“The same questions work for restaurants, too,” I pointed out. “Would a place we rate four stars get one in New York? Or do we really have top chefs working here?”
Once we’d finished our drinks, we left a couple of bucks on the table and went out onto the sidewalk. A herd of motorcyclists without helmets or mufflers roared by, drowning out the conversation until they were several blocks down Duval.
“There’s something I don’t get,” said Wally, shaking his head. “Why is that allowed? Do you think our commissioners and police are afraid to take them on? This is what I don’t like about our town. We should make reasonable guidelines and rules and then stick to them—not bend them according to whoever’s pressuring the commissioners. Or paying them off.”
“Sam Rizzoli, for example,” I added.
A couple of minutes later, we reached the Aqua nightclub. I’d passed this bar by scooter or on foot a hundred times since I’d hit town, but I’d never found the right opportunity to go in. The doors and shuttered windows had been folded open to the street so passersby could see in. A cloud of cigarette smoke wafted outside, along with a blast of music. Wally looked a little nervous, as I must have, but Danielle pushed us through it.
We stepped into the semidarkness and stopped a minute to let our eyes adjust. A bar stretched along the left side of the room, “AQUA” written in turquoise neon script above the bottles of liquor on shelves against the wall. A second U-shaped bar was set up to the right of the entry, glasses hanging from the ceiling. At the back of the hall stretched an empty stage, and empty tables and chairs were clustered around a deserted dance floor. Right now, all the action was at the two bars.
Behind the bar on the left, a lovely young woman with sculpted arms, a sparkly sequined top, and narrow hips poured glasses of wine and draft beer for two customers. And standing outside the other bar was an enormous person with a behind shaped like a divan, wearing a wig, high heels, and thick, thick makeup. She crooned a scratchy rendition of Donna Summer’s “Last Dance” into a portable microphone.
“That’s Gassy Winds,” whispered Danielle. “But I assume you want to get served by Randy Thompson, right?”
I stopped stock-still. “Where’s Randy?”
“Behind the other bar. Well, Victoria at the moment,” said Danielle as she herded us over to take seats at the bar.
“How do you know all this?” I asked, trying not to stare at Randy/Victoria, who had better muscle definition in his/her arms than I ever dreamed of.
“I come here for karaoke as often as I can,” she said with a shrug. “I love this place.” She slapped a twenty on the bar. “Looking good, Victoria!” she called out. “Three Coronas with lime. And can you sing some Patsy Cline?”
The bartender—Randy? Victoria?—winked at her, thumbed through a notebook on the back counter, and then called out a number to the DJ who sat in a glassed-in cubicle at the back of the room. After serving us the beers, Victoria began to sing “She’s Got You” in a mournful, vibrant baritone. She looked straight into Danielle’s eyes as she crooned “I’ve got your memory…,” then turned to wash out a few glasses left in the small sink behind the bar. “Or has it got me…”
“Wow, some voice,” said Wally. “So how do you address a drag queen? Is it he or she?”
“She, when she’s dressed up, like Victoria is now,” said Danielle. “And he, when he’s Randy. It’s that simple.”
When the song wound down, Victoria stopped by our end of the bar to deliver the drinks. “Slumming tonight?” she asked Danielle, still making no eye contact with me.
“I think you know Hayley,” said Danielle, placing a hand on my forearm. “And the cute guy is Wally.”
“Hey, big fella,” said Victoria. “Are you a three-woman kind of man?” She winked and Wally flushed absolutely crimson.
“Oh stop,” said Danielle, giggling. “He’s our boss. How’s the TV show going?”
“It would be a lot better if the judges hadn’t decided ahead of time who was going to win,” said Victoria, an edge in her voice. “And better if they weren’t in the executive producer’s pocket.”
“That’s not fair,” I said. “Nobody’s approached me about how to vote. And I’m certainly not getting paid. Everything’s been real and aboveboard so far.” I turned to Wally. “You tell her, I sure didn’t ask for this job.”
“She’s right,” Wally said. “Deena Smith called and asked if we could send someone because we cover a lot of local food events in our magazine. Hayley’s the real deal.”