At the end of a long bar tending shift, I caught the concierge standing on a chair inside the elevator, opening the trap door in the ceiling, and tossing raw meat through it.

He had no idea I was watching. I'd gone to the basement to change a keg inside the

big cooler and I guess he walked right past without noticing. It freaked me out a little

so I ducked back in and waited until I felt he had gone.

Was he using poison meat to exterminate rats?

This old place had been built a hundred years ago.

I'd never seen any rats, but maybe this was the reason why.

The Hotel Louise, once luxurious, had become a rundown in recent decades.

Its rooms turned into cheap apartments. had become a rundown in recent decades.

Its rooms turned into cheap apartments.

Hoping Pete the concierge had left, I poked my head out.

No sign of him.

The closed elevator still sat in the basement floor. I guess Peter

decided to take the stairs. Good idea. I judged the stairs myself to the fifth

floor where I rented a room in the 30-story tower.

Everything inside my room belonged to the hotel except what few clothes I had and what little

food I kept.

Drifting into the city a few months without a plan and still in shock from my wife's recent

death, I took a job bartending at the bar de Louis on the first floor.

I once elegant, now aging dive of warped pine floors and graffiti scratched tables.

The place did in too much business and, before long, I was the only bartender.

The kitchen only had one cook, Rodrigo, so if you wanted something

...