Qualifying Statement #3
I have always been most comfortable in the backroom of a seedy bar with the gangsters and the hookers and the dealers and the pimps, which, by default, usually includes the Police. Take, for example, The Northside Tavern in Atlanta, Georgia, where there is a knifing every Saturday night or The Clermont Lounge, also in Atlanta, where the dealers and the pimps cut their deals. No one maneuvers around these places without their nine millimeter “cocked and locked.” That means that the hammer is cocked, but the safety is “on.” So, in order to fire, you just slip the safety “off” with your thumb and squeeze the trigger.
This is the “red light” tour through Jaco, Costa Rica.
I was sitting in a house of ill repute, the appropriately named Pancho Villa, after the Mexican bandit, with four City of Galveston, TX policemen (unbeknownst to me at the time) when an individual entered the bar area who believed that he had a dispute with me over a “business” matter. Being the peace loving guy that I am, I politely asked him to refrain from further yelling and cursing, but he would not so I dislocated his thumb and sent him on his way. This, however, struck a profound note with the four cops and we proceeded to hit the town. And the last verse went something like this:
So, we sat in Pancho Villa and drank and the hookers drifted around and tried to hit us up for “dates.” All of this looked odd because three of the four cops were Mexican American just like myself and the fourth fellow was fluent in Spanish. We would flip back and forth in both languages. But, all of us spoke English with Southern accents. Try this trick if you ever want to blow a Spanish speaking hooker’s mind. It works.
I think that they call it “La Central” because it is the central market for any vice that you might want. We couldn’t slip through the door without ten people trying to negotiate the purchase of an “eight ball” or “a quarter” or some “blues” or some “X” or whatever. Back in my younger days, this would have set me on fire, but I am getting too old for that and the cops, of course, go through random drug testing so it wasn’t even an option for them. We shifted through to the table only to be accosted by seven blonde Colombian freelance working girls. But, I still hadn’t figured out that they were being imported specifically for prostitution, which is legal here. That revelation would come later. So, more booze cruise and then we left.
La Hacienda is THE young, tourist bar. They play the same music every night. I am not allowed to enter there anymore because of a fight that I instigated with ALL of the bouncers. Swears about people’s mothers were declared in loud voices and I almost got thrown over the rail of the second storey. But, that is neither here nor there. The cops wanted to enter anyway, but I told them that I had a better idea. So, we went with that.
We sat at the Caribbean Poker table and I explained the rules and my various tricks and stratagems for taking the “House” for as much money in as little time as possible. One of the cops drew a full house, I drew three of a kind twice in a row. All of us were on the plus side and we decided that we had had enough of the Cocal.
This place is Sodom and Gomorrah. I mean really. It is the most upscale of the upscale brothels in Costa Rica. The girls, ounce for ounce, are rivaled only by the collection of women that they have at The Blue Marlin Bar at The Hotel Del Rey in San Jose. It is a turnkey package. But, it was here that I met the fellow who was importing the Colombian women. Sure enough, he flies in about fifty a week into the various areas of Costa Rica. So, we all had a beer, then partook, then we left.
It is the only place in town that stays open until 5:30 in the morning. By the time we left, the sun was rising and we, inevitably, were having to deal with the Sun.