Sher pulled herself up to the edge of a dirty oak floor with a ceiling nearly as high as a barn. When she did not see or hear anyone, she swung her legs out of the hole. The woman and Kristin emerged. Dust blanketed the woodwork, a hefty oak table, three matching oak dining room chairs, and an art deco slip shade hanging in front of a chestnut-colored built-in buffet. Along the north wall stood a chest-high gleaming wood bar with a brass foot rail along the bottom. Life-size framed photos of Betty Grable hung from the brick walls. Six dusty mattresses were strewn about the room. The woman whistled between her teeth. “Flophouse? Whorehouse?” she asked, standing next to the trap door to have a quick escape if needed. “Heard about these tunnels in St. Paul. Knew an old bag who said she’d run
