A Basement in The Stacks
The stairs to Mac’s basement were narrow, nearly vertical for how extreme of an angled slope they had, and led about thirty-five steps down from a hidden trapdoor entrance. In a little side room built to the house, the trapdoor hid underneath a woven mat.
At the night hours, a couple men known as the Gatti Brothers (they were both human, but not brothers) guarded the entrance. The Gatti Brothers were the judges of whether they let someone through. A person had to know the verbal password, to get through the side door, and look decent enough as well. The Gatti brothers would then survey and promptly read them about their appearance, the cut of their clothes, and what might suit the individual better. They would pat down the person-in-question to check for any weapons, and if they found some, they would throw them into a trunk to the side and lock them away to be recovered on the way out. Safety, after all, was a priority. There were railings on the stairs now, and little etches in the steps to help provide friction to wet boots.
Due to the railing and the steep decline, most people performed the climb down like a ladder rather than stairs. Once at the landing, within the basement, one was greeted by a bust of Mac Murphy underneath a rather libertine oil painting of the man with a bowl of grapes and his prized two dogs (fuzzy puffballs that were closer to the size of cats). If this were not shocking enough, it might’ve been the vivid vermillion red of the Anaxi man’s immortalized elaborate beard, curled mustache, and fluffed hair. The lantern lights caught the thick red oil paints to create a glaring contrast with the velvet green suit.
Across from the ostentatious memorial for Mac Murphy, a long counter bar wrapped around the brick-walled basement. The floor was polished wood with sections of tile behind the bar itself. Shelves and cabinets were decorated with various bottles of liquor. A wine rack hid in a shadowed alcove along with some smaller kegs. Past a corridor that went around the counter, one found a smoking lounge filled with comfortable armchairs and resting couches between various types of tables. Heavy tobacco smoke created a constant mist, but there wasn’t just tobacco laced in the haze and in one nested corner of couches, some men simply dozed with long pipes and the prized hookah of the establishment.
Past the lounge was a narrow hall that led to six alcoves that weren’t proper rooms but had thick velvet curtains to draw shut and padded benches for comfort while having private conversations.
There were a few unspoken rules about Mac’s Basement. The first being no weapons. The second that at least undershorts should remain on the person, in the main areas. The third was no coin exchanged for alcove time (this was not a brothel as Mac Murphy had been very adamant about that and the Gatti Brothers made sure to continue his wishes). The fourth was to gamble fairly and to not brawl. The last and fifth rule was that no women were allowed.
Meraki had first visited Mac’s many years ago. He rather enjoyed the place, if anything because it gave a spot to hide away and forget about the city of Brunnhold that loomed in the streets above. It wasn’t without its risks and dangers, though. No matter how much he enjoyed it, the past years since Mac’s death, he mostly avoided the place.
So, when he muttered the simple password of Precious prefers citrus. (one of Mac’s fluffball dogs had been named Precious) and the side door slid open, the Gatti brothers seemed surprised.
“Toby? Chimes! What the clock are y’ doing here?” asked the taller Gatti, thick dark eyebrows raised and then promptly lowered with suspicion.
“What anyone would be doing here?” he wagered back, and took out his knuckledusters to hand over.
“Haven’t seen y’ in… how long has it been?” the taller tossed the knuckledusters over to the shorter Gatti, who shrugged and tossed the weapon away into the trunk.
“Least a year or two,” offered Meraki. He held his arms out while the taller patted him down to check for any other weapons. “I’m not here for trouble, if that’s what y’ thinkin’. Promise.”
“Sure, you ent,” said the taller while he took out a switchblade from Meraki’s boot. He tossed it over to the shorter. “But has y’ seen yer pants? What is this material? Burlap? Y’ couldn’t be bothered to dress a lil’ proper?”
Meraki rolled his eyes and brushed away the taller’s hand from coarsely rubbing his leg. The older man had already found all the weapons there was to find. He said, “Just want to relax some, that’s all.”
The Gatti duo looked at each other, for a moment of consideration, then the shorter nodded. The taller flipped back the woven mat, and swung open the trapdoor. Meraki walked past and climbed down face-forward with a quick duck to avoid hitting his head on the opening’s frame. He hurried down and jumped the last couple of steps with a swift landing that caught the attention of the bartender and a few men settled at the counter. Meraki fixed his vest with a snap of the fabric, flipped his copper-blond hair to the side, then turned to take a moment of silence at the memorial for Mac.
After some silent thoughts, he started on a walk around the place to get an eye on the night’s crowd. It wasn’t as busy as he’d seen it before. Every year seemed to dwindle with less and less men willing to come to known places. Only a matter of time, they muttered. A place like that, so firmly established, location so known if one went looking… most gave in to the rotating network of tenement flats, warehouses, and alley ways that changed locations and didn’t have rules around behavior. The older gentlemen of the Stacks, though - the ones who weren’t exactly wealthy but liked to live like it, the ones who had mild natures rather than reckless, the ones who liked to pamper their toys and play pretend with courtships – those were the sort who still visited the basement.
Meraki went to the end of the corridor of alcoves, then walked back to the lounge. He found an empty armchair, sat down, and looked over at an acquaintance he knew lived past the campus walls of Brunnhold in the nicer neighborhoods.
“Why, Toby, what a sight I didn’t expect to see again,” recognized the older of the two. Paolo was a polished, but average-looking man with obvious Bastian blood to his features. He recrossed his legs so that his toe pointed toward the wick. The man leaned over and flipped open a cherry wood cigarette case in offer to Toby – much to the chagrin of the younger man sitting beside him. “Has Leon graced us with his presence too?”
Accepting one of the cigarettes, Meraki held it close while he waited for the flame of the other man’s match to light it. Once the embers got going, he leaned back in the armchair and shook his head. “I’m here on my own. This place is far too… how did Leon put it…” he mimicked his kov's Vienda-accent, “...operated on shame.”
Paolo smiled with a show of crooked teeth, then said, “What utter nonsense. Does he expect to cavort in the Intrepid Lodge?”
“Can you imagine?” inquired Meraki with a scoffed laugh of disbelief.
“Absolutely moony,” agreed Paolo easily. He looked to his younger companion and said, “Be a darlin’ and get us some drinks? Or… a bottle of… red? Or did you like white, Toby? Forgive me, I forget easily these days.”
“Hanged Man or Long Haul,” answered Meraki before he took a long, drawn-out drag of the cigarette and glanced around the lounge at the other men there.
“Ah, yes, excellent. Hanged Man, then.” The older man patted for his companion to get on with the task with the lightest of intimate taps. Anywhere else, it would have raised eyebrows. Not at Mac’s Basement though. Which is why they were all there.
Meraki, however, felt a slight discomfort. He tried to ignore it. Out of the gathered men, he suspected Paolo was his best bet. Cigarettes, drinks, and hopefully information. The Bastian man always did like to exchange things for attention and time. Of the crowd, Meraki recognized he was the only wick and there wasn’t a galdor among the lot. All human, tonight. It wasn’t always like that, back in the day when he used to visit. There’d used to be spokes that’d come through, or the rare occasional other tsat, and a span of time when galdori loved to slum in the place but that had been back when Mac Murphy was still alive.