It's midnight, and the streets of St. Augustine shine after a fresh rain with the starlight and the fierce, blue diffuse luminosity of new electrical arc-lights spaced down the lights of Cordova St.  Gas-lights seize control again where the new electricity has not taken hold in the old quarter, and they remain sentinel down King Street, their orange flicker unyielding in the old town where cast-iron horse-hitches line the church and manor-home walkways of brick, flickering like dragon scales from afar.  An Atwater-Kent radio in an upstairs, chipped-stucco apartment crackles Bessie Smith (https://youtu.be/go6TiLIeVZA) down into the streets below where the shutters are propped open, and the orange light within illuminates the white cotton of a cutain that swells and ripples with the after-rain breeze, a pair of young lovers breathing heavy, straining, buckled together in that cool air.<br/><br/>Past the steeples of the Protestant district and the spires of the Cathedral, just beyond the old coquina stone and the watchful, slumbering form of the old Spanish fort's vigil by the water, there waits Cathedral Place, where a plaza with its fountain bubbling playfully as a few pedestrians begin to emerge into the rain-cooled air, shouldered on all sides by the austere luxury of old-world architecture... the noble castle hotel Casa Monica, the larger, sprawling beast of Castillian Ponce de Leon Hotel, and its stern, glaring twin across the way-- City Hall.  Further along the way of King street, if you follow the clicking of heels and the giggling of casual drinkers, you find the Alahambra-inspired coquina-stone concrete of the Zorayda Club... yes, here they don't let the elecricity in just yet.  They don't like those grand towers of glaring arc-lights that wash down like the pouring eye of God.-- they like the subtler shadows.<br/><br/>The warehouses of the river-wharf, keping respectful distance well beyond reach, as they stand guard for this small fortress of gray festooned with red and gold.  Its harem-windows and minarets peer out over King Street as jazz spills out like a champagne fountain (https://youtu.be/cUPRb5On7B4).  The heavy oak door with its decorative iron knocker remains shut tight as lights within dance through heavy glass, and a sharp-dressed man and young woman pass it by on their way.  No one arrives by foot to Club Zorayda-- they would be turned away immediately for fear of drawing attention.  This couple is on its way to a cab stand farther on... the only way into the club's fold is via the back entrance, under the sprawling candy-striped canopy by the twin ferns, where each car's driver pulls up and lets out its passengers to be met by a heavyset doorman or two in tailored-- but not flashy-- suits of tweed or flannel, where they're chatted up, welcomed, and coats taken carefully.  It's a pity they can't enter through the front door, the way guests were intended to, in order to behold the vast, three-story chamber within... the lace-like frescos in plaster on every wall, the Moorish statues and the blue-and-white Chinese vases stuffed with peacock feathers, the exotic lillies resting on shelves and the brass ashtrays from Persia, the hanging gas lamps from Turkey with hand-tooled glass shades and crystal decorations.  The fancy cigars, the tuxedoes, the women with shapely calves and starry eyes, the slicked-back hair and thick accents from around the world.<br/><br/>And the stars-- yes, real stars from the films-- they speak here, and sometimes their voices are disappointing but at least there's no delay to know what they're saying.  Without the garish makeup they're just as lovely, and with a few drinks you get to know a lot about them.  Some of them like you if you flirt, some like you even if you don't.  Some like to get handsy... sometimes it's flattering, sometimes it's not what you expect and some guys get put off by that-- but those tough guys never try to get tough about it.  Nobody would dare... these stars, their presence brings class, and class brings money.  And the fastest way to end up in Massacre Bay is to mess with class or money in this town.<br/><br/>Massacre Bay.  Sorry.<em>Matanzas</em>Bay.  Saying it in Spanish is better because not everybody speaks Spanish around here.  Literally "killings", like there were just some killings there.  It was just history.  Well... we found out that killings come back sometimes, didn't we?  Or don't we already know that, deep down, that the killings are always with us?  Just waiting under the surface, for their chance to come back to us for what we did, or what somebody did some time ago, or what we will do given half the chance... when the coins are on the table, the sword is in hand, and the book just needs to be closed for good..?<br/><br/>It's a good night to be out, and-- for the moment-- all roads lead to Club Zorayda.