to open up. I think that was leftover fruit and vegetables, but without a solid form, I can’t tell. The electricity was on at some point if that’s in there.

Out of self-defense and desperation, I run back to the seating area and through the next set of double doors.

My feet freeze, and I can’t help the scoff that comes out. It’s a textbook strip club with raised stages and poles. Several tables are scattered throughout, along with booths and another bar. It’s like a cattle chute for rich men. There’s only one entrance and another set of doors wide open on the other side. These doors look heavy as hell. All metal with serious locks to keep people out.

“That would be more impressive if they were actually used,” I mock, taking in the clear stages that have lights inside them for the best show they can put on.

I pass through into a hallway with doors on either side.

“And so, the nightmare begins.” My voice has fallen into a hush as if I’m in a library.

It’s suddenly not as funny to be here. The second I pass the threshold that doom feeling becomes so intense it’s hard to breathe. As I gasp for air another smell starts up. It’s almost like the vegetables from the fridge but a little different. Oh God, what if there’s another one down here, and the door is open?

I’m tempted to turn around and get out of here, but curiosity has taken me over. I’m already here. The place is empty, no matter what my freaky paranoia says. Unless there’s a tragic collapse, I’m fine.

Why did I think that?

I hurry to the first door, determined to rush through the rest of this. It opens up to a bedroom with red wallpaper. Who picked that? The bed is enormous and covered with black silk sheets. Huh. I guess it is a hotel. The oddest part is how it’s thecenterpiece to the room and there isn’t a door for a closet or bathroom.

“Oh, gross!” I cringe as it strikes me that this is a brothel.

I back out and take in the rest of the closed doors with a grimace.

A tickle of thought comes to me, and I reluctantly look back at the room. Something about this seems awfully familiar.

It comes to me in a snap.

“The pictures,” I whisper in disbelief.

Every single picture of Loser with his flavor of the day/week/month had the same wallpaper and sheets in them. That means that this place was up and running at some point. There were lights on in each of them. And Loser came here. Often enough to fill up a shoe box worth of pictures.

I shudder with disgust and turn back to the rest of the doors.

“Might as well,” I mutter, no longer in the mood for a tour. And that smell. It’s awful. Maybe a leftover sex stench instead of rotten cabbage. I’ll take Gabe’s cologne over it any day.

Each door I open is the same thing. Some of them have sex toys lining the walls that make my jaw drop. A few have panels with clear glass where someone can sit on the other side and watch what’s happening in the bedroom. The further I go, the more violent the sex toys look. There is no way that is going to fit inside a woman. No way.

At the end, there’s a room with several long tables and comfortable chairs. It breaks up the sleazy theme of the bedrooms. The bar at the back of the room is different. It’s subtle and not at the same time. Behind it is a set of clear doors that stand open. I think it’s another humidor until I step inside. The room is lined with shelves and clear plastic containers that are vividly marked with engraved plaques.

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