In Dutch’s, where I mix martinis and pull drafts, some nights a madness swirls through the air like a virus, infecting everyone. The drinking quickens, the laughter grows louder and the feeling in the bar swirls into one huge out of control mood of insanity. That’s how it was the night Dr. Yates was murdered. Dutch’s is a sort of falling down place nestled in between towers for the newly rich and beachside accommodation for vacationers. Once a working class hangout, the bar has kept its rough edge from the days it was full of fishermen and ranch hands. There’s still a jukebox playing country songs, and tin advertisements from the fifties cover the walls, but now the bar is the hot place for tourists who want to believe they’re experiencing the authentic Florida. Besides locals and tourists, we also get the occasional hooker in Dutch’s. The way to tell the working girls from the ladies is that the hookers are more polite and better tippers.
