Chapter 13: The Bellhop and the God
There's a hotel on the corner of Fifth Avenue and East 60th in New York City. Grand columns. White marble steps. A chandelier inside that cost more than most buildings in the Midwest. The staff wear suits sharper than most Wall Street investors. A single night costs more than some people make in a month.
I built it.
In 1902, when the city was smoke and soot and steel bones. Back when rich men didn't care how many bones they built their fortunes on. I made sure this place was different. Quiet. Impeccable. Timeless.
I hadn't visited since 2019.
And now it was 2025.
---
I arrived in jeans and a grey wool coat. No tie. No watch. No flash. I could've passed for a university professor on sabbatical — or someone's quiet uncle just passing through.
The bellhop didn't look at me twice. The woman at the reception desk gave a strained smile.
"Can I help you, sir?"
"I'd like to speak to your manager," I said.
"Do you have an appointment?"
"No."
She glanced at my coat. My face. My lack of a suitcase.
"And your name?"
"Tony."
"Tony…?"
"Just Tony."
The way she blinked made it clear she thought I was wasting her time.
She typed something half-heartedly into her computer. "I'm afraid we're fully booked today. Unless you're here for a specific reservation—"
"I'm here for something older than a reservation."
---
I let her flounder for a moment longer before I pulled out the black card.
Not a credit card. No bank owned it.
It bore only one symbol — a crescent moon carved in gold. The mark I'd left behind for those who needed to remember.
She stared at it. Blinked. Then paled.
"One moment, sir."
She vanished into the back office.
Five minutes later, the general manager came out — sweating despite the air conditioning. His name was Bennett, and he wasn't old enough to have met me, but he'd clearly been trained on who to fear.
"Mr. Tony," he said with a bow. "We didn't expect you."
"I didn't expect to be ignored."
"I deeply apologize for that. Some of the newer staff… they aren't fully briefed."
"Apparently."
He gestured nervously. "Your suite is available if you'd like to—"
"No need. I'm not staying. I just wanted to walk through. Remind myself."
---
The building hadn't changed much. The carpet was a slightly different shade of red. The chandeliers had been rewired with LEDs. But the bones were the same.
I walked the hallways slowly. Paused at the old library with its walnut shelves and hand-bound books. I could still see the faint dent in the corner desk from when a senator once slammed his whiskey glass too hard in 1953.
I passed the mirror-lined ballroom. I had danced there once — in another suit, another name. My partner was dead now. Had been for decades.
---
I stopped at the rooftop garden. The roses were blooming — another tradition I'd insisted on.
I lit a cigarette I wouldn't finish and looked down at the city.
Bennett stood a few feet behind me, silent.
"You've done well keeping it clean," I said.
"Thank you, sir."
"But you've forgotten what this place was made for."
He frowned. "Luxury, discretion—"
"No," I said. "It was built as a sanctuary. For the kind of people who don't know how to ask for help. For the powerful who need to feel powerless, if only for one night. You've made it into a castle. But I built it as a confession booth."
He said nothing.
I crushed the cigarette and left it on the ledge.
"Tell your staff: Just because someone looks ordinary, doesn't mean they are."
He nodded quickly. "Yes, sir. Absolutely."
---
As I walked out, the woman at the front desk looked pale and wide-eyed.
I gave her a small smile.
"You were polite, at least," I said. "Most people aren't anymore."
Then I stepped into the street and disappeared into the crowd.
Just another man.
With too much time.
And too many ghosts.