Goodbye to Beekman Place: A Novel

Prologue

The Night in Question

I’m not one of those alcoholics who defends himself by saying I can quit whenever I want. Let me make this perfectly clear: I have absolutely no desire to stop drinking. I know its bad for my health, but I’ve always been a functional drunk, much stronger than the weepy, self-loathing victims at AA meetings. Drinking has not ruined my life, nor am I Nicholas Cage from Leaving Las Vegas. I’m at my best with a good whiskey buzz, and as far as the city gay scene is concerned, I’m just one of the boys.

Quite frankly, I need to drink. I don’t feel like a man without it. Alcohol does more than just lower my inhibitions: it excites me and brings me to life, allowing the same clarity for day that I have at night. I don’t know many gay men with the courage to face their full potential. Mine may be liquid courage, but at least I’m able to admit that.

You know, if it weren’t for liquid courage, I never would have noticed the elevator in the Beekman Place lobby . . .

Peoria, Illinois

1919

The hissing cat stood in the center of the elevator doors, back arched, tail curled forward, front paw poised as though ready to strike. Its body was a stylized silhouette, a featureless insignia void of specific detail, but clear in both its shape and stance. The cat had been created to fit perfectly within a circle, two pieces that came together to form a designer’s logo when the doors were fully closed.

In the lobby beyond the elevator, a New Year’s gala was in full swing. The dance floor swirled with black tuxedos, white collars, feathered headbands, and beaded dresses. Waiters carried trays on their fingertips. Ladies smiled devilishly as men gripped their shoulders, pulling them in close. It was a night to remember for all in attendance, and that very reason made the crowd feel hot, alive.

But then it began.

The crystal pendants dangling from the Tiffany chandeliers clinked like wind chimes, loud enough to slow movement on the dance floor. Hands were released as couples stepped back, separating. Faces turned upward, worried. The leader of the jazz band called for silence, and a hush fell over the Beekman Place lobby.

Shh!

Stop talking and just listen . . .

When plaster dust started to fall, all eyes turned toward the elevator. A rumbling noise came from somewhere above the ceiling, as though someone were rolling bowling balls down the hallway of one of the uppermost floors. The noise grew progressively louder, as if the balls were getting closer, picking up speed—first a rumble, then a gallop, then, over a period of about thirty seconds, a roar. The sound from above now overpowered the room. It was clear something had gone terribly wrong with the elevator. Nervous guests instinctively backed away. The screeching from within the wall could have easily been mistaken for a Chicago ‘L’, with metal straining against metal and something very heavy slamming dangerously against the support beams.

There was absolutely no time to run

The hissing cat logo exploded outward in an electric spasm of white. Panicked guests screamed as the air suddenly filled with shards of marble, chrome, and broken glass. An Erte statue toppled from its pedestal, shattering into pieces on the black and white tiled floor. At the moment of impact, the elevator cabin crashed into the lobby, skidding on its side like a fallen, injured ice skater.

It came to rest in the middle of the crowd.

* * *

Alarm bells rang and the fire sprinklers snapped on, drenching the party in cold water. With a haze of plaster dust still hanging in the air, frightened guests dropped their drinks and ran toward the exits. They were followed by musicians shedding their instruments like clothing. In less than a minute, the party became a mob; but despite the commotion, Libby maintained her cool. A sharp old woman in a black Chanel cocktail dress, Libby shot dirty looks at those fleeing before noticing the waiters were about to follow.

Then she looked pissed.

The hotel’s safe, ya fuckin’ cowards! Libby yelled. It’s just the goddamn elevator! She glared at them in disgust for a moment before taking a few steps toward the elevator cabin. One of its doors had fallen open.

There was someone inside.

Libby immediately took control. YOU, call the fire department! she barked at a busboy. And YOU, she pointed at another, call an ambulance! She anchored herself between the door and waitstaff. Gesturing at the wreck, she raised her hands angrily to every employee within earshot. The rest of ya, get your asses over here and get this thing open! NOW, if ya sons of bitches expect to get paid!

The staff snapped into action.

Peeling off her headscarf and using it to wipe the wet makeup off her face, Libby glared first at the wreck, then at the lobby doors where guests were trampling each other in an effort to leave. Her eyes then moved to the far end of the hall, where an old man stood in a doorway, having somehow managed to stay clear of the commotion. His tuxedo is dry, Libby couldn’t help but notice. And Bill Roanoke wasn’t watching the events. He was watching her.

It was time for a dose of reality.

You weak, timid, spineless excuse for a man, Libby growled, confronting him. How can ya just stand here like this? How can ya just stand here and do nothing? Did ya happen to notice what just happened? Did ya happen to notice that we’ve got a bit of a problem here? She snapped her fingers by his face. Hel-lo, Mr. Roanoke. Is there anybody in there?

Behind her in the lobby, a waiter had just managed to pry the elevator’s second door open, but he quickly fell backward, a queasy look on his face. A pool of red formed on the tile beneath his shoes. He covered his mouth with his hand.

Ya got a solution here, Bill? Libby pressed. Ya got anything to say at all? A little direction, maybe? Anything you’d like us to do here? Call the police? Call an ambulance? Would you like us to grab a broom and dustpan, maybe?

She scowled and waited for a response.

Nothing.

The elderly man just shook his head and took a drag from his clove cigarette, pissing her off even more.

Hey! Deer in headlights! Am I talking to myself, here? Libby yelled. She knocked on his forehead like a door. In case ya haven’t noticed, this would be a really good time for the Big Guy’s advice! A little action here, Bill? A little managerial take-charge mojo?

With the ruined party behind her, Libby got in Roanoke’s face. "This is your cue, Bill. There is literally a fire burning under your ASS!"

Still nothing.

It was as if Bill Roanoke was watching a movie, detached.

* * *

Across the room a bartender yelled out that he needed a doctor—now. With the desk phone still to his ear, a bellman yelled back that the firemen were on their way and the operator was calling for an ambulance. Smoke had started to rise from within the elevator shaft. Sparks from dangling electrical wires popped in the sprinklers like paparazi flashbulbs.

Someone threw a chair through a window. A woman in the corner had blood gushing from her temple. And somewhere near the exit, a drunken man was crying, He’s gone, he’s gone…

And then Libby knew.

* * *

She turned around when a hand touched her shoulder. She recognized the guest immediately, and even with the circumstances, Libby couldn’t help but smile. Well, look what the cat dragged in, she cackled. Welcome to Beekman Place!

In the rain of the sprinklers, water rolled off her face like sweat.

"And let me be the first to say, It’s about fuckin’ time!"

Part One

Broken People

One

It Always Starts With a Kidnapping

I hate being old.

I hate waking up and farting as soon as I get out of bed in the morning, and I hate how puffy my face looks in the bathroom mirror when I pick the crust from the corners of my eyes. I hate having to sometimes take the stairs one at a time when I first come down to the kitchen, and I hate when the sunrise catches my reflection in the living room TV just right, reminding me to stand up straight and stop slouching like an old woman.

I really hate how my first cup of coffee always makes me shit.

When I was younger, my family said I resembled my father when he was my age. You’ve got your dad’s eyes and hair color, they said, and when you smile, your dimples fold the same way his did. You’ve got his cheek bones.

I’ll admit, there are times when I see Father’s face looking back at me in the mirror, but I don’t see a 38-year-old man anymore; I see his reflection as he is right now, a man in his sixties who is approaching the later phases of life.

I have no idea how I lost eleven years . . .

Peoria, Illinois

1980

The glowing orange letters of the Landmark Cinema marquee shimmered like a campfire on a cold February night. The sky was a sheet of frozen black glass, a dark window spattered with dusty blue stars and clouds that looked like crumbled wax paper. In the distance, the rising moon hung just above the riverfront. It peered cautiously over the tips of the skeletal trees and triangular shadows of the old downtown skyline.

A white-trashy girl, with heavy blue eyeshadow and a failed attempt at Farah Fawcett hair, walked past the theater’s entrance with her hands shoved deep into the pockets of a hunting jacket that smelled like Mennen. The coat was far too big for her, and wearing it made her feel like a Weeble.

Before her shift, her boyfriend had warned her it was going to snow that night and she’d better wear something warmer if she would be working outside. As usual she didn’t listen, which had really pissed him off, starting a fight as he drove her to work and making him peel his tires as he sped off. Though she would never give him the satisfaction of knowing he was right, the dropping temperature had forced her to borrow a jacket from one of the fat guys who worked the window, giving him the wrong idea. She tried not to look his direction when she quickly glanced at the box office clock.

Thank God it’s almost over, she thought.

The same thing every Saturday night, again and again and again.

* * *

The usherette picked ticket stubs and discarded popcorn containers from the sidewalk while the cars arriving for the last movie circled the parking lot, looking for spaces nearer the building. A brown van gunned its engine, completely disregarding the posted 5 MPH limit, which left the girl coughing in a cloud of hot exhaust when it raced by.

A growing line of people had gathered in front of the box office now, teenagers mostly and young adults in their early-to mid-twenties. Many of the teens were dressed like it was still Halloween, and the girl even saw one freshman boy shivering in fishnet stockings under his long coat. He was holding a newspaper in front of his crotch, like an old man at a porno theater.

The girl noticed almost everyone in line was carrying bread, rice, squirt guns, and toilet paper. Shit, I’m gonna be cleaning up half the night, she thought. The steam from her breath lingered in the air like smoke. Fuck, I hate Rocky Horror night.

A few minutes passed, and the line edged through the lobby. A few last-minute stragglers ran in from their cars, coughing marijuana smoke. The usherette followed behind them, but soon returned with a broom and small plastic dustpan.

From inside his idling car, Rich Pelonis watched her intently.

* * *

The Cadillac’s glistening hood ornament, a football field’s distance from her dashboard, peered out across the parking lot, a silhouette against a horizon of black paint and chrome. From his vantage point in the car, the hood ornament was the only stationary object in sight. The rest of his vision swirled in blurry waves of light, color, and rye.

Shutting his eyes, Rich swallowed another mouthful of whiskey and Coke, relishing the burn in his throat. When he opened his eyes again, the dashboard’s instrument panel came back into focus, its amber numbers glowing in the dark. Gary Newman’s Cars sang out from the radio.

Here in this car . . . I am safe from it all . . .

I can close every door . . .

It’s the way that I live . . . in this car . . .

Rich had loved this song since he was a boy. He settled back to enjoy the music while there was still time to kill.

He was finally starting to relax.

* * *

Rich hated Peoria. It was as shitty and rural as rural shit towns got. He had spent his entire life living in the Chicago area, and as far as he was concerned, downstate Illinois meant Joliet or Aurora.

Peoria.

What the fuck am I doing here? he wondered.

It had taken three solid hours just to drive to this god-forsaken place, and that wasn’t counting the extra forty minutes he’d spent getting out of the city and past the construction where the tollway joined I-55. Traffic had finally leveled out once he was south of the old Joliet Arsenal, but then the landscape changed abruptly, growing flat, dark, and lonely.

For the next two and a half hours, Rich shared the highway with little more than eighteen-wheelers and the occasional Chevy pickup. He traveled through some of the smallest places he’d ever seen, tiny towns with farmer names like Dwight and Odell.

The countryside grew even quieter when he was forced to leave the highway and move to a smaller state route. There was no major interstate connecting Peoria to Chicago.

His eyes glued to the clock, Rich nervously fiddled with a credit card, twirling it between his fingers. The card was black and had the phrase Shh, No Talking! beneath the circular logo of a hissing cat. The name BILL ROANOKE was embossed in gold letters above the account number.

Rich took another swig from his flask before riveting his eyes back onto the dashboard clock.

It’s almost time.

* * *

Drinking and driving was a dangerous thing for Rich to do these days, especially considering what happened to him in Orland Park a few years ago.

Back in 2005, two years ago from Rich’s point of view, he had been a manager in training at a local Outback Steakhouse and was engaged to Jolynn, a waitress he met at the restaurant. When Jolynn got pregnant, as a courtesy Rich tried not to drink in front of her, but that was a hard thing to do with so many friends who hit the bars after work. One night his buddies came in while he was bartending and twisted his arm until he agreed to join them at Salerno’s, a nearby tavern, after his shift. Later, the party had been ready to move on to a different location when Jolynn called his cell, insisting he come home.

It took some doing, but Rich convinced her to join him at the next stop.

Forty minutes later, Jolynn had pulled into Salerno’s parking lot, just in time to see Rich’s taillights leaving. She followed, but because of traffic, she was several minutes behind him, far enough away so he never saw the accident.

A homeless man had stumbled into the oncoming lane and was struck by a car. The impact threw the man into Jolynn’s path, and his body bounced off her hood with a thump. The police assured the expectant mother that she, herself, wasn’t responsible for the death, but she had naturally become hysterical and desperately tried to reach her fiance.

But Rich never answered his phone.

In fact, he didn’t come home that night at all.

Rich focused on the clock again.

* * *

Rich hated the weeks that followed Jolynn’s accident. Her doctor made her stop working for the remainder of her pregnancy, putting additional stress on him to cover all their bills himself. To make matters worse, Jolynn seemed to become needy and insecure overnight, frequently calling him at the restaurant, asking when he was coming home.

It was almost like she was trying to push him away, Rich told Jolynn the night he left her, shoving her fat ass onto the bed when she was crying, trying to hug him. Clinging to him. Suffocating him.

Stupid bitch.

Using an unborn kid to make him feel bad.

And if she was acting that way now, what would she be like in a few years?

Rich could only imagine how tough things would be if Jolynn had been his wife the night his drinking had really gotten him into trouble.

Someone’s coming out.

* * *

Crouching in his seat, Rich watched as the the parking lot slowly filled with people. The new Pacino movie Cruising had just let out, and as was the case for any film the Godfather star appeared in, attendance was good—very good on opening weekend. But Cruising’s gay-themed plot wasn’t having the same success as Pacino’s other films, and Rich could see disappointment in the 1980s audience. From behind the steering wheel, he watched as a group of good ol’ boys strutted by, obviously pissed about having paid for that movie.

That was fucking sick, one of them complained. "I mean, I was expecting Dog Day Afternoon, you know?"

"Or The Godfather," someone else said.

Fucking faggot Godfather.

Al Pacino ain’t no queer!

Pacino? I thought it was De Niro!

It’s those damn Rocky Horror faggots, that’s what it is.

Same thing every Saturday night, again and again and again.

Men wearing women’s clothes.

Or dressed like the goddamn Village People!

We should get our money back, one guy said, lighting a smoke. Tell the big guy in the window that it wasn’t what we thought it was going to be. He’s the one in charge, right?

You mean the manager?

Yeah.

Screw that. I need a goddamn beer.

Hey, check out this Firebird. One of the men stooped down to admire the Trans Am’s grille, just a few feet from Rich’s Cadillac. What do you think she’s got? A 350?

Whaaaat do you think she’s got, a three-fifteeeeee? someone mocked. Shit, Donnie, let’s go. It’s quarter Bud night at Foxy’s, and I got me a roll of quarters in my pocket.

Sophomoric laughter worked its way through the group.

C’mon, Donnie!

Donnie stood up but hesitated when he noticed the Caddy’s proximity to the Pontiac. Rich had parked so close to the Trans Am that its driver’s side was inaccessible. Neither the Pontiac’s driver’s door nor the Cadillac’s passenger door could be opened.

Nice parking job, Donnie said snidely to Rich, then caught up with his friends before Rich had a chance to respond.

Rich let it go.

No need to start a fight here, he thought, returning his gaze to the clock. Without even realizing he was doing it, he wiped his clammy hands on the lap of his jeans.

I am scared to do this.

* * *

From across the parking lot, a brown van started its engine. It was a 1970s-style conversion van, the same one that had passed the usherette earlier. It turned into the aisle and reparked in the newly vacated space on the passenger side of the Trans Am. Like the Cadillac, the vehicle blocked access to the Pontiac’s door. The van shut its engine, and its driver—a man in his late twenties with a shaved head and biker jacket—gave Rich a nod before disappearing into the back.

Despite the cold, Rich felt hot and uncomfortable, probably from the whiskey. He turned off the heat and cracked open the sunroof. His thoughts returned to the event which had brought him here tonight, the Palos Heights drunk driving accident where Rich had done far more than just injure another driver. That night’s repercussions had changed his life completely.

He’s coming out now.

* * *

In an instant, Rich’s body went numb.

The kid leaving the Landmark was exactly where he was supposed to be.

Glancing at the van, Rich couldn’t see the skinhead, but he knew his partner was there, watching from behind one of the darkened windows.

Rich crouched in the car in silence.

* * *

A young man in his twenties had just stepped onto the sidewalk.

He was a typical midwestern closet case, with feathered brown hair and a black leather jacket. The kid had obviously enjoyed the movie. He still had a hard-on and was trying to hide it with his coat. Not wanting to be seen, he made a beeline for his Trans Am.

He didn’t even look up until he was directly in front of Rich’s Eldorado.

* * *

Blondie’s One Way Or Another blared from the dashboard radio as the usherette opened the door to her boyfriend’s Grand Torino. In yet another example of how much he loved his car more than her, she was not allowed to smoke inside, and was forced to take one last drag before flicking her cigarette into the parking lot.

His car is not that great, she thought.

And as the butt hit the pavement in a puff of orange sparks, the girl noticed two men closing the trunk of an idling Cadillac.

She gave them no thought.

The music faded as the Torino pulled away.

* * *

A plume of white exhaust lingered in the air where the Eldorado had been. Its blinkers flashed amber when it turned right on University Street, heading uptown.

The brown van lingered behind a few minutes while the skinhead made sure that no one had followed. Adjusting the rearview mirror, he admired the padlock securing the chain around his neck. He knew exactly what was expected of him tonight, and he was ready to make sure it happened.

Five minutes later, the van left the theater. The parking lot was as quiet as an empty movie set.

* * *

The next day, while red and blue police lights flashed in front of the old Beekman Place Hotel, the officers down the street at the Landmark unlocked the Trans Am with ease. William Delorenzo’s keys had been intentionally left in plain sight.

And they were surprisingly clean, considering the crime scene’s savagery.

Two

Next Comes the Alcoholic Writer

I wish there was a way that I could feel normal without drinking. A way to stop the anxiety, you know? The tightness in my chest, and the fear of speaking my mind.

And having said that, I really wish I could write without alcohol. To sit down and type without a glass of Chardonnay . . . or for those stories that really hit close to home, a big tumbler of whiskey with an ice-to-liquid ratio that could take down a horse, if used in different circumstances.

Of course it’s not my fault, you know.

Not the drinking itself, but the whole writng stereotype we all see on TV.

I mean, whenever we see a character writing a book, he’s always depicted at a small wooden desk, with a lamp, a cigarette, a bottle and a glass. It always seems to be night. The writer is always good looking, in a scruffy sort of way. But even more important, the writer types with a fierce look of confidence, smiling when he’s finished, and toasting himself at the end.

For me though, the story can’t even begin until I have a buzz going . . .

Peoria, Illinois

Twenty-Seven Years Later

The old Cadillac’s hood ornament bounced up and down like a buoy, exaggerating the potholes’ severity and confirming this was not a good place for 27-year-old air suspension. This stretch of Roanoke Avenue was still paved with bricks, and Frankie never understood why the city hadn’t covered the surface with concrete as they had done to all the other streets this close to downtown.

Easy Olivia, Frankie thought. There’s no other road to take.

From above, the old trees reached over the street like fingers, obscuring the road in an arthritic canopy of yellow, orange, red, and crisp green. The steep angled attics of the old Roanoke homes marked his progress like watchtowers, looming over his car from high above the street. With the exception of clouds to the north, the October sky was icicle blue.

Inside the car, the damp autumn air felt colder than it really was. Frankie inhaled deeply, taking in the musky aroma of wood and wet earth. After a quick glance over his shoulder, he polished off the last of his flask before stashing it under the seat. His dashboard clock read 11:23, and every so often the sun would break through just long enough to warm his shoulders through the open sunroof. In a few short weeks, it would be too chilly to drive with the windows open at all. It was already too cold in Chicago, and Frankie was amazed at what a difference a mere three hours’ drive had made in the weather.

A yellow leaf fluttered through his sunroof.

* * *

He had been away from Chicago only a little over four hours now, and already he missed her skyline’s reflection on the cold, choppy water of Lake Michigan. Though Frankie had actually grown up in Peoria, he’d left there in 1996 when he reached his mid-twenties. Peoria was a quaint little town with an air of stability that was perfect for a wife and kids: good schools, clean roads, subdivisions with homeowners’ associations. It was more a place to raise a family than a home for a single, 38-year-old gay man who had always been a city boy at heart.

It never was my city, he thought.

Peoria definitely had the appearance of a real city in places, especially when driving through its old bluffside neighborhoods, where Chicago-style homes overlooked a small downtown with surprisingly large-scale buildings. But its similarities to Chicago were only in appearance. Its residents spoke with distinct regional drawls, most having spent their entire lives in the central midwestern corridor. When he looked in the mirror eleven years ago, Frankie knew he didn’t belong in this place, and once he left, he never looked back.

Actually, that’s not quite true.

* * *

Frankie had indeed looked back on many occasions, especially since joining OldPlaces Magazine, a job that took him to numerous small midwestern cities in Illinois, Wisconsin, Indiana, Iowa, Missouri, and occasionally, Minnesota. He didn’t mind the travel. It got him out of the office two or three times a month, and he enjoyed taking his old Caddy on road trips, filling her big gas tank on the company credit card.

Small towns were best enjoyed in small doses, in surgical strikes where Frankie was deployed, inserted, and quickly removed. He had grown proficient at getting research done on his computer, and when he left Chicago to find the human sides of his subjects, he worked as swiftly as a private investigator, scheduling interviews, snapping pictures, and taking notes, synopsizing his findings later in the comfort of his office, with the real city in the window behind him.

OldPlaces.com was a Chicago-based online magazine that specialized in the forgotten Midwest. Its byline read, a publication that remembers the old places hidden all around us, from which the modern world was built.

The magazine sounded a lot loftier than it really was, though, considering it had started on a mimeograph machine, the pet project of an Oak Park church volunteer. OldPlaces was a Christian publication, a fact that had caused near riotous laughter when Frankie had first told the guys at the Cell Block about his new gig. Seriously, he’d told them, "it started as a church pamphlet. There was this little old lady making a magazine in the goddamn rectory basement, and she printed off copies like ads for a bake sale. And to think, she hired me!"

But Frankie was wrong to call Tina Collins, his boss, a little old lady. Though she might have been in her fifties, she had proved to be as hip to modern technology as any high school teenager. At her insistance, OldPlaces was one of the first publications of its kind to move to the web in the mid-1990s. OldPlaces still printed a monthly paper copy for elderly readers, but like any good website, it provided expanded information online. Tina also insisted that Norton, her husband who just happened to be the church pastor, encourage his flock to buy computers for their households if they didn’t already own one. The internet is the backbone of the modern world, Tina told the women who lingered after service to chat. And it’s your duty as parents to know what’s going on in your house, on your living room computer, and in your children’s bedrooms.

Mrs. Collins was obviously alluding to smut, but the fact that computers could also receive her magazine was just one of God’s little miracles.

* * *

Rounding the next curve, the treeline broke for a moment, allowing Frankie a panoramic view of the downtown skyline below. Peoria sat in a lush, tree-covered valley, spanning several miles along the Illinois River.

Peoria always came as a surprise to travelers unfamiliar with the area. They’d drive for hours through endless miles of small towns, cornfields and pig farms, then BAM! The trees thickened, the horizon dipped downward, and a riverfront skyline appeared out of nowhere, with twin condominium towers that looked hauntingly like the former World Trade Center. When compared to the surrounding farm towns, Peoria was the closest thing locals had to a real city. It had a skyline, a big bridge, a riverboat casino, and even a Holidome.

A stop sign appeared and Roanoke Avenue ended at Hamilton Boulevard. Frankie leaned forward to check for oncoming cars, then across the street to where Beekman Place faced the mouth of Roanoke Avenue. One of the oldest streets in Peoria, Hamilton sloped sharply toward the river in two long concrete stretches separated by a grassy embankment in the middle. Ninety years ago, Hamilton had been one of the busiest roads in town. Now in less than two minutes, Frankie had circled the grass and found a parking spot across the street.

He grabbed his backpack before locking the Eldorado.

And then he looked up.

* * *

Like a rocket, the old hotel shot upward. Her sleek marble exterior came out of nowhere on what was a quiet residential street. She was twelve stories tall, white and seafoam green, with Art Deco lines and windows whose frames came together in herringbone starbursts. She was a tower on the hill and completely out of place when compared to everything else in the neighborhood. Looking up from the sidewalk, Frankie felt the same admiration as when he stood at the base of the Carbide & Carbon Building on Michigan Avenue, his favorite Chicago skyscraper.

A semicircle driveway allowed cars to pull up to her lobby, but an exterior stairway cut directly across the grass, giving visitors sidewalk access as well. Frankie climbed the stairs, crossed the drive, then went up a second set of marble stairs to the building’s entrance under a striped awning. Before he could even knock, the lobby’s beveled glass door swung open and a little old lady in a black cocktail dress scampered out.

Frankie Downs! the woman cackled, smiling broadly and opening her arms for a hug. I’m Libby. Welcome to Beekman Place!

* * *

The ice loudly sloshed within the chrome decanter as Libby shook it with the skill of having done so many times before. Two martini glasses sat on the bar—Waterford, Frankie noticed, identical to a set he had seen at Marshall Field’s but didn’t dare risk his credit rating to buy.

Now, I know that bathtub gin was all the rage when this place was built, Libby said, pouring two Manhattans, "but there’s something to be said about being too authentic, don’t you think? Besides, if I had to size you up, I’d call you a whiskey man. And a drink should at least have some color, right?"

Libby, Frankie said in half-assed protest. It’s a little early-

To hell it is! she cut him off. It’s never too early for a good buzz.

Frankie smirked. It would be rude to contradict the hostess.

I thought you’d agree, Libby smiled broadly. Sorry about not properly garnishing your beverage, but cherries take up so much room in such a tiny glass.

I don’t like small glasses, Libby.

I like the way you think, Mr. Downs. Cheers.

The two clinked glasses. Libby downed her cocktail in a single gulp. Frankie took a healthy swig from his, but left enough behind to swirl around while he talked.

So, how long has this building been called Beekman Place? he asked, noticing the framed poster of Angela Lansbury in Mame hanging behind the bar. I know it was built in the late teens, but I thought Patrick Dennis’ novel didn’t come out until the ’50s.

"How long has she been called Beekman Place," Libby corrected.

Pardon?

"She, Libby said again, sounding like a school teacher. The hotel is a grand lady, so we call her she. Like a fine ship or a beautiful car. Pulling out a pack of Bensen & Hedges, Libby twisted one into a shiny black holder. That old Caddy of yours outside on the street. I’ll bet she’s not it to you, is she? I’ll bet she’s a she."

She’s a she alright, Frankie said, knowing exactly what the old woman meant.

What’s her name? Libby asked.

Olivia.

Olivia? Libby repeated, intrigued. Now, there’s a name with a story. I’d better freshen our cocktails while you tell it.

Lighting her cigarette from a pack of bar matches, Libby held the holder between her teeth, reminding Frankie of Bergis Meredith as the Penguin on Batman.

Finish your glass Mr. Downs, and tell me about your Olivia.

Olivia is the first Cadillac I’ve owned myself, Frankie began, "and I love her more than any other Cadillac I’ve ever seen, including the new models. As a kid, I grew up with Cadillacs, starting in 1975 and going through 1984. We weren’t rich by any means, but Father always made sure Mother had a really nice car. He called them ca-dilly-acts.

We kept each one for two years, he continued, then traded them in around the time when the body styles changed. We had a couple of DeVilles, an old Fleetwood diesel, and a really pretty white Seville, with one of those slanted trunks like a Rolls Royce.

I had one of those, Libby recalled fondly. "It was two-toned, like a goddamn pimp car. Gold and this nasty cream color. I thought I was riding in style back then, but when I think about it now, I must have looked like a hooker. And before you ask, that car was an it."

The one Cadillac we didn’t have when I was a kid was the Eldorado, Frankie went on. I guess it was because we were a family of four, and Eldorados only had two doors. Hard when you’ve got kids in the back seat. I’ve always loved Eldorados, at least until ’86 when they started to round the corners. It was the only model I never got to ride in, so I think that’s why I bought one when I was older. All grown men have play cars. Some have Corvettes, others have Cameros. I have a 1980 Cadillac Eldorado, black on the outside, red leather on the inside.

Now that’s class. Libby was being facetious. She pushed a fresh drink toward Frankie. She puffed her cigarette and stirred her Manhattan with her fingers. "And you call your midlife crisis car Olivia becaaaause…"

"Because one of the first songs I heard on her radio was Olivia Newton John’s Magic, Frankie admitted. It’s one of the songs from Xanadu, with those early ’80s synthesizers and that late disco sound. What can I say? The song was perfect, especially through those old Delco speakers. And as I sat in the car and listened to Magic, I said to my car, ‘Your name is Olivia.’"

Frankie smiled broadly and settled back in the white leather bar stool. Was it all that you were hoping for, Libby?

All that and much more, Mr. Downs.

So can we talk about the hotel now, please? Frankie asked. Libby nodded and came around the bar to sit next to him. Opening his backpack, Frankie set his Mac laptop on the counter. He angled it so Libby could see the screen.

You never answered me about the name, he said. When was the name changed to Beekman Place?

It was never changed, Libby said. She’s always been called that.

Even before the movie? Before the book?

That’s what I said.

Oh, come on now, Libby, Frankie was doubtful. "It’s a cute little advertising ploy, and you’re not going to lose points with me over it. We both know Mame the musical and Auntie Mame the story are about the same crazy old woman who lived in 1920s Manhattan."

Are you calling me a crazy old woman? Libby faked a pout.

Yes I am, and quit changing the subject, Frankie teased. In all the Mame stories—the books, the plays, and the movies—Mame Dennis lived at Beekman Place in Manhattan, which, as you can find in any city record, was a real building that was built in the ’20s.

So what’s the problem? Libby asked. Lots of buildings end up having the same names. The Grand Hotel. The Corner Bar. Beekman Place in Peoria was probably named after Beekman Place in New York.

But that’s where the timeline doesn’t make sense. Frankie clicked on a folder labeled Hotel History. Photos of Beekman Place in New York popped onto the screen, along with the property’s history and important events. Frankie scrolled down to the construction date. The building was completed in 1929.

So?

He opened a second folder with similar records on Libby’s building.

Construction began on The Beekman Place Hotel—that is, this building here on Hamilton Boulevard—in the spring of 1919, and it was finished in time for a New Year’s Eve opening. He waited for this to sink in. "Libby, I’m talking New Years Eve nineteen-nineteen."

It must have been quite a party, she said, raising her glass then taking a drink. Frankie glared at her.

What?

Well, in addition to being built almost ten years before the New York building, Frankie continued, do you realize this hotel was finished in less than a year? A modern hotel can’t be built that fast, let alone a hotel built almost ninety years ago.

They must have had some awfully hard workers, Libby crossed her legs and leaned back on the bar. Did they have Mexicans back then?

Frankie cringed.

Libby patted him on the knee. "Oh, I’m just kidding with you, Mr. Downs. Don’t get your panties in a bunch. So, both buildings have the same name. So what? And who the hell can trust records that are almost a hundred years old? I’m nearly a hundred. Do you trust me?"

Do you really want me to answer that? Frankie shot back.

Not until I’ve had another cocktail. Libby hopped off her stool. Returning to the back of the bar, she swept up the dirty glass, emptied the ashtray, and with the speed of an experienced bartender, deployed fresh drinks.

Frankie watched her mix up enough for six people.

Forget the Penguin, he thought. She’s goddamn Ruth Gordon from Rosemary’s Baby.

You want a cigarette? Libby set a clean ashtray on the bar. If my cigarettes are too foofy for you, we keep Marboro Lights back here, if you’re a manly man.

Frankie smiled and reached for his backpack. I’ve got my own, but thanks. He pulled out a cigarette, stuck it in his mouth, and fumbled for his lighter.

Heads up. Libby tossesd him a pack of bar matches.

Thanks. Frankie lit his cigarette then closed the matchbook. He noticed the cover’s logo, a silhouette of a hissing cat in a circle. Shh, No Talking! was written in an Art Deco font above the strike plate.

So, what else do you want to know about my lady? Libby walked around the bar and motioned for him to join her toward the center of the room. You’ll find that I know all her dirty little secrets.

I’m assuming you don’t have a liquor license. Frankie said. So why is the bar fully stocked? He looked at the chrome and glass shelves behind the counter, as packed with liquor as any neighborhood pub. There were also cigarettes for sale.

The bar was part of the hotel when she opened, Libby explained. And I’m kind of a stickler for keeping things the way they’ve always been. The bar technically isn’t open to the public, but the tenants may use it as they wish. It’s like a clubhouse inside the building. Reserve it for parties or grab it when it’s free. All I ask is that you replace whatever you use and clean up the puke.

Libby saw she had said something that struck Frankie’s curiosity. What?

"When you say tenants, you mean the people who live upstairs?" he asked.

Why, yes, Libby replied.

And how long has Beekman Place been an apartment building?

Oh, I don’t know, Libby said. For quite a while, I guess. The rooms were converted to apartments before I got her in 1980.

Do you know how long ago the rooms were converted? Frankie asked.

No, Libby said. "But something tells me you do."

Frankie smiled. The Beekman Place Hotel was opened from December 31, 1919 to December 3, 1933. The entire duration of Prohibition.

So? Libby scoffed. What does that have to do with the apartments?

Frankie clicked on another folder. The screen opened to a record of the building’s status following its days as a hotel.

"Well… this, Libby. It’s what happened to the hotel right after Prohibition ended. Beekman Place only operated as a hotel during the time the 18th Amendment was in force, less a couple weeks in December the first year. The hotel was open exactly from December 10th, 1919 to December 4th, 1933. As soon as Prohibition was repealed, the hotel closed to vacationing guests and reopened as an apartment building. It took only a week. There was almost no down time at all."

Frankie stared at Libby for a reaction, but she just shrugged her shoulders. The building lost her appeal, she said. Why stay here when you could have a party anywhere?

Frankie shook his head. What I mean is, it’s just like how quickly the building itself was constructed. As if the owners had planned for everything, like they knew what was going to happen in advance.

Just sounds like good planning to me. Libby was unphased. Good businessmen. They had a sense for what was going to happen with their investment.

It’s an awful lot of coincidences, Libby.

Does that surprise you?

What?

I said, does that surprise you? Libby repeated, almost defensively. You write about these things all the time in your magazine—strange histories of old neighborhoods, quirky people who lived in the past. Hell, this whole downtown has a crazy history. Why, during the ’20s-

She stopped midsentence. Frankie, do you even know what room we’re in?

By this point, Libby was standing at the center of the bar, directly between Frankie and a large piano on a raised stage. With her heels making deliberate clicks on the tile, she strolled across the black and white terrazzo, past two rows of intimate tables with chairs and white tablecloths. She stopped when she came to the entrance, looking up to where the wall-hugging staircase climbed to a landing with a heavy metal door.

Frankie’s eyes lit up.

We’re in the basement, he realized. A hidden speakeasy!

It was called, appropriately, The Janitor’s Closet, Libby said. Or the JC for short. Beekman Place was built in a time when everyone knew Prohibition was coming, she explained. She was built as a haven. A hotel with hidden amenities. She was a place where you could have a drink and then get a room if you wanted to pass out… or get laid. She winked. And if the owners predicted Prohibition’s end as well as they did its beginning, then who gives a shit? If those owners were alive today, I’d let them handle my stock portfolio. The old woman smiled devilishly.

So, we’re left with this beautiful building, Libby said, and you have a nice little story for your magazine.

Sighing softly, Frankie looked defeated.

Now, let’s grab a fresh drink and let me take you on a proper tour, Libby said. Did you bring a camera?

In my bag, he patted his backpack then stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray on a nearby table.

Libby came around the bar again, setting two iced-tea-sized glasses on the counter, filling them with booze. In case we get thirsty upstairs.

With a fresh glass in hand, Frankie followed his hostess away from the bar, up to the landing, and into the heart of the old Beekman Place Hotel.

Thank God my buzz is starting to kick in, he thought.

* * *

Swinging her hips when she walked, Libby carried herself like a wealthy woman at a fundraiser luncheon. With one hand she used her cigarette holder to point out items of interest; with the other she held her Manhattan in such a way that her charm bracelet hung downward, motionless.

"We call this room the concourse, she explained, but really it’s just the community game room. Sometimes we have parties; sometimes we watch movies. During the holidays, all the boys get together and decorate the Christmas tree, right there in front of the windows facing the street."

The concourse was a sizable hall just off the lobby, opposite the JC. With floor-to-ceiling windows, it got more sunlight than any other room in the hotel, and the draperies were more for aesthetics than function. A grouping of dark green mohair furniture was arranged around the room’s fireplace, and the carpet was the kind of shag one normally only associates with old Hollywood homes. There were so many ferns, Frankie felt like he was in a garden center.

Who are all the boys? he asked, going back to the Christmas tree.

Tenants, mostly, Libby said. And friends of tenants. There are lots of creative people who live here, you know.

Creative boys, you mean, Frankie said, trying to rile her.

Libby smiled politely, unaffected. Well, you’re a creative boy, aren’t you? she said. How else could you write all those wonderfully creative articles?

Before he could answer, Libby changed the subject. You know Mr. Downs, back when the hotel was open, the concourse was a place for guests to relax and play billiards. The windows would be open when the weather was nice, and during the cold months, guests could sit around the fireplace and enjoy the ambiance.

Is that so? Frankie said, conceding. Libby was directing the conversation on her own terms, and there was nothing he could do to change that. He was starting to get better at reading her story, however—recognizing what to believe and when she was embellishing.

It’s open to the lobby—the concourse. Libby continued. Great for people watching. You could see everyone who came into the hotel from here. Movie stars. Politicians. Gangsters.

Like Al Capone? Frankie played along.

Al didn’t get down here very much, Libby said. The Shelton Brothers were our local bootleggers.

The local Al Capones, Frankie got the picture.

They were treated like celebrities when they came to the hotel, Libby told him. They were the ones who kept the liquor flowing, who kept the JC full of famous faces.

Frankie raised an eyebrow. Lots of famous people in those days, Libby?

All kinds, Mr. Downs. The pre-jet jet set.

Even in Peoria? Frankie called her bluff. In Peoria, Illinois?

I believe that’s what I said.

"I don’t know about that, Libby. If given the choice between a Peoria hotel and a hotel in Chicago, I’m thinking I’d choose Chicago. I’m thinking anyone would choose Chicago. Speakeasy or not, there’s something to be said about spending a night in a big city."

As I mentioned before, it depends on what amenities your hotel has to offer.

You mean like prostitutes?

Among other things.

Frankie followed her into the lobby. Like the rest of the building, almost nothing had been changed. The lobby still had the original registration desk, bellhop cubby, and an elegant side office with the word Concierge etched in the center of a beveled glass window.

Ain’t she grand? Libby asked, purposely stopping in the middle of the vast room. She spun on her heel and beamed radiantly, posing like Cleopatra when she gazed upward toward the ceiling’s Egyptian-inspired chandeliers.

Frankie had to agree. Beekman Place in Peoria was nothing like he had expected.

But it’s time to get to the business at hand.

* * *

Libby, what do you know about the man who built the hotel? Frankie asked. I know his name was Bill Roanoke, but I don’t know much else beyond that.

Ah, William, Libby said, as though reminiscing. He was quite a special friend of mine, you know.

Libby, Frankie wondered if Libby was playing or showing signs of demenia. Bill Roanoke must have died in the 1930s.

So?

So, Frankie said. You’re a lovely senior woman, but you can’t tell me that you’re old enough to have known him.

Oh, Libby giggled, "you said senior. Ain’t you sweet?"

And tactful, Frankie added.

And so full of shit, she said bluntly.

Roanoke Avenue was named after Bill Roanoke’s family, Frankie continued. His father owned a number of distilleries in Peoria Heights, not far from here, on the bluff. The family house was literally within walking distance of this hotel.

It sounds like you know quite a bit about him already, Libby mused.

I do, Frankie said, but only the A&E Biography stuff. Wikipedia. I know who he was, who his parents were, where they all came from, and how their money was made. I even know that Bill Roanoke disappeared in the early 1930s, right after Beekman Place closed as a hotel.

He disappeared, you say? Libby seemed intrigued.

As soon as Beekman Place reopened as apartments, Frankie said.

Zoinks, Frankie. Looks like you and Scooby have a mystery to solve.

Anything you’d like to offer on the matter? Frankie tried to keep on point. Anything you might have overheard in the last twenty years? Talking to neighbors? Things you learned from the other homeowners in the area?

You mean while I’m gossiping over the fence with the little old lady who lives nextdoor with her 47 cats? Libby asked.

Your words, not mine, Frankie grinned.

"Do I really look like a desperate housewife, Mr. Downs? Standing in the yard with a big hat and a pair of gardening gloves, bored to the point where I’d talk to anyone just for company? You may find this hard to believe, but just because I’m a senior woman doesn’t mean I live my life like an old fart. I feel as young today as I did when I was in my twenties. I’ve got better things to do with my time than gossip."

Frankie found Libby rather amusing.

Well, I’ll admit you don’t strike me as a bingo.player, he said, but you also don’t strike me as an agoraphobe who never leaves the house. Very honestly, I’m surprised to find a person like you living in Peoria at all. Has anyone ever told you that you’d fit in well in Chicago?

Has anyone ever called you pushy? Libby fired back, playfully. It sounds like you’re speaking from experience by asking me if I gossip with the neighbors.

It only makes sense that you’d have met a few of the people who’ve lived around you, especially when you first moved in. Back in 1980, there must have been a few people still around who were old enough to have remembered the last fifty years. Before 1980, I mean.

And it only makes sense that a man who works for an Internet magazine would know how to find the answers to these questions.

You can’t Google everything, Libby.

All right, I’ll bite. Libby grinned in a way that was less giving up and more changing the subject. What do you want to know?

For starters, the dirt. Frankie eagerly leaned forward. You know so much about the people who stayed in the hotel, don’t tell me there aren’t a few saucy stories you’ve picked up about the man who built it. Think of it as bringing the hotel to life by making Bill Roanoke a real, live person.

Even if he was a bad character? Libby asked. I’ll tell ya this, Frankie. Bill Roanoke wasn’t exactly father of the year.

Libby, this is exactly what I want to hear.

The old woman cackled like the Penguin. "I didn’t realize OldPlaces was run by the Enquirer."

Stop stalling and cough it up, Frankie insisted. From what I understand, Bill Roanoke never married. I’ve read he was sort of a playboy.

He was, if you mean he liked to play with boys, Libby said. That’s why he never married.

He was gay? Frankie asked for verification, even though he’d already known this. Remembering what Libby had said in the concourse, he prodded further. Was he one of the boys?

Again, Libby dodged the question. Peoria was a busy town ninety years ago, she said. Of course, working for OldPlaces, I’m sure you already know that. Like any town of this age and size, there was a lot of old money back then. Only during the ’20s, that money was new.

Is that so?

Oh, you should have seen it, Frankie. Downtown was a happening place! We had factories and breweries. We had Vaudeville and movie theaters. We had cars, and restaurants, and brothels, and hookers on street corners. It was the place to be if you couldn’t make it to Chicago.

Peoria was a real city back then, Frankie said, seeming wistful at the thought.

In those days, a hotel like Beekman Place made sense, Libby went on. "Not only was the economy booming, but Peoria didn’t have the depressed reputation it has today. Peoria was to 1920s Illinois like Vegas is to present day Nevada. It’s how that cliché got started, If it played in Peoria, it’ll play anywhere. You have no idea how true that was. The city was alive, and everyone wanted to be here."

A confused look came across Frankie’s face. "Libby, exactly how old are you?"

Libby shook her head and made a ch, ch, ch noise. I’m not falling for that one, she said. Not only am I too old for you, Sweetie, but I don’t think I’m your type.

Slam.

* * *

The lobby door opened and closed. Both heads turned in unison to see who had arrived. The first thing they saw was a big Crate & Barrel box, followed by three large Bed Bath & Beyond bags, a case of Diet Coke, and a package with the HSN logo on the label by the address. There was also a set of human legs.

Colby! Libby squealed. In a flash she was across the checkerboard floor and taking the largest of the packages from his arms, nearly spilling her drink in the process. Frankie, this is Colby, one of our many shopping queens.

"Oh, sstop," Colby said with a noticeable lisp. Finding a way to redistribute his packages, he stuck a hand out in Frankie’s direction.

Frankie Downs, Frankie introduced himself. Do you need some help with that?

Got it, Colby said. But thanks. If you wouldn’t mind though, would you get the elevator?

Absolutely. Frankie went ahead to the elevator on the far lobby wall and pressed the UP button.

Frankie’s the man from the magazine, Libby told Colby, setting his box in front of the elevator doors.

OldPlaces, right? Colby asked, arranging his packages in a neat pile on top of the box. Libby told us you were coming. We saw the website. It’s nice.

Thanks.

Hey! Libby broke in, speaking directly to Colby. We should have a party tonight. Yeah, a party to celebrate the article about our building. Tell everyone. Party at Libby’s. Starts promptly at seven o’clock, with cocktails at five.

Sounds great, Libby, Colby rolled his eyes. Turning aside to Frankie he muttered, She always does this.

Ding!

The elevator doors opened. Frankie helped push the box and packages into the cabin. Once inside, Colby straightened himself up and shook Frankie’s hand again.

Thanks. And don’t mind her. She’s a crazy old lady.

Cocktails at five! Libby yelled as the elevator closed.

For just a split second, Frankie caught a glimpse of the glass behind Colby’s shoulder. The cabin’s interior was predominantly chrome, but the wall opposite the doors had a sizable mirror. The words Shh, No Talking! were etched in the glass.

The doors closed.

Nice guy, Frankie said, steadying himself on the wall. He closed his eyes for a moment. Hey Libby, what did that sign in the elevator mean… ? His words trailed off as he momentarily lost his footing. He steadied himself against the wall.

Libby pretended not to notice as she re-entered the JC.

Hanging back to gather himself, Frankie waited until the old woman was out of sight before he followed. He made it about halfway across the lobby when something seemed to dawn on him. He stopped, looked to the lobby’s entrance, then back around to the elevator. A hotel’s registration desk is usually the first thing you see when you enter its lobby, he thought. But that’s not the case here.

He retraced his steps.

* * *

Frankie had visited most of Chicago’s old skyscrapers, and for the most part, hotels from that era were set up pretty much the same. Normally, when one entered from the street, a person could walk a straight line through the foyer and lobby, right up to the registration desk. A hotel’s desk was as important as its exterior facade, and it was generally designed to make an impression when a guest checked in.

The Beekman Place desk was to the left of her entrance. Sure, her desk was nice, but the focal point of this particular lobby was clearly the elevator. The architect wanted visitors to notice the elevator first.

The elevator sat on the far end of the lobby in the center of a marble wall, directly opposite the entrance. It was positioned in a sharp, rectangular box, trimmed in chrome, but recessed into an odd sort of black threshold.

Setting his glass on the floor, Frankie drew closer. His eyes focused on the cat.

* * *

A hissing cat logo stood in the center of the elevator doors, back arched, tail curled forward, front paw poised as though ready to strike. Its body was a stylized silhouette, a featureless insignia that was void of specific details but clear in both shape and stance.