Bourbon & Blood: A Crime Fiction Novel

Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

Later that evening I took the 1 train up to 125th Street to do some recon. I spotted the Tequila Lounge and Restaurant up a ways from the subway exit, and I headed up the street to a building opposite the bar. I starting pressing apartment buzzers and waited for someone to answer and buzz me in, but no one did.

Four men stood in front of the restaurant, watching the block, scanning in each direction. I guessed this wasn’t a group of friends out enjoying a smoke, but guards. I realized I couldn’t stay where I was standing anymore without looking odd, so I walked back up the block and found a pizza place. I sat in the widow and ate a slice while I watched the bar.

When I finished, I decided it was time to get a closer look. I managed to walk right by the men without attracting attention. The guards looked tough, tattooed with shaved heads, and they spoke Spanish. I headed into the Super Mini Mart next door to the bar and bought a pack of Marlboro Reds.

When I came out, I headed in the other direction and walked around the block. That’s when I noticed an alley behind the restaurant. A wrought-iron gate, complete with padlock, blocked the entrance. As I examined the gate, the sound of shoes on the pavement started getting closer. Panicked, I climbed over the fence and squatted behind some garbage pails that were standing against the wall. I heard voices getting louder as they came closer, and men laughing loudly. Night patrols. Looking around the alley I spotted a fire escape. I thought if I had to make a break for it, I could always go up.

I realized, hiding behind the trash, that I needed a better way to find out about Armando Sanchez’s businesses and activities. Watching from a distance wasn’t going to cut it. I had to get closer to see what made this operation so successful and find a weak spot. The only way was to become a customer.

When I returned the next day, in the afternoon, the atmosphere was much less threatening. The guards, gangs, and street patrols were all gone. I stepped inside the Tequila Lounge and was immediately overwhelmed by the aroma of beans, chips, and chilies. It made my stomach growl. A family-style lunch crowd happily enjoyed Mexican food. A couple of folks were at the bar having cocktails. I sat next to an old man munching on chips with salsa and sipping amber liquid in a short glass.

In a discreet way, I tried to make small talk. “Hi,” I said.

“Hello, young man. My name is Hector.”

“I’m Bill,” I said.

He turned out to be an incredibly pleasant guy, friendly and talkative, and he offered to buy me a drink. Hector told me that he worked locally in construction and stopped here for lunch. I made up a story that I once dated a Spanish girl from Mexico, that she had left me for a Mexican guy once things started getting difficult.

“I loved her so much,” I lied. “She was beautiful. Silky black hair, dark brown eyes, and a great body. She made me tortillas and chicken all the time. I fell head over heels in love with her,” I said.

“Our women love to take care of their men. Cooking, cleaning, and loving with passion.” He took a sip of his drink. “You need a new girl, my friend.”

I sighed. “I lost my job, then we started fighting over money and she found someone else,” I said.

“Yes, yes. I understand,” Hector said, nodding with a sad expression.

“This is my girlfriend now.” I said, showing him my right hand.

He let out a big hearty laugh, and then went into a coughing fit. When he stopped coughing, he spoke again. “There are ways to meet girls, my friend. So when you meet a nice girl you don't ruin it by being too eager,” Hector said.

I wanted to appear lonely and pathetic. Looking into my glass, I placed a palm on my cheek.

“I have money since I started working again,” I said. “But where can I find some girls?"

Hector got up to leave. “Speak to Luis, the bartender. He knows of these things.”

I handed him a ten-dollar bill.

“Thanks, Hector,” I said. “Please take this.”

He stared at the money, then looked up at me. “No thank you, my friend. Give it to the girls.”

On his way out Hector whistled loudly and pointed at me. The bartender stopped washing glasses and looked my way, but then continued his cleaning.

Luis stayed at the far end of the bar and didn't seem concerned about me once Hector left. Luis was in his early forties, balding with a comb over, and a belly that stuck out of his vest. I signaled him for another drink and he meandered over.

“Excuse me, but could you possibly help me out? Hector said you know where to find girls?”

“I don't know you,” he replied gruffly, and gave me the once-over. “First you drink more, and then we talk about mamacitas.”

“Beer and a tequila please,” I said with a smile.

He gave me a look, then walked into a back room. After a while two guys with shaved heads and tattooed arms came over. One was short and thin, the other big and fat. The fat guy had to weigh close to three hundred pounds. They stood on either side of me.

“Is there a problem?” I asked.

The fat guy took my drink and drank it. “Yeah, you got a problem now, ese,” he said.

The guy on the left bumped me.

“Yeah, Holmes. You a cop? We don't like cops here.”

“No, I'm just looking for a date,” I said, my palms up and shrugging, trying to come off as nonthreatening.

“You wearing a wire?” the fat one asked and he started to pat me down.

“No wire here, Paco. But I don’t trust this cop.”

“Come on guys. I told you. I’m not a cop. I just heard you guys know where the pretty girls are."

"Oh, we've got hot mamacitas bro,” said Paco. “But you gotta pay an initiation fee. White boy price is two knots to get in the club.” He held out his hand.

“What’s two knots?” I asked.

“Two hundred dollars, motherfucker!” he barked, agitated.

I reached into my back pocket and the fat guy immediately grabbed my hand.

“Whoa bro! Not now. Give it to Luis when he brings your drinks.”

The two guys disappeared into the back room.

Luis came back with beer, a shot of tequila, a saltshaker, and a lemon wedge.

“That’ll be two hundred thirty dollars, my friend,” he said, smiling.

“How do I know you’re not going to rip me off?” I asked.

“Maybe you should talk to the boys again,” he said, the smile leaving his face.

“No problem. Let me settle things now,” I said, giving him the money.

He counted it, put it into the register, and pushed a napkin across the bar. I flipped it over. There was an address on the other side, 660 West 129th Street. Written below were the words “Ask for Angel Eyes. Say Luis sent you.”