Chelsea Hotel, Room 410

Caleb, you walk up the front steps, holding the door open for another fellow, dark complexion (some sort of Arab?) and make your way to elevator. As you enter, the operator asks, "Which floor please?" to which each of you says in unison, "4th floor." You exchange glances with your swarthy elevator companion as the operator makes to close the gate. Just before he does, though, a rugged individual dressed in a brown workman's suit yells in a thick Bronx accent "Hold it," and catches the unfolding gate with his forearm. He huffs a few times and wipes the sweat from his brow as he enters. "4th please," he says between breaths. This Bronx fellow does look familiar to you, Caleb, though you can't quite remember where from.

The elevator slowly climbs and then chirps happily to announce your arrival. The operator pulls a lever to fold the gates in, and the three of you exit and walk down the hall (why are they following you?) toward room 410.

The four of you stand outside room 410 and make to knock.

Let me know when you want me to arrive

Sorry, I just realized that the Bronx guy you referred to in the earlier post was me. Do you want me to make a Listen check? (It's actually one of the things I'm good at.)