capable of murder, he’d seen him heartbroken and on the verge of tears, he’d seen him at the edge, but never going over. Joe’s innate restraint and stolidity had always seen him through, enabled him to weather the worst without losing his head. Life may sometimes have confused him, but it had never overwhelmed him, never got the better of him. Until now.
‘What kind of trouble are you in, Joe?’
‘I don’t know yet,’ said Liston.
‘Anything I can do?’
‘No.’
‘Sure?’
‘Yeah.’
But Max sensed Joe wanted to talk. He just wasn’t there yet; he was still finding the right way to present the information, release it in a way he could live with.
Give him time. Change the subject.
Max looked out over Lincoln Road. It had become lush and prosperous, with restaurants, cafés, bars, cigar stores, art galleries and boutiques all doing a roaring trade under its natural canopy of spotlight-strewn, parrot-laden trees. Not that long before, the road had been two miles of arid sewer, connecting Collins Avenue to a group of dilapidated condos by the marina. Mounds of stinking trash everywhere, buildings either boarded up or colonised by bums. The only people who went down there were lost tourists, crazy old folk who’d come off their meds and the cops and medics rescuing them. Hard to believe it was the same place now. They’d even renovated the theatre. Max remembered chasing a purse-snatcher in there, only to discover a whole boatload of newly washed-ashore Haitians hiding under the stage, terrified and starving.
It was always busy on Lincoln at night, although it wasn’t uncommon to see the same people three or four times. In the early evening it was couples and families, many with children and pets, looking for a place to eat, checking out the blown-up menus and plates of artfully arranged, cellophane-covered seafood in front of the restaurants. Later on it was the turn of the hustlers and exhibitionists – the cheap guitar slingers hustling you for a song, the freaks carrying parakeets and snakes, the ugly transvestite who mimed arias, the failed circus acts. And then, later still, when the clubs opened, out came the true Miami freaks, the kind of beautiful but utterly vacant starfucking types who wound up on reality TV shows – an endless parade of the tattooed, pumped-up, pierced, depilated, liposucked, collagened, botoxed, implanted and plugged. Narcissistic vulgarity taking the long walk to absolutely nowhere.
Tonight that crew had to compete with the Halloween crowd. It was mostly adult. People were dressed as witches, wizards, vampires, ghouls, goblins. There was a Michael Myers with a plastic butcher’s knife, a few Jasons in hockey masks, assorted Leatherfaces, Pinheads, Freddie Kruegers. Max saw a Robocop, a Boris Karloff, a Lion, a Tin Man and a male Dorothy skipping down the street, hand in hand. Here came a Pinball Wizard in towering platforms and a woolly hat, next a seventies pimp trailing a gaggle of chained women wearing glitter, gold thongs and Bin Laden masks. There were plenty of presidents around – a Washington in a powdered wig, lipstick and rouge; a pregnant woman as Benjamin Franklin; a handful of Lincolns, one of them on stilts; a couple of Reagans; and a lot of Nixons and Dubyas, the latter outnumbering the former.
Then, cutting right through the cartoon freakery, running and bouncing along, came a line of over a dozen children – boys and girls, all races – no older than twelve, chanting, ‘Yes we can! Yes we can! GO !-BAM-A! GO !-BAM-A!’ People stopped and stared and many smiled and some shouted encouragements.
‘It’s looking real good for Obama,’ Max said finally. The election was four days away.
‘Can’t believe you’re not even arguing for McCain,’ said Joe.
‘I’d sooner argue for a third Bush term. I mean, Sarah Palin … Fuck no.’
‘Hell just froze over.’ Joe smiled for the first time that evening, his gloomy demeanour momentarily
‘What kind of trouble are you in, Joe?’
‘I don’t know yet,’ said Liston.
‘Anything I can do?’
‘No.’
‘Sure?’
‘Yeah.’
But Max sensed Joe wanted to talk. He just wasn’t there yet; he was still finding the right way to present the information, release it in a way he could live with.
Give him time. Change the subject.
Max looked out over Lincoln Road. It had become lush and prosperous, with restaurants, cafés, bars, cigar stores, art galleries and boutiques all doing a roaring trade under its natural canopy of spotlight-strewn, parrot-laden trees. Not that long before, the road had been two miles of arid sewer, connecting Collins Avenue to a group of dilapidated condos by the marina. Mounds of stinking trash everywhere, buildings either boarded up or colonised by bums. The only people who went down there were lost tourists, crazy old folk who’d come off their meds and the cops and medics rescuing them. Hard to believe it was the same place now. They’d even renovated the theatre. Max remembered chasing a purse-snatcher in there, only to discover a whole boatload of newly washed-ashore Haitians hiding under the stage, terrified and starving.
It was always busy on Lincoln at night, although it wasn’t uncommon to see the same people three or four times. In the early evening it was couples and families, many with children and pets, looking for a place to eat, checking out the blown-up menus and plates of artfully arranged, cellophane-covered seafood in front of the restaurants. Later on it was the turn of the hustlers and exhibitionists – the cheap guitar slingers hustling you for a song, the freaks carrying parakeets and snakes, the ugly transvestite who mimed arias, the failed circus acts. And then, later still, when the clubs opened, out came the true Miami freaks, the kind of beautiful but utterly vacant starfucking types who wound up on reality TV shows – an endless parade of the tattooed, pumped-up, pierced, depilated, liposucked, collagened, botoxed, implanted and plugged. Narcissistic vulgarity taking the long walk to absolutely nowhere.
Tonight that crew had to compete with the Halloween crowd. It was mostly adult. People were dressed as witches, wizards, vampires, ghouls, goblins. There was a Michael Myers with a plastic butcher’s knife, a few Jasons in hockey masks, assorted Leatherfaces, Pinheads, Freddie Kruegers. Max saw a Robocop, a Boris Karloff, a Lion, a Tin Man and a male Dorothy skipping down the street, hand in hand. Here came a Pinball Wizard in towering platforms and a woolly hat, next a seventies pimp trailing a gaggle of chained women wearing glitter, gold thongs and Bin Laden masks. There were plenty of presidents around – a Washington in a powdered wig, lipstick and rouge; a pregnant woman as Benjamin Franklin; a handful of Lincolns, one of them on stilts; a couple of Reagans; and a lot of Nixons and Dubyas, the latter outnumbering the former.
Then, cutting right through the cartoon freakery, running and bouncing along, came a line of over a dozen children – boys and girls, all races – no older than twelve, chanting, ‘Yes we can! Yes we can! GO !-BAM-A! GO !-BAM-A!’ People stopped and stared and many smiled and some shouted encouragements.
‘It’s looking real good for Obama,’ Max said finally. The election was four days away.
‘Can’t believe you’re not even arguing for McCain,’ said Joe.
‘I’d sooner argue for a third Bush term. I mean, Sarah Palin … Fuck no.’
‘Hell just froze over.’ Joe smiled for the first time that evening, his gloomy demeanour momentarily
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