In last week’s issue of Red Letter Daze, Olek­sander related a particularly harrowing experience he had with the night life of Istanbul. Out at a bar, Oleksander discovered too late that the drinks were ridiculously expensive, so he was forced to flee without paying his full tab. He then wandered through Istanbul in the pouring rain, followed by a con-man trying to get Oleksander to go to a bar. He eventually ended up at the same place where this whole adventure started. Here is the conclusion of Oleksander’s story.

Not one to leave things half done, I decided that I wanted some more rewarding revenge. But several large bodyguards versus one foreigner, however strong he may be, looked like an unfair fight.

So I waited until I saw the police and told them everything, from how the scam worked to who was involved. Unfortunately, they understood about five words of English and so drove me to the bar thinking this was a petty argument best resolved with the manager.

To my disappointment, there would be no dramatic series of extensive arrests and trials I had been hoping for. They found the manager, who was unique in that he spoke excellent English — a wiry man in a nice suit with a gaunt, leathery face and a cackle that would drown out a choir of angels.

“Can I help you, sir?” he asked with mock politeness — he knew I had gotten away before losing much.

I paused, not knowing what to say. I then declared dramatically, “Yes, I want my umbrella back.” He revealed his yellow teeth to give his first loud cackle and had a minion go in to get it.

“Is there anything else?”

“Yes, you’re running a scam.” He cut me off, characteristically clicking his tongue at me.

“I’m not doing anything illegal,” he countered.

Being completely ignorant of Turkish law, I bluffed and said he was, but he only pointed out that I should have looked at the menu. I said I had. His minion came back with a different umbrella that he gave me — a broken one, I later found out.

“Charging outrageous prices may not be illegal, but hiring people to lure travelers from the streets into your bar in order to con them out of their money is.”

He replied with a drowning laugh: “You shouldn’t trust people.”

I was angry now and shouted at him, “If there weren’t people like you in this world then everyone could trust each other.”

The policemen stood by, bored that they had to sit through some routine customer dispute and not knowing anything that was going on in this exotic foreign tongue: English. The manager knew that he’d get away with anything (I suppose he instructs his “employees” to ask the potential victims early on whether or not they speak Turkish), and so he ignored what I said, snapped his fingers for one of his minions to get half of what I’d paid and explained he’d give it back to me.

I reluctantly took it back, seeing that no arrests would be made and no complaints filed, and as I shook hands with him he laughed and said jokingly, “You’re just like my son.”

I couldn’t believe this guy’s nerve. I tore my hand away and shouted through the now-driving rain, “If I’m like your son, then how can you go on cheating people like me? How would you feel if your son were cheated when travelling by someone as greedy as you?”

He pretended not to hear me, and went back into his bar with his train of “bodyguards.” Defeated, I walked away in the relentless rain with my broken umbrella.