Page 9 - ARRS #582 - The Mystery of the Lost Wallet

Another Random Road Story #582

Older brick and stone covered homes sat on each lot, large and pristine
with bold Gothic porches. Colorful flowers stood in pots, planters, or hangers
at each house. Every window shined and every lawn was freshly manicured.
Homes in this neighborhood espouse the perfect crossroads of location and
supply vs demand. Only the very trendy would pay so dearly to live in such a
perfect location. And they make a business out of out-trendying each other.
Three blocks in was the local music hall and its big flashing old-fashioned
marquee. Judging from the full parking garage there might have been a show
going on. Older acts often played there; acts that were past their heyday of
filling arena-sized venues but who still commanded a respectable following.
Past the local salsa bar and around the corner by the quaint train tracks that
crossed the little downtown no less than six times, the triangle-shaped
building that houses the Velveteen Amatista came into view.
Saturday evening in Trendy Town was in full swing as people milled about
and walked between the downtown’s restaurants, clubs, and metered parking
spaces. Music streamed from most bars, setting the tone for each place.
Smells of sizzling food filled the air, sent up through restaurant rooftop vents.
I rolled up to the curb, just off center from the Velveteen’s front door, in
the loading zone.
Nobody seemed to be waiting out front for a cab.
Before I could fix to run inside, the Velveteen’s doorman was at the
passenger side window. He bent and spoke through the wide open space.
“Did someone call you?” he asked. His tone said that he expected to tell
me to move along.
“Yeah… Brent the bartender? For Washington Hills.”
“Okay, sit tight.”
I watched with interest as the doorman walked away. He was one of those
‘beefcake’ kind of guys, the kind that take their workout regimen seriously.
Those kind of guys have the big veiny arms, big tight asses, and short styled
hair – always with the short styled hair. When he opened the big dark door of
the Velveteen to go inside and see about Brent’s customer, a rush of piano
music and the sound of lots-of-people-talking flowed out.
Those kind of guys don’t give me the time of day. And that’s fine with me.
The door closed behind him, closing off the noise from inside. Muffled
Latin music could be heard again, floating over from the Salsa bar.
I’m more of a slow-ride kind of girl anyway, not keen on quick steroid-
fueled fucks.
Just sayin…
I put the car’s gearshifter into PARK and tried to relax for the minute, even
as the taxi-driver part of my mind turned itself to the “on guard” position.
What kind of adventure would THIS fare bring?