The Divorcee Murder Club

Diez ~ 10

                The Tenderloin is an interesting part of San Francisco. By day, tourists walk the streets, exploring expensive clothing stores, posh drinking lounges, and then retreat to their fancy hotels before dusk lures the freaks to come out at night. Homeless people sleep in doorways, huddled in a fetal position to keep warm, while hookers parade past in scuffed heels and whatever napkin-sized dresses they can find.

Something crunches beneath my feet, and I don't have to look to know it's a broken heroin needle or a meth pipe.

The neighborhood isn't Skid Row, but it's definitely hell-adjacent.

Angie's roadkill coat is in full effect as she walks beside me with her high-heeled boots clicking against the pavement. To my right is Franky, strutting her long, faux-leather encapsulated legs, which disappear under a mini-dress with tiny Freddy Krueger faces all over it. Apparently, she loves everything horror, which I suppose shouldn't be a surprise since she's friends with a walking, talking nightmare. A.K.A. Angie.

Yet, here I am. Walking between them like some pimp as we pass the Martini Lounge - a swanky nightclub with glammed up barbie dolls and 'roided out bros, waiting to get inside. I have no idea where we're heading. I just know it's cold as fuck, my nose is running, and these two gals like keeping it mysterious.

"That's it, up ahead." Franky points.

"You sure? Looks dead..." I say, taking in the dark building with blacked-out windows and nobody standing outside.

"That's the point."

Raising her curled hand, she pounds on the metal door and takes a step back. Seconds later, a slat opens, and someone's blue eyes stare back at us. "Password."

"Weinersnitchel."

"Try again."

"Or, how about I tell Reina you're letting her friend Franky shiver out here in the cold?"

"Oh, shit. Frank, so sorry. Didn't recognize you."

The slat closes and the metal door squeaks open with jazz music spilling out. A stocky bouncer dressed in black slacks, a vest, and a bowler hat ushers us inside. The street noise disappears as he shuts the door behind us and I'm transported in time to prohibition. Everything is dark, from the maroon walls to the black tin ceiling tiles, and the deep walnut flooring. I've lived in San Francisco all my life, yet I never knew this place existed. There's a full-service bar to my right, with bartenders dressed in slacks and suspenders - their sleeves rolled up to show off their tattoos while making a spectacle of shaking drinks for guests. A woman dressed like a Flapper in her sparkly dress and short wavy bob greets us.

"Follow me..." She bats her eyes, before spinning on her heels causing the glittering layers of her dress to shift with her movements.

We pass through a corridor with black and white photos displaying images of San Francisco during prohibition. Thank fuck we aren't living during those times because after this, I'll need a stiff drink.

The narrow passage leads to a bookcase and the riddle of this place increases. First, a password to get in, and now what, a secret room? The cute hostess pulls on a book spine and vualah - the bookcase opens to a library with a cacophony of conversations filling the atmosphere, and har har, it's a lounge area with another bar. Heads turn our way as we're escorted to a leather couch and the hostess snaps her fingers, prompting the people sitting on it to immediately move.

"It'll be a few minutes while we let Reina know you're here. Please, help yourselves to a drink. It's on the house." She motions towards the bar where more dudes in bowler hats and suspenders mix cocktails.