Rough bars

Where nobody knows your name (and nobody cares)

By Newt Briggs

"Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy."

--Benjamin Franklin

Too bad Ben Franklin never had the opportunity to walk into a bar on East Fremont Street in the middle of the night. If he had, he might have changed his mind about the palliative properties of alcohol. The scene is scary--especially after the March 8 murder of a bartender at the Odyssey Lounge.

But East Fremont isn't the city's only bastion of bar violence. According to a list supplied by Metro's Crime Analysis Unit, Las Vegas police have responded to 336 calls at local bars or lounges since Dec. 1. The reports ranged from petty larceny to bomb threats, murder and kidnapping with a deadly weapon. A few of the locations were casinos and corporate bars, but for the most part they were the buckets of blood, the shadowy places where beer bottles become projectiles and wooden chairs don't shatter like they do in the spaghetti Westerns.

Thursday, March 11, 11:26 p.m., Clubhouse Tavern

It's not even midnight, and 23-year-old graveyard bartender Ryan Merillat is already picking a body off the floor.

"Second time today," he says as he reaches under the bar and pulls out a pair of yellow latex gloves. The gloves are so old and grungy that he has to individually separate the fingers so he can put them on. If history is any indication, they have seen their fair share of carnage.

A decade ago, the Clubhouse Tavern was founded as a headquarters for the Las Vegas chapter of the Pirates motorcycle club. Owner Gary Horrocks originally bought the building at 4001 Las Vegas Blvd. North for use as a used car lot, but when the city denied his zoning requests, he converted it into a bar. At first, he planned to call it the Scooter Inn, but his crew--a group he describes as "inlaw outlaws"--insisted it be dubbed the Clubhouse Tavern. The name stuck.

"In 10 years of owning the bar, we've only had the police in here once, and that was because some tweaker stabbed me," says Horrocks, former vice president of the Pirates. "The cops came in here six deep, and each and every one of them said, `I didn't even know this was a bar.' That was the only time I ever called the police. We take care of everything else in-house."

Saturday, March 13, 1:47 a.m., Silver Saddle Saloon

In the back corner of the parking lot at the Silver Saddle Saloon and Dancehall on East Charleston Boulevard, 28-year-old tradesman Miguel Marcos is drinking tall cans of Budweiser and bobbing his head to mariachi music blasting from a car a few rows away. He says how much he likes the people--particularly the women--who come to the Silver Saddle, but he admits he can't remember a visit when he hasn't seen a fight.

"Man, I've seen some people take some beatings in this place," Marcos says. "I saw a guy get punched so hard that his nose, like, disappeared. It was just gone."

At the bar's entrance, Wranglers and Stetsons mingle with jerseys and baggy pants, and a steady flow of people continues to come and go. The sidewalk leading to the entryway is splashed with vomit, and every time the doors swing open, a burst of festive music rushes outside. A white Ford F-150 pickup pulls up and stops at the front door. The truck idles for a moment before a young man runs up from behind and hurls a bottle through its rear window.

The window explodes like a gunshot, and bystanders (including the once-intrepid, now terror-stricken journalist) scatter for cover behind columns, trash cans and parked cars. As a half-dozen yellow-shirted bouncers pour into the parking lot, two other cars pull up and the scene flares into an old-fashioned brawl. In the middle of the fight, one of the bouncers produces a baton and smashes the driver's-side window of a red Honda Accord. More punches are thrown, Spanish curses are exchanged and after several minutes, the cars--including the white F-150--screech off into the night.

No one calls the police.

A few minutes later, the only remnants of the melee are a pair of broken bottles and a small pile of safety glass. Nearby, Mia and Marcia, regulars at the Silver Saddle, lean casually against a car in the parking lot. Asked if fights are common at the bar, Mia responds, "Oh, no, only like six times a night."

"Mexicans and tequila just don't mix," she adds.

But according to the women, the Silver Saddle is tame compared with some other Spanish-speaking bars in the area. Asked to be more specific, both single out the the El Parral at 953 E. Sahara Ave. in Commercial Center.

The records support their claim. Since December, there have been at least six police reports from bars at 953 E. Sahara, and before that, there was a series of unsolved shootings. In an Oct. 28 incident, two men drinking in the parking lot were shot and killed a little before 5 a.m. A few months earlier, two other men were gunned down outside the El Parral. According to a news release posted on the Metro website, "several Hispanic males were seen leaving the area of the shooting."

"It's terrible," says Mia. "I've been there twice. The first time was about three years ago, and they killed somebody. Then I went back around seven or eight months ago, and they were shooting again."

Looking up and down, she concludes, "You probably shouldn't go there. They might kill you."

Saturday, March 13, 10:15 p.m., Moose's Beach House

Thankfully, the Saturday night scene at Moose's Beach House--formerly Moose McGillycuddy's--provides a little respite from the previous night's chaos at the Silver Saddle. As Lynyrd Skynyrd's "Sweet Home Alabama" wafts through the bar's double doors, carloads of natty coeds file past the bouncers into the popular University District saloon. All in all, it seems relatively wholesome--a college bar in a college town where college kids have come to do what they're supposed to do: get wasted.

Strange then that of all of the bars on the Metro list, Moose's has had the most reports since December--seven in all. The offenses include assault (1), battery (2), discharge of a firearm from a motor vehicle in a populated area (1) and murder with a deadly weapon (1).

Although Moose's general manager declined to comment on the issue, the stats speak to a greater trend among neighborhood nightclubs. On Sept. 7, an argument outside The Rock, another Maryland Parkway club, turned into a double homicide. The bar has yet to reopen. Following suit, Hurricane Harry's--once a popular and frequently rowdy nightclub--recently abandoned its after-hours activities in an effort to focus on its daytime bar and restaurant services.

And according to Metro Lt. Rob Wills, the infamous SRO Club on East Flamingo Road is currently the subject of a police investigation. "The investigation was opened after a series of violent incidents at the club," says Wills. He declines to elaborate, but he does confirm that a New Year's Eve shooting in the parking lot was a contributing factor. There was also an incident last August when a bystander was killed by a stray bullet.

The SRO situation is reminiscent of what happened at the Runway 21 on East Craig Road in 2000. Beset by a series of gang-related shootings, the Runway 21 was subsequently shut down by police. It has since been converted into the Four Aces Lounge, and with the exception of two reports of battery, the bar has managed to fly under law enforcement radar.

"The place got new management and went in a different direction," says Lt. Lewis Roberts of Metro's Gang Diversion Unit. "We haven't been down there in the two years that I've been here."

Further proof of the vital importance of bar environment can be found just a few doors down from Moose's at the Freakin' Frog--an upscale beer and wine joint run by wine expert and UNLV lecturer Adam Carmer. Carmer explains that by foregoing hard liquor and focusing on a more refined clientele, he has created a drinking climate that rejects the riffraff and random violence.

"I didn't want all of the hard liquor and the steroid rage and all that," Carmer says. "When you come into my bar, it says, `Sit down. Relax. Have a beer.' It doesn't say, `Do seven shots and get as fucked up as possible and get into fights.'"

Sunday, March 14, 9:37 p.m., East Fremont Street

Ominous portents abound: Two police cars block the road on 15th Street, a pimp and hooker pace back and forth in front of the Desert Moon Motel and the lighted sign on top of the Bloodbank-Antibody Center has shorted out, leaving only the word "Bloodbank" illuminated.

At night, Fremont Street is so bright that it's forbidding. To borrow a line from Martha and the Vandellas, there`s "nowhere to run to, baby, nowhere to hide." As cars roll past in both directions, the sidewalk feels a little like a shooting gallery, and I'm the poor, defenseless duck.

I quicken my pace. All I want to do is make it the few remaining blocks to the Odyssey Lounge. Even though the graveyard bartender--70-year-old Thimios "Terry" Petropoulos--was robbed and beaten to death there less than a week before, it still seems like a safe haven from the uncertainty of the street. As I'm walking, a green minivan with Michigan plates pulls to the curb and a middle-aged white man asks, "Do you know a guy named Rico?" I hesitate, and he speeds off down the street.

The question shatters my nerves. I do not know a guy named Rico, and I am bewildered as to why a shady old man in a family roadster would think I do. I have what I imagine to be a mild panic attack, and I turn and retreat to the car at double speed. Two people huddled together in a bus stop laugh at me. I resolve to come back, but not when it's dark.

The next day, I'm standing at the front entrance of the Odyssey. The door is locked, and a small, hand-scrawled sign reads, "CLOSED." Next to the door, a pink tank-top is duct taped to the wall. The makeshift memorial is marked with the words, "God bless you! You were loved by all and will be missed by many."

Across from the bar, Bill Maurice stands in front of the TIV-On Apartments, drinking beer from a glass bottle. He says he hasn't heard much about the recent murder--a surprise since rumors usually spread down the street "like a disease."

"No one's saying anything about it. It's all very hush-hush," Maurice says. "From what I know about the guy, he wasn't one to put up or resist or anything. He would have just given over whatever he had. It was senseless."

Maurice, who has lived in Las Vegas for 12 years but only recently moved onto Fremont Street, blames the violence on the preponderance of drugs (and drug dealers) in the neighborhood. He does believe, however, that Metro has effectively cracked down on some of the worst offenders.

"The cops started on top of Fremont--up there by the Atomic lounge--and they've been moving on down," says Maurice. "They raided the Travel Inn, and then they hit the Hiahleah Motel last night and took a bunch of people to jail."

Others do not share his confidence.

"There's been a lot of foul shit happening around here--a gang of foul shit," says 33-year-old Travone Jackson, a neighborhood resident for the past year and a half. "For about the last month, stuff's been jumping off. I mean, I come from L.A., and this is worse, way worse."

Thursday, March 11, 11:27 p.m., Clubhouse Tavern

The jukebox transitions from AC/DC's "Stiff Upper Lip" to Primus' "Wynona's Big Brown Beaver." Merillat has the rubber gloves on, and he is gently prodding at the body with a pool cue. It is a pigeon with a broken wing, and it stubbornly refuses to move. Merillat sets down the cue and scoops up the helpless bird in his hands. Despite its struggling, he carries it outside and lays it in a sheltered spot at the side of the building.

"I wish there was something else I could do for it," he says on his return.

The scene gives credence to Horrocks' claim that the Clubhouse Tavern is the "safest bar in town." It is also a comforting reminder that things aren't always as bad as they seem.

Then again, sometimes they're worse, way worse.