Insane City (5 page)

“She’s my sister, Seth. And I didn’t think there’d be drug dogs here.”

“It’s
Miami
, Tina. There’s drug dogs in the
preschools
.”

Tina stood. “Well, it doesn’t matter now, does it?”

“I guess not,” said Seth. “Thanks to your father.”

She looked at him for a second, then said, “It’s a stupid law, OK?”

“OK,” said Seth. In the distance he could see Alvarez looking back at him.

The Groom Posse had drifted up; Kevin, Marty and Big Steve exchanged hugs with Tina and

Meghan.

“So,” said Tina. “You boys have big plans for Seth tonight?”

“Big plans,” said Marty.

“Huge plans,” said Kevin.

“No stripper,” said Seth.

“What?”
said Kevin.

“No stripper,” repeated Seth.

“Then what’s the point of even getting married?” said Kevin.

“If we’re not getting the stripper,” said Big Steve, “I want my forty dollars back.”

“Wow,” said Meghan. “Forty whole
dollars
?”

“Apiece,” said Marty.

“Oh, forty
apiece
,” said Meghan. “So this will be, like, the Mercedes-Benz of strippers.”

“Marty,” said Seth, “you swore on your mother there would be no stripper.”

“Yes, but I hate my mother,” said Marty.

“He has you there,” said Kevin.

“OK!” said Tina. “Sounds like you boys have important matters to discuss. We’ve got a car waiting

outside and lots to do at the hotel, and then we’ve got dinner with my parents. I’ll see you later, OK?”

“Tina,” said Seth. “I’m not going to let them . . . I mean, it’s not gonna be . . .”

She stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Just have fun with your friends and don’t get any

diseases,” she said. “And be ready for the rehearsal dinner tomorrow night, OK?”

“OK,” said Seth. She kissed him and left with her sister.

“She’s really not threatened, is she?” said Kevin.

“If you looked like that,” said Marty, “would
you
be threatened?”

“If I looked like that,” said Kevin, “I would spend all day standing naked in front of a mirror.”

“Hey,” said Seth.

“OK, but I would.”

“Let’s get the bags, grab a taxi to the hotel, start the party,” said Marty.

“Maybe there’s a shuttle to the hotel,” said Big Steve.

“Good point,” said Kevin. “Why don’t you look into that, weigh the pros and cons, text us your

findings in the next day or so. We’ll be at the hotel.”

“I
do not want a stripper
,” said Seth.

“Absolutely not!” said Marty.

They collected their bags and hailed a taxi van driven by a man in a bulging Rastafarian hat who

radiated pot fumes and whose radio was playing a song that apparently consisted of a single extremely

low note played over and over at the volume of artillery fire.

“WE’RE GOING TO THE RITZ-CARLTON ON KEY BISCAYNE!” shouted Seth.

The driver turned and looked at Seth, frowning.

“DO YOU KNOW WHERE THAT IS?” shouted Seth.

“WHAT IS?” shouted the driver.

“THE RITZ-CARLTON HOTEL!” shouted Seth.

“COCONUT GROVE?” shouted the driver.

“NO, THE RITZ-CARLTON, ON KEY BISCAYNE!” shouted Seth.

“RITZ-CARLTON HOTEL?” shouted the driver.

“YES, ON KEY BISCAYNE!” shouted Seth. “DO YOU THINK YOU COULD TURN THE MUSIC

DOWN?”

The driver, not turning the music down, put the cab in gear and began driving.

“Friendly chap,” said Kevin.

“WHAT?” said Seth.

“Never mind,” said Kevin.

Since conversation was impossible, they all whipped out phones, put their heads down and

commenced thumbing. After twenty minutes, the taxi pulled to a stop. A doorman opened the van door and

said, “Welcome to the Ritz-Carlton.”

They got out, unloaded their bags. Marty paid the driver, who pulled out of the hotel driveway, his

taxi still throbbing. Seth looked around.

“Wait a minute,” he said. “Where are we?”

“The Ritz-Carlton,” said Kevin, pointing to a sign that said RITZ-CARLTON.

“It looks wrong,” said Seth. He turned to the doorman and said, “Is this Key Biscayne?”

“No,” said the doorman. “Coconut Grove.”

“Shit,” said Seth.

“We should’ve taken the shuttle,” said Big Steve.

“Can you get us a cab?” Seth asked the doorman.

“OK,” said the doorman. He stuck two fingers into his mouth and emitted a shrill whistle. From

around the corner came the sound of booming bass. The same taxi rolled into the driveway, Rasta dude at

the wheel.

“I don’t believe this,” said Kevin. “Is this guy the entire Miami taxi fleet?”

“Can we get another taxi?” Seth asked the doorman.

The doorman whistled again, then again. No taxi appeared.

“Not too many taxis around right now,” he said.

Reluctantly, they got back into the taxi. The driver gave no indication that he recognized them.

“WE WANT YOU TO TAKE US TO KEY BISCAYNE!” shouted Kevin. “OK? KEY BISCAYNE!”

Without answering, the driver put the taxi in gear. He drove to Bayshore Drive and turned right.

“NO!” said Seth, waving his arms. “I THINK IT’S THE OTHER WAY!” He pointed toward the

back of the cab. “I THINK WE NEED TO GO THAT WAY! TO KEY BISCAYNE!”

“I KNOW KEY BISCAYNE!” said the driver. “YOU KEEP TELLING ME KEY BISCAYNE KEY

BISCAYNE KEY BISCAYNE! I KNOW THIS!”

Seth fell back against the seat. “Fine,” he said.

“I’ll handle this,” said Marty. “You’re the groom. Just relax, OK?”

“OK,” said Seth.

“DRIVER!” said Marty.

“I KNOW,” said the driver, “KEY BISCAYNE!”

Seth, who was developing a headache, closed his eyes and tried to relax. After about fifteen minutes,

he felt the taxi slow. He opened his eyes. They were inching along in heavy traffic next to a row of hotels.

“This is Ocean Drive,” he said.

“I know!” said Marty. “Nice, huh?”

“Marty, Ocean Drive on
Miami Beach
.”

“Is that on the way to Key Biscayne?” said Marty.

“No!” said Seth. He shouted to the driver, “WE WANT TO GO TO KEY BISCAYNE!”

“I KNOW! KEY BISCAYNE! I KNOW THIS!” replied the driver, taking both hands off the wheel

so he could make a gesture to indicate how irritated he was by this incessant jabber about the destination

being Key Biscayne.

Seth turned to his Posse and said, “This guy doesn’t know how to get to Key Biscayne.”

“But he’s a taxi driver,” said Kevin.

“He’s a
Miami
taxi driver,” said Seth. He tapped the driver’s shoulder and shouted, “STOP HERE!

LET US OUT!”

“We’re getting out here?” said Big Steve. “With our suitcases?”

“If we stay in this taxi,” said Seth, “we could wind up in Belize.”

They got out and unloaded the luggage. They refused to pay the driver, who, after shouting something

incomprehensible, slammed his door and thumped slowly away in the thick traffic.

“OK,” said Seth. “We need to find another taxi.”

“You think there’s more than one?” said Kevin.

They looked down Ocean Drive, surveying the bumper-to-bumper line of tourist-driven rental cars

crawling past sidewalk café tables filled with tourists drinking fruit-festooned rum drinks and watching

the passing pedestrian parade of still more tourists. There were no taxis in sight. They started walking,

luggage in tow, weaving their way through the maze of sidewalk tables.

After a block and a half, they came to the Clevelander, a legendary South Beach bar bearing no

resemblance to anything that has ever existed in Cleveland. On a small stage next to the packed bar a

woman wearing a basically invisible bikini was writhing to inhumanly loud pounding music. Nearby,

beneath a sign that said D.J. BOOGA WOOGA was a man wearing black lace-up boots and a purple thong held up by

orange suspenders. He was shouting into a microphone: “LAST CALL FOR THE MISS HOT AMATEUR

BOD CONTEST! LADIES, COME ON UP! FIRST PRIZE IS ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS! COME ON,

LADIES! LET’S SEE WHAT YOU GOT!”

Standing near the DJ were a dozen young women wearing garments that, if all of them were

combined, might have provided enough fabric to make a sock.

“We should stop here,” said Kevin.

“No, we shouldn’t,” said Seth. “We need to get to the Ritz.”

“We can’t get to the Ritz,” said Kevin. “Admit it. We tried and we failed.”

“Plus,” said Marty, “they don’t have Miss Hot Amateur Bod at the Ritz, not to mention D.J. Booga

Wooga.”

Seth looked back out at Ocean Drive. Still no taxis.

“Maybe there’s a bus to Key Biscayne,” said Big Steve.

“Shut up, Steve,” said Kevin.

“Come on, Seth,” said Marty. “One drink.”

“OK,” said Seth, dragging his suitcase toward the bar. “One drink.”

Three hours later, they were on their fifth pitcher of margaritas. The pitchers were $50 apiece, plus a

generous tip for Vicki the bartender, with whom Kevin had fallen deeply in love. Kevin was also in love

with Cyndi Friend Gonzalez, an outgoing young woman who had finished fourth in the Miss Hot Amateur

Bod competition and who was wearing a dress made from roughly one square inch of some extremely

stretchy material. At Kevin’s invitation, Cyndi had joined the Groom Posse at the bar; she had in turn been

joined by a friend of hers, a large bald man named Duane.

The Posse was not thrilled about Duane, but nobody told him to leave because in addition to being

large, he had an eleven-foot Burmese albino python named Blossom draped over his shoulders. Duane

made his living collecting tips from tourists who wanted to have their pictures taken with Blossom. He’d

been doing this for eight years and considered himself a professional. He also considered himself an

ambassador for Miami, and upon learning that Seth was about to get married, he had appointed himself as

tour guide.

“This is my fuckin’ town,” he said. “
¿Se hablo españolo?
You need weed? Oxy?”

“I think we’re good,” said Seth.

Duane brandished Blossom. “You want to hold her? No charge for the groom, man.”

“Maybe later,” said Seth, leaning back to avoid Blossom’s flicking tongue.

“Just say the word,” said Duane, pouring Seth and himself another glass from the pitcher, finishing it.

Kevin waved to Vicki for another.

The Clevelander was now very crowded and making far more noise than the entire state of

Nebraska. The sea-salted night air was warm and sticky and thick with the aromas of spilled beer and

cigar smoke and AXE body spray and billowing clouds of fuck-me perfume worn by women who were

not wearing a whole lot else. Seth was staring at one of these women, wondering how she sat down in that

dress and hoping she would attempt to do so soon, when he realized that Big Steve was shouting

something into his ear, trying to be heard over the all-obliterating
boom-boom
issuing from the coffin-

sized speakers of D.J. Booga Wooga.

“WHAT?” said Seth.

“THE HOTEL!” said Big Steve. He held up his phone so Seth could see the time: 9:30. Seth

frowned. He swiveled toward Marty, grabbing the bar to keep from falling off the stool.

“MARTY!”

“WHAT?”

“WE NEED TO GET TO THE HOTEL!”

“WHAT?”

“THE HOTEL!”

Marty frowned deeply for several seconds, processing this concept, then said, “WHAT?”

“Never mind,” said Seth. Realizing it was time to take matters into his own hands, he turned away

from Marty and slid smoothly off the stool. He continued sliding smoothly until he found himself on all

fours under the bar. He decided to remain that way for a bit, collecting his thoughts.

He’d been down there a while and had yet to collect any when he became vaguely aware of voices

shouting above him in the thumping din. He heard his name and realized that the voices belonged to Marty,

Big Steve and Kevin, who, apparently unaware that he was under the bar, were trying to figure out where

he was.

“Hey!” said Seth. “Down here!”

They didn’t hear him. Their voices were louder now and more concerned.

“Hey!” Seth repeated, again going unheard. He thought about attempting to stand up, but at the

moment that didn’t seem to be a good idea or even possible. He decided to collect his thoughts some more

and soon fell asleep with his back against the bar.

He was awakened by the sudden absence of thunderous noise; D.J. Booga Wooga was taking a short

break. It took Seth a few seconds to remember where he was. He rolled over and saw a forest of legs. He

reached out an unsteady hand, his plan being to signal his location to his Posse.

“What the hell?” said a woman’s voice from above. At the same moment, Seth felt a sharp pain, the