by Dan Alatorre
Ybor City is funny in a way other places aren’t. The things people really wanted to find aren’t advertised. It takes patience, and waiting for the right moment, the right person to ask, and then maybe you can find what you’re looking for. I had discovered that by mistake one night after a parade. Mallory’s group—a krewe, in Gasparilla charity parlance—had a designated party bar, and we were all supposed to meet there after a parade, then a string of bar hopping would ensue. But I got there late and went to the wrong place.
The krewe started at the piano bar as planned, but it quickly proved to be too crowded and not rowdy enough. That lead to them disembarking to the first of many other packed bars, with my wife texting me which one was up next. But krewe members in pirate costume get to walk right in. We civilians have to stand in line. At busy times—like parade nights—there was a wait.
After missing Mallory and her friends at three different locations over about ninety minutes, I decided to chuck it and let her find me after the party ended. I parked it at Vespers and squeezed myself into a spot at the bar. Like every other bar in Ybor city, the place was packed.
I ordered a beer and some ice water, sliding the bartender a twenty-dollar bill on top of the cost of the drink. “I’m going to rent this space for a little while, okay?”
He nodded. I wanted a place at the bar and I didn’t want him getting antsy over my lack of drink orders costing him tips while I waited for my wife.
Meanwhile, I leaned back to watch the crowd.
Eventually it got to be almost 2 A. M. On some other night, I might have been worried, but not after a parade. Folks got out, started having fun, and forgot all about the time. Mallory’s krewe would be getting close to shutting down a few bars about now, and that would get her to thinking. I’d be okay right where I was waiting. The wimpier watering holes closed their doors at 2 A. M. Not Vespers. They had girls in short shorts and bustiers pouring shots out the windows to happy customers lining the street. Ybor was a mad house.
But like all things, it eventually wound down. I got a text from Mallory. Phone dying. Will meet you or get a cab.
That was at 3 A. M. Vespers started thinning out at 3:30, so I figured she wasn’t coming. But the last thing you want to do on a parade night is to leave your wife stranded at four in the morning in the heart of party central, so I waited.
That’s when a guy came up to me offering to help me find a good time. He had all the trappings: glasses that were a little too tinted for that time of night, a shiny purple suit coat and some braids. He even had a gold tooth, which may have been real or may have just been for effect—like the rest of what he was wearing. That’s the kind of place this is. Ybor City, we have it all.
Now, in New Orleans, a tipster like my man in purple was a liaison to other things that sound good to you at 4 A. M. after a night of drinking and partying. Something to smoke, or snort, perhaps? Maybe a little luck with a lady if you had struck out all night. He was a commission salesman, and he got a piece of whatever action he hooked you up with.
Like I said, he was connected. He might not be the guy, but he knew the guy. He had to. It was his living, and he wanted it to pay well. In ‘Nawlins, these guys know the Marie Laveau types, the voodoo practitioners who aren’t there for the tourists—the ones that are the real deal. I’m not saying it’s real, and I’m not saying it isn’t. All I’m saying is, if you want to meet that type of operator, this is the guy to help make the connection.
My plan was basic. If New Orleans had theirs, we’d have ours. I only needed to go to the right place, wait it out, and hope I was successful. It would be like fishing. I might get a bite, I might not. Vespers might not even be the place anymore. It was a happening spot last time the krewes were out after a parade, but that stuff changes in a heartbeat. The cool club last weekend might be elbowed out of the way by a newer, hotter, trendier place this week. The waiting lines to get in would probably tell me all I needed to know.
I sat through the bumper-to-bumper traffic on Seventh Avenue, checking for the hot spots. Quite a few had people waiting to get in. Vespers looked packed. Good. I could just go park and start fishing.
Waiting in line sucks, but waiting in line to get into a bar sucks big time. My wife would kill me if she knew, but I’m happy to slip a doorman some cash to avoid an hour-long wait and sore ankles. I was wearing jeans but I had an expensive suit coat with me. That and a few bucks might be enough to jump in front of the whole line.
I parked and checked my look in a dark window of an empty warehouse. Pressed dress shirt, decent jeans, nice jacket. It was okay. I shouldn’t have shaved—the scruffy look is in right now—but I put enough gel in my hair enough to pass as a guy with some money to spend. There’s a window for this type of thing. At 8 P. M. I could get in anywhere because the night life hadn’t started yet. At 11 P. M. I couldn’t get in anywhere because I wasn’t young and hip enough. I was cutting it close but I figured the cash would make up the difference.
Needing a hit my first time at bat, I palmed a fifty-dollar bill and strolled up to the Vesper’s doorman, clapping him on the shoulder. “What’s the wait tonight, my friend?”
He was a big guy, like all bouncers. He said nothing, just nodded at the hundred or so people waiting in line.
“Well, I’m a friend of Mr. Grant.” I extended my hand. “Maybe you know him?”
He shook my hand and ignored my cash. “Sorry, my man. Mr. Grant isn’t working here tonight. Maybe you know some of his other friends.”
Shit.
“I know his twin brother,” I said.
Big smile. “Welcome aboard, captain.” He opened the rope line for me. A hundred bucks wasn’t just twice what I wanted to spend to get in, it was about a hundred times that.
Oh, well, I was in. Next, I needed to find a spot at the bar. I wasn’t going to be drinking or dancing, I needed to be there for a while before the lights came on and they sent everybody home. That was my play. That, and to not be too square, or for them to think I was a cop. For that, I intended to stay cool, watch the crowd dance, and not much else.
Once I wedged myself into a place at the bar, my fifty bucks was greeted with a nod by the bartender.
“What can I get you?” His nametag said Mario.
“I’m kinda hanging out for a while, Mario.”
“You wanna run a tab?”
I shook my head. “I need to rent this seat for a few hours. Okay?”
Another nod.
In time, he’d ask for more, or ask what I was looking for. Bartenders were usually connected, so I’d wait for him to approach me. Until then, I just needed to hang out.
Around 1:30, things started to loosen up. Mario had gotten me three or four ice waters, and I gave him ten bucks every time he did, so he was happy. It was a message, not a tip. And the look on his face said he was getting curious.
But a seasoned bartender has seen it all. No doubt, he’d had his fair share of recently divorced guys coming in looking for companionship, but they were usually drunk or well on their way. Guys who want drugs look at the bathrooms or the parking lots. I don’t know what cops do. Hopefully, they don’t sit at the bar drinking ice water.
“Mario,” I called to him. “I’m gonna hit the restroom.”
He pointed. “At the end of the bar and to the right.”
“You’ll keep my seat open for me, right?” I was paying him pretty good. He’d see to it.
All that ice water had been building up, so I was glad to get rid of it. Also, I wanted to stretch my legs. Vesper’s was hot and crowded, and the bathroom was no different.
As I was headed out the men’s room door, a young lady headed in. “Cover your eyes, fellas, I can’t hold it anymore!” She hiked her red skirt up and jumped up on the sink. “The line for the ladies’ room was too long!”
Enough guys were watching that she had to remind them not to. It was a gutsy move for a pretty girl, and she was drunk enough to pull it off. The guys didn’t care. That was m
ore than most of them would see tonight. But I’m a dad now, so I had to ensure something like a stupid gang rape didn’t happen to her. I made eye contact, making sure she saw me looking at her eyes and nowhere else. She smiled. Then she hopped down and walked to the door, which I was still holding. I opened it for her.
She flipped her platinum locks as she passed, turned to me and said, “Nice to see there are still some gentlemen left in the world.” Then she winked and disappeared into the crowd.
I started back to the bar when a man in a loud suit stopped me. He looked just like I expected. Attention-getting suit, attention-getting attitude.
The stranger lifted his head and peered down his nose at me. “Hey, my man. Mario at the bar says you his boy and you a man in need.”
“Well,” I said. “Mario’s a good guy.”
“Mario’s the best, man.” The tipster cocked his head. “But he didn’t say what you were in need of.”
Now I smiled. “Lack of curiosity has always been his strong suit.” I glanced around the crowded bar. “Where can we talk?”
He nodded at the restroom. “Step into my office.”
“Not that kind of talk. I have everything I need in that area. What I need is some information. A referral.”
The tipster narrowed his eyes. “Somebody in trouble?”
“Yeah, I think maybe I am.” I leaned toward him. “You know a mambo?”
I leaned back to watch his eyes. It sounds racist, but it’s not. He just stared right back at me. The smile was gone.
“Hey, y’all ain’t some fuckaround tourist. What you want with that stuff?”
I tried to maintain an even tone. “Like I said, I think I might be in trouble.”
“I don’t deal that stuff.” He shook his head. “That black magic shit.”
I rolled the dice. “But you know someone who does.”
He stared at me for a long moment. “Meet me out back in five minutes.”
I watched him go, then I turned and went back to the bar. Mario had been keeping my seat clear. He smiled when I approached.
“I met your friend,” I said. “He asked me to meet him out back in five.”
Mario nodded.
“I’m not walking into a knife or anything, am I Mario?”
He pulled out a rag and wiped down the area in front of me, sliding a new bar napkin under my glass. “Jason’s cool. Don’t worry.”
“Okay.” I pulled out a hundred-dollar bill and ripped it in two. Mario’s eyes widened. I handed half of the torn bill to him. “You get the other half when I come back in, or you check on me in ten minutes. Deal?”
He shoved the bill in his pocket. “Don’t worry, I’m telling you. It’s cool.”
Fair enough.
“Which way is the back door?” I asked.
Mario pointed.
I went over, took a deep breath, and stepped through it.
Chapter 32
I crept into the alley behind Vespers, holding my breath and glancing around. Big shadows from the rooftops let one side of the alley remain dark despite the overhead lights. I relaxed a little. The city had done a good job of keeping Ybor safe and friendly, hoping to draw the money-spending crowds. Places that would have been dark and foreboding someplace else were decently lit here.
The street lights cast a bronze glow over the asphalt and backsides of the bars and restaurants. To the right, a man and woman chatted—he sounded drunk and she sounded like a prostitute, but they were too far away to tell for sure. Down the other way, a couple of guys were smoking next to a stack of empty wooden pallets. The occasional gust of wind let me know it wasn’t all tobacco.
A few parked cars and a lot of dumpsters, otherwise the alley was empty. I folded and unfolded my hands, stepping a few feet in every direction but not straying too far from Vespers’ back door. The five minutes came and went, but I couldn’t necessarily expect punctuality from a guy who kept his office in a men’s room.
A few shadows appeared at the far end of the alley. There were three of them, a big guy, a bigger guy, and a normal sized guy.
My pulse throbbed. They were headed my way.
I swallowed hard, glancing down the other side of the alley to make sure I didn’t find myself surrounded. The smokers kept smoking, conversing among themselves and ignoring the rest of the world. Nothing else had changed in that direction. Good. I could escape that way if I had to. Despite what Mario had said, I wasn’t convinced that they weren’t going to rob me. My stomach tightening, I tried to maintain my breathing as the three men approached.
Their footsteps clopped and crackled on the pavement. I made out the loud jacket—the tipster was with them. The fear gripping my stomach eased down a notch. I had Mario’s name, and Mario knew the tipster, so if anything happened, there were links in the chain.
When they got close enough, I stepped further into the light.
The biggest one faced me. “You Mario’s friend?”
I nodded. The overhead lights behind them kept their faces in the shadows.
“What you want, sniffing around down here looking for stuff that don’t belong to you?” His tone was terse. Angry. My stomach notched up again.
“I asked your man here for help.” My heart was pounding but I forced myself to maintain an even tone. “I thought he could find me some.”
He remained unmoving, a large black shadow with few identifiable features. “What kind of help?”
I pursed my lips. “That’s complicated.”
Folding his arms across his big chest, he eyed the tipster.
The tipster nodded.
“Five hundred,” the massive shadow said.
The breath went out of me. If they were scammers, was I supposed to give up my cash and get introduced to, what, some friend of theirs who’d pretend to be a fortune teller? No way. But if I didn’t give them money, the three of them might beat me up and take it anyway.
I gazed at Vespers’ rear door. It seemed very far away now. The drunk guy and the prostitute had left the alley. So had the smokers.
It was just me now, alone with the three strangers.
The uneasy feeling grew in my gut. I swallowed and braced myself. “No. You get your end after I—”
“Who are you!” His voice was like a gunshot. “To walk around here asking for that!” He stepped toward me and put his finger into my chest. “What do you want?”
Adrenaline streamed through my veins like a low fire. I had no other choice but to act angry and try to stand my ground. Otherwise it might get ugly. Images of getting beaten to a pulp and robbed flashed through my mind.
I gritted my teeth. “I told you want I want.”
I stared right at him, face to face. I said it all with my eyes, but forced myself to focus on an attitude. If you hit me, I'm going to get hit. Maybe I'll hit back, maybe I won't. But what I'm not going to do is turn tail and run.
I'm going to stand here, alone and shaking, but you're not going to back me down.
Not today.
“I asked for help.” I let the words hang there, wanting them to be enough on their own. He was sizing me up. I couldn’t think about that. Not right now.
Everything inside me wanted to run, but something held my feet in place.
The wind tossed around some fast food wrappers and pushed an empty beer bottle from its resting place under a dumpster. The soft clinking of glass on asphalt came to us, the only other sound in the deserted alley.
“Okay,” Big Man said. “Let’s go.” He turned and gestured down the alley. “That way.”
A wave of relief washed over me. There wouldn’t be a fight. Good.
I walked in front of them, my hands in my pockets. Sticking to “help” seemed to matter. It was making the difference. Ybor frowned on con artists ripping off tourists, but thieves might not care about that. If there really was a mambo, and she was legit in any sense, this might all have been to avoid a hassle from the city, nothing more.
We went a few blocks down,
and a few blocks over, past the commercial side of Ybor and into the seedier, less friendly neighborhood next door. Small houses in need of paint jobs and yard work were surrounded by broken chain link fences.
The lump in my gut returned. They were luring me away from the safety of the well-lit streets up by the bars. I took deep breaths—trying not to appear to do so—to calm myself, but the farther I walked, the more I wondered if I was about to get jumped. How stupid was I being, walking around this part of town with two strangers and a pocket full of cash? When we got far enough away, we might walk around a corner and I’d get hit in the head and robbed. Or maybe they’d just demand my wallet. What was I gonna do against them? Big Man could take me down all by himself.
We were getting too far away. It didn’t feel right. My breathing grew shallow as my heart pounded harder. I glanced around. Even the street lights down here seemed darker.
My pulse throbbed in my ears. Ahead, one house burned a dim yellow bug light over the porch.
This is it. This is where they grab me. We go inside and they take me apart.
I had no chance.
When we got close, Big Man spoke. “Here.”
I stared up the dim front steps at the yellow door. Lights were on inside. The faint aroma of incense drifted down the steps to me.
Three concrete steps ended on a worn wood porch. Beyond that, the door.
I went up the steps and paused, not sure if I was supposed to knock, not sure if a voodoo priestess awaited me on the other side—or a violent beating.
The door opened.
Another large man filled the door frame. He didn’t say anything, he just stepped back.
My guess was, the person inside didn’t want anyone thinking they weren’t well protected. Point taken.
Standing in the dim light, I glanced around the small living room. Beads on stringers, and a lot of African themed artwork. In one corner stood a rack of candles, like at Our Lady of Mercy.
I don’t think I was supposed to look around too much, because the big guy from the front door stepped in front of me. He looked me over, then peered over my shoulder at something.
