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besmirched by simply letting customers in.
    I’m touched that Dishonest Dave has taken the trouble to companion me. He’s also very generous with the drinks, purchasing three rounds to my one. He talks a lot. He talks animatedly, although what he talks about I can’t really say, since the music is very loud and Dave talks very fast and waves his hands a lot. It’s hard to act engrossed in something you can’t understand, but I smile and nod a lot, hoping he’ll dry up so I can just ogle the women and enjoy my drink.
    I catch something about black women. “Black women. Black women. They’ll do anything for you. That’s what you need.”
    Then a little later on, “Electromagnetism – they just don’t understand it. They ain’t got a clue.” Several times I indicate to Dishonest Dave that I’m tired and want to go back home. He 50

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    hears what I’m saying, but he’s not listening; my information is not germane.
    Eventually I realize I’m so drunk it’s no use in refusing his offers of more drink or fighting to get home. I’m so drunk I could be robbed, stripped naked, cudgelled and left in a ditch, and I wouldn’t mind one bit. Dishonest Dave is still holding forth.
    At six in the morning when we’re the last drinkers thrown out of the club, Dishonest Dave answers his phone and placates his wife. I’m experiencing quite a strong hatred towards him now as it’s clear he’s been pulling the old “he’s a stranger in town, I have to show him round” ploy to flee the coop. It’s not about showing me the town, it’s about getting off the leash.
    I’ve known quite a few husbands like that: who’ve arranged a business meeting in a bar which will only last fifteen minutes, after which they’ll go boozing with friends or romp with their secretary for three hours, so they don’t have to lie to their wives about having a meeting.
    Dishonest Dave is jigging around as if he’s about to go out for the evening. I can’t see a taxi anywhere, and I don’t have any money left.
    “Please. I’m begging you, take me home.”
    “Not till you’ve had breakfast. I know a place that serves the best breakfast in Miami.”
    “Honestly I need to sleep.”
    “After breakfast. A great breakfast will set you up for a great sleep.” We walk a few blocks as Dishonest Dave talks breathlessly about elections in Haiti and by this stage if I had a gun I would have shot myself. Perhaps this is my punishment for not inviting Napalm along, which in a way would be comforting since it would suggest justice is paying close attention to 51

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    everyday events. But it’s funny how it’s always punishment and not reward…
    A ginger-haired guy sidles up to us and says, “Listen…” I never found out what he intended to say since Dishonest Dave hits him. Or I assume he hit him, since there’s a loud cracking sound and our interlocutor is lying on the ground rug-style.
    Dave’s that fast.
    Dave bends down and picks up a knife I hadn’t noticed, which is lying by the barely conscious mugger. Then Dave reaches inside his jacket and extricates some papers.
    “I want you to know,” Dave says to the guy, “that I’m not some knucklehead. That’s my bank statement. See? You see that? That’s my money. All that money is mine. And this,”
    he says unfolding another bit of paper, “is my doctorate in Caribbean studies. You do know what a doctorate is? So, not only can I kick the crap out of you, I’m way way richer and smarter.”
    “Well, time to go home,” I say.
    “No,” says Dave. “I’m not letting this spoil my breakfast.” He makes the guy strip naked and throws his clothes over a wall.
    We reach the restaurant as Dishonest Dave complains about being mugged all the time. “I know people who’ve lived here twenty years, they’ve never had so much as a harsh word. I get this every other week.” I can see why in a way; like most of the very dangerous people I’ve known, he