The trail started at El Siete Mares Bar off the intersection of Southmost and E. 14th St.
A 20something Hispanic guy with a crewcut and the appropriate military tattoos (skull and swords, etc.,), fatigue pants, tight T-shirt, and combat boot pulls out a wad of cash and tells the woman behind the bar that he wants to rent the joint for a private party and is willing to pay $1,000 for one night.
The girl (Rossi) shrugs, says it's not up to her and asks him to return later, when the owner is there.
He (in broken Spanish by the way) regales her with a story about 10 of his friends from the service coming in after a tour in the Middle East wanting to party by themselves like they used to do "over there."
But there are certain requirements: The bar is to be closed to everyone else, and since they are part of a military unit, they wouldn't feel safe unless at least four of them are allowed to carry a side arm (concealed, of course).
He pays for a beer with a buck and four quarters (They're $2 bucks. This is an upscale joint.), and promises to return. He takes off in a newer model black pickup.
Down at the farthest end of the strip, at Cowboys, the "military guy" goes through the same spiel, except that this time (since the place is larger) he tells Patty that there are 21 of his ex-military buddies and their dates who will attend. He pulls out a wad of $100 bill and orders a beer. Since it's still early (about 10:30 a.m.), Patti doesn't have change and lets him charge up four beer on a tab.
He then goes through the drill. They are used to be on guard in the service, and they need to have four armed guys in the place. He'll be back to pay for the brews and await her answer.
At La Catorce Bar (formerly El Tenampa, next to El Nuevo Monkeys), Minda Boy, the self-professed hermaphrodite lesbian, has just come in at about 11 for cold one for la cruda and listens as the same guy lays out the offer to the owner Mike (pronounced Maike in these neck of the monte).
"Queremos gastar feria," he tells Mike, who has visions of dead presidents in his head. Except for the number of partyiers (in this case, 16), the story is the same.
He pays for his been with quarters and dimes and he leaves promising to return the next day for Mike's answer.
And, oh yeah, don't forget the guns. "We're military guys and we don't feel right unless we feel safe."
Not less than half an hour passes than the bar maids (I'm being charitable) are already burning up the ether (we're in the cell phone era) discussing the offer.
"Es un pinche cuatro (set-up)," says Minda Boy.
"He had to use change to buy his beer," said Rossi, from the Siete Mares. "Something's not right."
"A mi ni me pago las cervezas," lamented Patti. "Esperate que lo vea a ver como le va."
After the issue gets debated from one end of the strip to the other, the consensus was that:
A: It was a new Texas Alcoholic Beverage Commission (el licor control) agent trying to make his bones, or
B: It was a set-up by real estate speculators trying to put someone out of business and take over the bar.
Perhaps we'll never know. One thing is for sure, though. Minda would love to get her/his hands on the dude, and Patti wants to get her bucks for the bewskies he took her for.
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