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The place is New York City. The year is 1923. It is late May.
You are standing outside on old warehouse on the Lower Westside, at the intersection of West Street and Murray Street. West Street is a bustling street that runs along the bank of the Hudson River. The riverside is lined with piers and the inland side of the street is mostly warehouses, shops and market stalls. Slightly further inland are the larger skyscrapers of Manhattan’s financial district. The neighborhood is a busy place where white collar business folk bump elbows with blue collar laborers.
Zoltov has just rented a building that he hopes to convert into his new workshop, and you have come with him to check the place out. The place sits on the corner of West Street and Murray, on the north side of Murray street. It was once a brick warehouse of modest size, as far as warehouses go, and it has been up for rent for some time now, or it was until Zoltov leased it. According to the real estate agent, the building hadn’t served as a warehouse in ten years. Most recently it had been converted into a meeting hall/studio of sorts for a society of playwrights. She couldn’t tell you much more about it than that. But the group had apparently disbanded or found a new residence, and thus the building has been vacant for about a year. It will need some work to make it into a suitable workshop, but Zoltov has some money and plenty of time.
On the other side of Murray street, also looking out onto West Street, is a sailors tavern called the Gangplank. Due to the prohobition it’s probably not much of a tavern these days- probably more of an eatery. Still, it seems to draw at least a few regulars. A man dressed in the clothing of a dockworker stands outside of the Gangplank. He seems to be watching you as you stand staring at the façade of the warehouse.