Rooms upstairs. Answers downstairs.
It was raining in Los Angeles. It usually isn't, which is how I knew the night would be strange. I needed a drink, a bed and a door that locked. The Halloran had all three, and it didn't ask my name.
A hotel that minds its own business
The Halloran has stood on the same downtown corner since 1931. Ninety-two rooms, one elevator and a night clerk named Lou who has seen everything twice. The beds are clean. The walls are thick. The staff forget faces for a living.
The Night Desk
Downstairs, past the lobby palms, there's a long bar, low lights and a piano that plays itself after midnight. That last part might be the bourbon talking. The bartender pours honest drinks and keeps dishonest hours.
When to find us
The bar opens at 5 p.m. and closes when the last good story ends, or 2 a.m., whichever comes first. The front desk never closes. Lou doesn't sleep. We've checked.
The night won't wait for you
Tables go fast after nine. Book one now and walk in like you belong here.