Читать книгу Miami Manhunt - Johnny Diaz - Страница 8

“And now we leave you with the newest video by Paris Hilton shot in our very own backyard. See if you recognize the bar in the club scene and spot, ahem, a certain dashing Channel 7 reporter. For Deco Time, I’m Ted Williams.”

“Oh Ted, you’re so modest. Not!” my co-host cuts in and turns my way. She squints and sticks her tongue out while shuffling a fake script in front of her. We ad-lib this so much that our producers never know what’s going to fly out of our mouths anymore.

“And I’m Trina Tucker. See you next time on Deco Time.”

The producer cues the Paris Hilton video, and her computer-enhanced vocals starts to play. My producer gestures that we’re about to go off the air in 5…4…3…2…1.

I flash a smile as wide as I can, keep my gaze locked on camera one, and wink at Trina, who sits to my left. She turns to me and then to camera two for her farewell closeup. We playfully hit each other with the unnecessary script as the picture fades into the Hilton video with the show’s credits rolling over it.

“And you’re done!” Sheila, my producer, says into my earpiece, which I gladly start unhooking, but I’m not going to let Trina off the hook that easily.

“You bitch!” I tell Trina as she takes off her earpiece and tucks her Beyoncé un-be-weavable straight hair behind her ears. She also detaches her mini-microphone, which is amazingly nestled out of sight between her bodacious boobs. I’m surprised we don’t need to call Miami-Dade Fire Rescue to excavate the darn thing like the Big Dig in Boston. If her boobs were any bigger thanks to Dr. 33139, we’d have a wardrobe malfunction. I secretly think Trina wishes that would happen so her face—and tatas—would be flashed all over the news, and on the real Entertainment Tonight and YouTube. It doesn’t take much to make the news these days, as I prove every week with my stories on Deco Time.

“I was just playing, Teddy. You get all fussy over nothing. It’s Deco Time, remember? We’re supposed to be playful, tongue-in-cheek, and everything in between, you know.” She grabs and squeezes her tits to emphasize her point. She gets up from her side of our hot pink news desk with its big white sign behind us that blinks “DECO TIME,” like the infamous Hollywood sign. Flanking the sign are two fake yet lush palm trees. Very Miami.

“Watch out! I’m going get to get you back on next Friday’s show. You can count on it, Trina Fucker…Oops, did I just say that? I meant, Tucker.”

“Oh, whatever Teddy. Don’t let your pink feathers get all ruffled over this. You’re not a pink flamingo at Metro Zoo. You’re still the star of the station,” she says, flailing her arms like a diva as she walks back to her desk. As she struts, her heels echo through the studio.

She’s right. She was just playing. I just don’t like looking like an ass on TV, but that’s hard when you host a wanna-be ET show called Deco Time. If Trina pulls another one of her cheap shots on air, this show is going to be called Deck her Time.

I follow Trina’s lead and head back to my own cubicle, maneuvering around the cameras, sound equipment, and lights of the news studio. The only thing I care about right now is that it’s Friday. Thank God! What a week it was. Let me give you a recap. I spent Monday covering the double suicide of a mother and daughter in Hollywood Beach. The women hung themselves in their house. Bizarre! My Tuesday went to covering an eight-car pile-up on I-95 on the Dade-Broward line all because some driver lost control of her Lexus SUV while applying some lipstick. (I’m surprised it wasn’t Trina who caused that wreck layering her L’Oreal foundation.) Wednesday was all about the President rolling into town for a surprise appearance at the University of Miami. Love her! That story is a keeper for my “Best of Ted Williams” news reel. Thursday, what did I do yesterday? Oh yeah, it was my turn to do a follow-up on the Miami real estate robber. He’s the guy who pretends to look at homes in Coral Gables and Pinecrest with pretty agents and then snatches their purses. Scary. It’s making the property values dip for the neighbors of the listed properties. So with all this gloom and doom reporting, I don’t mind spending my Fridays taping Deco Time or my occasional Wednesday’s Child segments, where we highlight a local youngster who wants to be adopted. I enjoy hanging out with the kids we feature because they’re regulars at the South Beach Boys and Girls Club. It’s for a good cause. Those segments and Deco Time provide outlets to gently ease into the weekend, except when Trina pulls one of her cattylicious lines on me.

With all the make-up they put on her, you’d think there was a drag queen sitting next to me on the set. People know me more for my Deco Time segments than my breaking news reports, so I don’t mind the actual duty. I just sit back and comment on all the video we have about our local and out-of-town celebs frolicking on Ocean Drive and Collins Ave. and at Oprah’s Fisher Island digs. Every now and then, I grab our camera guy Carlos, and we hit the clubs to dish about the hottest bar in South Beach or downtown, and I take Ray and Brian along for the ride. In the past few years, downtown Miami, a place you’d avoid at night at all costs, has become a clubbing destination. It really has stolen South Beach’s club thunder because there’s plenty of parking and you don’t have to deal with the causeway caravan clogging the streets. Besides, South Beach has become more international heterosexual than it was young and homosexual in the ’90s when Ray and I were at UM.

The round newsroom clock reads 9 p.m., and I’m sitting at my cubicle (no, most TV reporters don’t have their own offices unless you’re BaBa WaWa). I loosen up my baby pink tie and check my emails before I take off. There’s one from Ray from 6 p.m.

I’m getting ready to leave work. I saw Miami Vice II today. Will tell you all about it later but you won’t be missing too much if you skip it. Anyhoo, see you at Score, TV whore!

Ray has such a way with words. He’s always been more of the writer. I’ve been more of the give-me-the-facts ma’am reporter. I read some more emails from viewers, mostly realtors complaining about my story last night. They say they’ve had cancellations for house tours because of my reporting. To be nice, I write them back with kindness.

Hi, thank you for your email and for watching Channel 7. I appreciate your feedback. Send us your news tips.

Sometimes, these people just want a response.

I log off and shut down my computer before walking out of the studio’s main doors off the 79th Street Causeway in Miami Beach and toward the parking lot. I have a reserved space that reads “TWILLIAMS” for my cherry-red BMW. Once inside, I glance at the digital clock and notice I have just enough time to get to my home in mid-Miami Beach, and get ready for tonight.

In case you were wondering, I do share the same name as the famous Boston Red Sox slugger. It was my dad’s idea. Being a Williams, he always thought it would be great to have a son named Ted after his favorite ball player. Little did my Irish dad know that I would grow up hating sports, so the name is kind of ironic. The only ball I could hit was the glittering one in the club on ’80s nights in Beantown. I also take after my mother’s Portuguese family with the dark tanned skin, which confused people back home when I was growing up because of my last name. It could have been worse. I could have had her maiden name, San Paolo. Then I would have been Ted São Paolo. Sounds like a tasty dish, huh?

Fifteen minutes later, I pull up into my brick-paved driveway, and walk up my winding cement walkway to my small cottage off Pine Tree Drive. I love living here, along the Intracoastal Waterway and within walking distance of the beach. Because of my boost in salary after I received a competing offer from Channel Four, I am able to afford this little real estate gem. It’s a one-story white bungalow from 1936 with two bedrooms, an office, and a small backyard. Several red, yellow, and pink hibiscus trees ribbon the exterior of the property. This is my little beach oasis from the daily news grind.

I tinker with the keys, and hear some scratching and whimpering on the other side of the door. That’s Max, my sandy chihuahua, just like the doggie from those old Taco Bell commercials. “Yo quiero Ted Williams,” I always joke to guests. When I do that, I hold up Max and mimic the Taco Bell dog’s Spanish-accented voice.

“Calm down, Max. I know you’ve got to go.” The moment I open the front door, Max starts scratching at my gray slacks, trying to climb up me. He’s so sweet. He’s excited to see me because he’s been cooped up inside the house all day.

“Now, now. Let me put your leash on, and we’ll go, OK?” Max follows me to my Mexican-tiled kitchen, where I toss him some treats, grab the leash, and hook it around his neck.

We walk outside and down Pine Tree Drive, passing the majestic gated estates with flowing fountains that dwarf my little house. The sidewalk is wet from the automatic sprinklers that water the manicured green grass and trees. Max sniffs around and finds his spot under a palm tree next to the Weinsteins’ home.

“There ya go! Good boy!” Max starts peeing like Oprah in that scene in her movie Beloved where she gets so excited upon seeing Danny Glover’s character that she pisses like a racehorse. As we walk back to the house, I feel the beach breezes soothe my skin and spirit like the winds off Cape Cod, my hometown. I can’t help but wonder at what a good life I have and how blessed I am. I have the job of my dreams, a dog that adores me, friends who love me, a nice big Irish-Portuguese family back in Massachusetts, and a beautiful home in one of the most beautiful cities in the world. But I can’t help but feel like I want more. Even though I’m a famous reporter in South Florida, where I get the best stories, I come home to Max and no one else.

During weeks like this, I fantasize about how nice it would be to come home to Max and a boyfriend. Someone who would have dinner ready and a romantic night with flickering vanilla-scented candles softly lighting the rooms. Someone who wants to share his life with me as much as I want to share my life with him and Max and perhaps another dog or even a kid. Maybe I could adopt one of those Wednesday’s Child kids with a partner one day.

As beautiful as this city is to live in, Miami is just as ugly when it comes to the dating scene. It is like a beautiful unique shell, the kind you find in the Caribbean with swirls of radiant tropical colors. It seduces you with its sexy veneer and perpetual Technicolor hues. But on the inside, the city is hollow and lacking substance. South Florida is the southern capital of saline implants (for men, too) and Botox injections (guys, too). Most of the guys only care about what car you drive, what gym you work out at, and how much you make. At least back in Boston, I’d get into these heavy conversations about world politics, religion, and gay marriage. In Miami, books are used as towel weights.

If I sound bitter (do I really?), it’s because I haven’t had a boyfriend since I moved to South Florida from Boston four years ago. Cupid has had terrible aim when it comes to me, and I’m hard to miss, with my face plastered on every billboard and bus. Cupid did find me love back in Boston where I worked the weekend shift at the other Channel 7. Louie was my partner for the three years I was a general assignment street reporter. He was basketball-player tall and built, with aqua eyes and brown velvety fuzzy hair from his crew cut. He had one of the most endearing smiles, a good heart, and an infectious Boston accent. He was head director at the local Boys and Girls Clubs organization, and I often helped him with events by accompanying him to after-school basketball games or field trips with the kids during the summers. We’d go to Provincetown during the summer weekends and visit my family in nearby Sandwich on the Cape. Everything seemed to point that we were going to be together forever. He even put up with all my social and speaking engagements as one of the few Portuguese-American journalists in New England. My heart melted when he began taking Portuguese classes at the Boston Center for Adult Education to better communicate with my relatives on my mother’s side. We were planning a trip to visit Portugal when everything fell apart.

One afternoon, I came home early from work. I wasn’t feeling well due to a stomach bug. It was four and I walked into our bedroom and found him in our Beacon Hill bed with one of his college-age coaches from the center. I literally caught them with their pants down. No matter how much Louie begged and tried to explain that it was a mistake and would never happen again, I couldn’t get past the situation. It replayed in my mind relentlessly like a This-Just-In news alert at the station. I wasn’t just hurt. I was disgusted he would do that to me, to us, to our future! A fire churned in my gut from all the pain, and sadness hijacked my heavy heart. Work kept me grounded, but when I was alone, the tears would well up in full force.

We broke up. And just as I was planning to find a new place to live, our sister station in Miami offered me a job. It was perfect timing, and I thought coming back to Miami, where I studied at UM, would be a nice way to start again. I already had Ray here as a friend, and we roped Brian into our little group this past year when he and Daniel bought their estate on the Beach. So far, the move has been everything I had hoped for except in the dating department. That has been a big flop. Guys here seem more interested in saying, “I went out with the Channel 7 reporter,” or “I hooked up with Ted Williams.” I know this because I’ve overhead my former dates and tricks gab in the bars and bathrooms at Score. To them, I’m that Ted Williams and not just Ted.

“So, it’s just you and me, Max, right?” He jumps up and scratches my knee playfully. We continue walking, passing other couples pushing their strollers and small children on Pine Tree Drive. I really hoped that was going to be Louie and me one day, but one mistake dissolved that dream into nothing. Asshole!

Max and I venture back into the house, where I feed him some more of his favorite treats. I check my mail (credit card offers galore!), and find my mortgage and BMW lease statements have arrived.

I slip out of my clothes and into my egg-shaped gleaming white tub. I take a nice long hot bath with rose-scented bubbles in my Jacuzzi. This is my getaway from the big 7. I come here, let the water fizzle up to 90 degrees, and feel the tickling bubbles rush up and down my back. As the steam rises, the heat clears my face and sinuses. I scrub the layers of make-up off my face, slip underwater, and feel the water envelop me into a liquid cocoon, lulling me into a dreamy state. I feel warm and safe down here. No news to chase. No guys to date. Just a silent peacefulness. I stay in the tub for half an hour before I start to get ready for tonight.

It’s 10:55 p.m., and I’m strutting down Lincoln Road toward Score like a whore on the go. Parking was a bitch tonight—even worse than Trina Tucker—so I had to park in the municipal garage two blocks away.

I bet I’ll be the first one here since I’m always on time. Ray tends to be on Cuban time, and Brian, well, he stops by whenever it suits him. I pass the baristas whipping up coffee and mocha lattes at the corner Starbucks, and I catch a glimpse of straight couples dancing in the Cuban cigar lounge. I meander through the traffic of stylish trimmed, tanned, toned, plucked (and tucked) people hitting the strip with the same confidence and attitude as if they were starring in their own music videos. Hey, at least I have a good excuse for my purposeful stride. I’m on TV five days a week reporting the news, and I’m a member of the smart set, the small but growing intellectual circle here. I find I am forced to read The Boston Daily and The New York Times online to tame my appetite for layered stories with substance. Locally, I must make do with The Miami News, no offense Ray.

I finally arrive at Score, and notice the guys lounging in the café table chairs outside, watching all the man-traffic coasting in and out of the bar. I grab an empty table and slouch back in my chair and relax. I’m the first one to arrive.

The word “Score” is emblazoned in big bold black letters on a sign above the entrance, the banner radiating what the word means, get it on, win, hook it up. Score! The thumping bass and electronica float from the South Beach clubs and over Lincoln Road, reminding me of many other Friday nights in South Beach.

I order a vodka with grapefruit juice from the baby gay waiter, who looks like he should be on Nickelodeon with his spiky blonde hair and boyish bod. I stare at my watch a few times as the minutes and the men go by. Score soothes me. Being here on a Friday sands the sharp edges off my day.

“Oh my gosh! Like aren’t you the Ted Williams, star reporter for Channel 7?” I hear some queenie-lisping guy gushing from behind my seat. Must be a viewer, a fan. I’m used to this. I turn around ready to sign an autograph or shake a hand when I see a certain Cubano with blue eyes and a burning cigarette in hand. It’s Ray, pulling my leg, as usual.

“And aren’t you Miami’s most fabulous and chronically tardy movie critic?” I fire back, getting up to give my bud a big hug and trying to avoid any falling ashes from his ciggie.

“Good to see you, Ted, even though I see you on the buses in front of me on the road and on the news and in Flamingo Park trolling for tricks at 3 a.m.”

“Oh no, you didn’t! Besides if you saw me there, it’s because you were there. I was just looking for you, fucker,” I tease Ray back. We have this ongoing inside joke about Flamingo Park, where desperate horny guys go after not scoring at Score, Twist or even online. Flamingo Park is the last resort, and the guys are there until sunrise moseying around, rustling through the bushes and trees. I’ve never been there. Ray swears he hasn’t either, but we can’t help but joke about it like those “Your Mama’s so fat” jokes.

“Well, my deep throat sources told me you just came from there, and that’s why you’re late, as usual!”

“Only because I was looking for you Ted,” he says, blowing a plume of smoke my way. We burst out laughing (I cough a little from the smoke). Our heads bob, me from my giggles and Ray from his dry heaving.

“Well, grassy-ass!” I say, my way of pronouncing the Spanish word gracias.

We sit down and the man-boy bartender reappears to take Ray’s order. Ever since we met at UM, Ray has had a thing for Coronas. He said his dad Oscar would drink them with his uncles during baseball games when he was a teen and he ended up catching the buzz when he got older. I remember watching the Canes football games with Ray, and he always had a Corona in his hand. I go for more of the classy drink that gives you a warm buzz from the vodka and yet a sweet but tarty taste from the grapefruit.

“So what’s new with you? I saw your story last night about the real estate robber. That’s messed up. I don’t get how you do the TV thing. You have to rush and run around town for a one-minute, or even a two-minute, time frame to tell a story. I’m all about sitting down, taking my time, and massaging my words for my reviews,” Ray says.

“But see, I can’t imagine watching three movies a week and then writing about them. I like being out on the scene, getting the story, chasing tips,” I say, sipping my drink. The bartender comes back and brings Ray his Corona. He stuffs a lime down the bottle’s neck.

“Any cute guys tonight?” Ray asks, taking a swig from his beer.

“Just the usual. I feel like I’ve met everyone here.”

“Oye, Ted, that’s because you have met everyone. You’re always out. You’re overexposed like Britney Spears. You’ve clocked more club hours than Paris Hilton. If you were on Friendster or MySpace, you’d have the whole city on your friends list.”

“Well, I am on TV after all. My face is out there. My name is out there. I have to be out there to keep up my profile. Look, you’re the one with the mug shot in your paper every Friday, so I wouldn’t talk.”

“Yeah, but I don’t do the party scene and take Channel 7 with me like you do. Maybe you should take a break from all the partying and being-seen scene.”

I know what he means. It’s hard to stand out when you’re everywhere, but I can’t help it. It’s part of my persona, my job. I feel like I’m doing community service by attending various functions and events, like I’m promoting Channel 7 and myself in the process. There’s always cuter and younger faces out there waiting for me to screw up so they can steal my job. I know I’m good at what I do, but I also know I’m not a looker by South Beach standards. I’m not all-American boy handsome like Brian, or even boyishly Cuban cute like Ray and his twin. I stand out here and yet, I don’t. Makeup cleans me up well for television. But one thing I’ve got under my belt is my Magnum P.I. (Portuguese-Irish) dick. It’s the size of a hand-held Channel 7 microphone, at least that’s why my tricks have told me. I’m happy that I take after the Portuguese in that respect.

“I just think that if I get myself out there, I’ll find that guy, you know?” I tell Ray, scanning the surrounding tables for other cute guys.

“I know what you mean but I bet there’s a whole layer of guys out there who go to book clubs, or the Gallery Walks in Coral Gables. It’s those guys we have to find,” Ray says, holding up his beer for a toast.

“Amen,” I click my glass to his.

“Gay men!” Ray says looking around. “Speaking of men, where’s Brian?”

It’s almost midnight, and Score is packed. The Venezuelan bouncer with the fake blonde hair is turning people away at the door. The DJ inside starts mixing Christina Aguilera’s Ain’t No Other Man. It’s a good thing we have our table outside. We only go inside when we have to dash in for a bathroom break. Friday nights are about the three of us catching up, not so much about manhunting, though Brian would probably disagree.

I think I see him over there by the Starbucks, talking to some muscular Latin guy. No wonder he’s late. He’s chatting it up with a hot Puerto Rican. A few minutes later, we see Brian coming our way with a big grin on his face. I notice that Brian is dressed in his usual attire: white Polo T-shirt accented by a thick silver necklace, blue jeans, and sneakers. No matter how many times we’ve told Brian that he has the money to dress better, he doesn’t listen. He prefers to be ultra-casual.

“Hey, chicos. Sorry I’m late. I, um, got sidetracked,” Brian says, looking up as if he just ate the canary and the cat that was eyeing it, too. He gives us each a bear hug that leaves us momentarily breathless. Ray and I are like midgets next to him.

“Good seeing you, Brian,” Ray says, with a return hug and a loud masculine pat on the back.

“Yeah, I saw what distracted you, a six-foot-tall, dark, curly-haired Puerto Rican with a deep-fried tan and biceps the size of the grapefruits, probably the ones that made my drink. Does that sound right?”

“Yeah, just about, Ted. Wasn’t he hot?” Brian’s eyes dance mischievously as he talks about the guy who sort of looks like Adam Rodriguez from CSI: Miami but with a slightly bigger Latino fro. Brian plays with the golden brown whiskers of his goatee. “I’m gonna meet up with him inside later after we all hang out. Qué rico! His name is Eros. He’s a Puerto Rican with a Greek name. How hot is that?” Brian says, taking his seat next to Ray.

“You know, you better be careful with that one,” Ray pipes up. “Eros in Greek mythology was the god of love, lust, and sex. His Roman equivalent is Cupid,” Ray says, lighting another cigarette. “Even worse, his name is sore spelled backwards.” Ray is always giving us some pop or historical trivia. He does this with movies, literature, history or anything else that comes to his mind. He’s a human Wikipedia. Call him Ray-ipedia.

Brian grins. He obviously seems smitten, or just lustful, from the few minutes he was talking to this guy.

Even from my seat across the café table, Brian’s eyes seem luminous, a slice of the Atlantic on a stormy day. The guy has the looks, the money, a rich partner, and the life. But yet, it never seems to be enough for him. He wants more.

Don’t get me wrong. I really like Brian. He’s a good guy and means well, but does he have to have it all? Let Ray and me have the single guys to ourselves. Brian already has a man, a very wealthy one. Do I sound a little bitter? Maybe I am. I guess because deep down inside, I’ve always had a tiny crush on Brian, but that could never be. He has a man at home and another always waiting on his Miami horizon.

The manboy bartender returns and fetches a drink for Brian. He likes vodka and cranberry.

“So what’s going on, guys? How’s your other half, Ray?” Brian asks, sipping his reddish drink.

Ray tells him that his brother is good, as always, and that he’ll see him tomorrow. He tells us about Miami Vice II and what to expect, but doesn’t ruin the movie. I recount my crazy week and my little encounter with Trina Tucker.

“You called her Trina Fucker?” Brian asks, his blue eyes widening.

“Oye, that’s hysterical,” Ray jumps in. “Too bad that wasn’t on camera. It could have made the people news in the News.”

Catching up with these guys is the right way to end the week and begin the weekend. We chat for another hour or so, ordering more drinks and talking about what’s coming up in our lives.

Brian says he’s doing his best to complete the renovations on his new house on the Venetian Causeway while having Daniel call him about every little thing every hour. Daniel expects things to be done yesterday, every day. It may explain why he’s a multi-millionaire. Too bad we haven’t met yet. Brian says he doesn’t like to socialize.

“Daniel hates it when the contractors fall behind schedule. That’s why I have to stick around here for the next few weeks to watch things. I don’t mind. That’s more time to play with my new friend,” Brian says, prowling the outside of the club for Eros.

Ray has two movies to review next week, Ocean’s 14, and a new movie by Pedro Almodovar. He also has to help his father and Racso with some house repairs. If he’s not at work or with his dog Gigli, Ray is with his super-needy Cuban family.

By 1 a.m., just as things start getting good outside of Score, Ray decides to call it a night.

“Oye, I’m exhausted guys. I had a long day, and I have to help my brother tomorrow. So in the infamous words of the Ah-nold, Hasta la vista, baby.” He takes one last swig of his third Corona, and he high-fives each of us as he disappears down Lincoln Road.

Brian decides to use Ray’s exit as his exit. It figures. He’s always seemed more comfortable with Ray than with me. It was through Ray that I met Brian. It’s always been me and Ray since college, but Brian makes a nice third to our group. I know what it feels like to be the new kid on the block in a new city, not knowing anyone so I felt I should give Brian a chance and welcome him to Miami when he joined our little clique a year or so ago. Besides, it’s fun listening to Brian’s stories about his latest hookups and the renovations to his homes. He’s quite a wild character.

“Hey, Ted, I think I’m gonna go look for Mr. Puerto Rico. I told him I would meet up with him after hanging with you guys a bit. Is that cool?”

“Yeah, go have fun, Brian. At least one of us should get laid tonight,” I tell him, getting up and giving him a hug. When we hug, I catch traces of his Tommy Hilfiger cologne. It never fades from his skin, and I feel a slight warm tingle breathing it in.

“Talk to you soon, Ted. Go and have fun inside, will ya?” Brian walks off and then disappears into the black darkness of the club.

With the guys gone, I decide to sit back and order one more drink. I watch all these younger guys with their lives ahead of them, some are with couples, others have met tonight. I twirl my straw in my empty drink as I await its replacement. I can’t help but think it’s just another Friday night in South Beach. Some men walk by and say “Yo! Mr. Deco Time!” Some older women stop by and ask me to autograph a napkin for their children.

At 2 a.m., I decide to call it a night, too, since I don’t notice anyone I like or anyone new. I leave the man-boy waiter a ten dollar tip. As I head back to the parking garage, I get a text message from Brian.

Eros has such a big cock! Whew. Qué rico! I felt it in the bathroom. I’m gonna have so much fun tonight. Hope you get home okay. Talk to you soon.

That’s great, Brian. Be safe. Be careful,

I reply. I drive back home to Max. Like I said, another Friday night in South Beach.