“So much for your room with a view, Baker,” Edge says. “And so much for room service.”
The plastic ties have been cut away from our wrists. We’ve been transported down inside a basement underneath the old Harmony Hotel. Now, rather than loose plastic ties, duct tape tightly binds our wrists behind our backs. It binds our ankles to the two front legs of the metal chairs we’ve been seated in. The walls are concrete block covered in areas of brown, nearly black, mold. The floor is gray concrete and cracked in places. There’s a drain set in the middle of the floor and some rust colored stains that surround the metal drain cap. The place smells like cat piss and sweat, and I can’t shake the feeling that more than one man or woman has died down here. Maybe Dutch Schultz himself killed some of h
