My old friend Sheila was still at the bank. She was happy to plug in his card number and sure enough, his Visa spit out a cluster of purchases along Florida Avenue in the central part of the city. Gas once a week at a Mobil, groceries here and there, the liquor store once. CDs, of course, at a hip-hop store on Columbus Drive. All in a six block radius.
Once I got there, I felt the stares from the neighborhood folks. I was too white in a car that was too fancy. But Conrad would blend right in here with his caramel-toned skin and dark eyes. I wondered why he chose this part of town when the university neighborhoods would have a better music scene.
It didn’t take long to spot his souped-up Mustang at one of the motels on the strip deep in the heart of Hispanic Tampa. That was one of the thi
