October 1, 2007
The windows and ground-level entrances were boarded up, and on the lower roofs, concertina wire was strung to discourage climbers. All around the property stood a ten-foot-high aluminum fence, topped with more razor wire. All that—and the regular patrols by rent-a-cops—kept undesirables off the grounds, but there was something else about the Imperial’s fa?ade: something veiled and forbidding that kept the locals away.
The hooded man waiting at the gate felt none of that malevolence, drowned out perhaps by the pelting rain. Arriving fifteen minutes earlier than instructed—something he now regretted—Greene shuffled his feet, hoping the downpour wouldn’t last. The hood kept his head dry, but his jacket was useless. In minutes, he would be soaked and shivering, a condition not usually experienced in an arid clime, which was why he had come completely unprepared.
He could climb the fence and take shelter under the Imperial’s carriage house. Still, his instructions had been specific, and his employer, Legrand, was a fastidious man who did not look kindly on the slightest deviation. To add to his misery, the rain suddenly doubled in intensity.
A few minutes later, a black Jaguar arrived, its headlights blinding him. The sports coupe parked, and Legrand climbed out. “Damn rain,” his employer muttered, wearing an overcoat as he dashed to the padlocked gates. Fiddling with several keys on a large key ring, he inserted one into the padlock. Unlocking it, he handed him the padlock. “Get the gates—and don’t forget to lock them.”
Once the E-Type Jaguar had passed through, he did as instructed and met his employer in the covered carriage entrance. Where the sweeping driveway had once guided luxury cars beneath the ornate porte-cochère—its elegant columns and arches sheltering guests as they stepped onto wide stone stairs—the space now ended abruptly at a crude plywood barrier. Nearly ten feet tall, the barricade consisted of large sheets of three-quarter-inch plywood fastened over a rough 2x4 frame, its raw tan surface still revealing wood grain, knots, and regimented rows of screw heads. Rain had streaked and begun weathering it to a sullen gray, while a couple of sodden “No Trespassing” signs clung forlornly to its face. The graceful arches above only accentuated how ugly and out of place the makeshift wall looked—a blunt scar across the hotel’s former elegance.
Emile Legrand, silver-haired and in his mid-seventies, immaculately dressed, with polished shoes gleaming in the dim light, stood before it, looking completely out of place. Fiddling with his large key ring, he unlocked the heavy padlock securing the reinforced pedestrian door cut into one side of the barrier. He pushed the sturdy opening open, stepped through, and promptly locked it again from the inside. “One can never be too careful.” They now stood at the bottom of the wide stone stairway leading to the Imperial’s front entrance. Primarily glass and framed in ornate bronze, the doors had a grandeur and weight befitting the hotel’s name. Extracting another key from his coat pocket—one made of matching bronze—Emile climbed the steps and unlocked the entrance. Taking hold of one of the large gilded handles, he pulled it open, allowing him, with his belongings, to pass through. Emile followed right behind.
They moved up a short flight of stairs through the entrance, then stopped in the Imperial’s main lobby. “Have you ever seen anything like it?” Legrand asked.
“Never,” he replied. The opulence of the entrance atrium was a sight to behold, but it was only a glimpse of the magnificence that awaited inside. The interior of the Imperial was a vast vault, with ornate columns rising to a mezzanine and a ceiling adorned with glass, a true architectural marvel.
Find this and other great novels on the author's preferred platform. Support original creators!
“No one outside the family and the Heritage Society has seen the Imperial’s interior for some time. Consider it a privilege.” Even at a late hour, with only a few lamps to push back the darkness, ambient light from the city somehow filtered through the architectural glass.
“Remarkable, isn’t it,” said Emile as they moved along, “how a building can appear as if it were alive? That was Karl Von Eberhardt’s genius.” His eyes took it all in. Stone—gray, patterned, and weathered—was the primary building material; it formed the base of walls, railings, steps, and fireplaces. It rose in dense columns, branching at the ceiling into verdant tendrils. Dust hung thick in the air, disturbed only by their footsteps, catching the lamplight like spectral fog. A brass plaque near the concierge desk, half-obscured by cobwebs, read: “Erected 1921 by Karl Von Eberhardt, Architect Eternal.”
Unlike the man behind him, Emile walked with a brisk clip. He stopped and turned his back to the elevator doors, waiting impatiently. He walked with a slight limp, finding it daunting to keep up. It wasn’t just an old injury slowing him down. It was the sights. He gazed at the ceilings, at the cast-concrete figures—peacocks, turtles, and scarabs. When he caught up, his employer pushed a button.
“You’ll notice the arrow indicating the floors doesn’t work. I’d have it fixed, but it’s not worth the cost of repairing. Maybe someday.” The doors, a bronze replica of a Mayan entablature, split in half to allow them to enter. The doors closed, and the car rose.
“You hear it?” Legrand asked. He listened carefully.
“I don’t hear anything.”
“Exactly.” Confused for a moment, he suddenly got it. The elevator ride was impossibly quiet. Filling the silence, Emile hummed an old Beatles song, making the rest of the ride painful. Legrand’s humming wavered for a split second, catching the new caretaker’s hideous visage in the brass—a large and hulking man, too, which added to the menace. The discomfort of being confined together was palpable. To bear it, he trained his eyes to the floor, studying the exposed steel at the toe of his boots—sad old things. At least now he could afford to replace them.
When they opened again, they moved down the hall and stepped into the living room. “This is where you’ll be staying,” Emile said, flipping a switch. A lamp in the corner turned on, casting a soft, warm glow over the room. “I trust you’ll find it suitable.” The caretaker’s apartment was a luxurious space that exceeded his expectations.
“It’s… It’s beautiful,” he stammered, his voice raspy and soft.
“If it’s not to your taste, lodge anywhere you like, in one of the Presidential suites if it pleases you.” Emile held up the enormous key ring, singling out one skeleton key. “This gives you complete access to every door, nook, and cranny the Imperial holds… the one exception, the Penthouse. No one has access up there, not even yours truly.”
***
They were back where they started, outside the front gate. He stood in the rain while Emile was sheltered in the warmth of his Jag. V12 engine purring like a big cat, the window partially down, his boss glared at a shirtless homeless man across the street. “A dog has more sense,” he grumbled, focusing his gaze back toward him. “The Imperial is an architectural treasure, not a crack house in waiting. Partly, you’re here to ensure that never happens. No squatters or uninvited guests are allowed on the premises. Is that clear?”
“Absolutely.”
“Good. There’s a desk in the manager’s office. In one of the drawers, you’ll find something to assist you in that regard.”
“I’ll guard her with my life.”
“Very good.” The Jag’s window closed, then opened again. “One more thing.”
“Sir.”
“There are no emergency lights whatsoever, so carry a flashlight with you at all times. And if you should find yourself in the sub-basement, be careful not to get lost or locked in… because down there, you can holler till you’re blue in the face, no one is going to hear you scream.”
Emile’s window rolled up, and the coupe drove off, accelerating—the engine’s sound a sonorous melody reverberating against a backdrop of urban blight and despair.
Almost as soon as the Jaguar’s taillights had disappeared, the rain stopped, allowing him to walk the property grounds and survey the neighborhood. The surrounding buildings had been erected roughly in the same era, but unlike the hotel, time had been cruel to these brick-and-mortar structures. All were boarded up, their windows shattered and stained, raked with graffiti. The Imperial, in contrast, stood unmolested—regal.
After Greene’s first tour inside the Imperial, what has you most intrigued (or worried)?
What has you most intrigued (or worried)?
