go…”
“Hell,” he said, grinning, “it’s your story! You broke the thing, got the jump on everybody. And you know the widow, which gives you a leg up.”
“I only met her once or twice,” I grumbled. I hate covering funerals. I am embarrassed when the media pack stampedes through churches and cemeteries, shoving microphones and cameras in the faces of the bereaved. People in pain deserve some privacy. When I had covered newsworthy funerals with Lottie, she, at least, had been discreet, dressing in subdued fashion and shooting from a distance with a long lens. But few TV journalists show any respect. That is what gives reporters a bad name.
“Show ‘em how it’s done, Montero,” Fred urged. “It could be a nice piece.”
I frowned. I had laundry and grocery shopping to do, and needed some time off. “What about Janowitz, can’t he go?”
“Ahhh, he’s tied up on some weekend story, and besides,” he leaned forward, lowered his voice, and triggered both barrels of his famous persuasion, “he doesn’t have your touch.” He chuckled, his bow tie bobbing.
“There must be somebody,” I said, frantically scanning the huge newsroom.
“The city desk is shorthanded, as usual. You know how it is.”
Sure, I thought, the general assignment reporters always manage to look too busy on other projects when it comes to covering something nobody wants to do. Still, I began to waver. The story could be a good one, if done right. Hudson’s death was a big loss to the community. The man should have a decent send-off, a story his kids could read years from now, when they were grown up.
I left the office on time for a change, to have dinner with my mother, who had been complaining about “never seeing me.” We arranged to meet in my favorite neighborhood, South Beach’s Art Deco district, a treasure trove of architectural confections in pastel pinks, blues, greens, and white. For decades, the eccentric hotels of the 1930s housed only elderly retirees who drowsed and daydreamed in the sun. Then, like Rip Van Winkle, South Beach rose from its slumber. The neighborhood sprang to vivid new life with miles of hot pink neon, back-lit glass brick, wraparound porches overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, and chic sidewalk cafes frequented by beautiful people from all over the world.
In one respect I liked South Beach better before it became the in place to be—at least you could find a parking space back in those days. My T-Bird crept along Ocean Drive, caught in a traffic jam of stretch limos, Porsches, Cadillacs, Mercedes, and BMWs. A dazzling long-haired model wearing shorts swept by on roller blades, making far better time than we did along a two-block stretch of palm-fringed oceanfront streetscape.
The rediscovery of South Beach was due primarily to a small band of preservationists who fought to save Art Deco from our city fathers who, given the chance, would have eagerly leveled it all to make a buck—and to a TV show about two Miami cops who dressed to kill and busted notorious drug lords and psychotic mobsters without ever messing up their perfect hair. Ironically, Miami city officials had strenuously objected to the television concept. They refused to cooperate with the production, insisting that it would further damage the city’s image, already tarnished by crime and violence. The successful show, now long dead, had left a legacy.
In its first season, the series showcased the glamorous discos, terrific-looking nightspots, and swank restaurants of Miami Beach. Such places were strictly fiction, of course. In reality, Miami Beach had become a ghost town after 10 P.M . A bowling ball rolled down Ocean Drive after sunset would not have hit a thing. But life gradually began to imitate art. Within months, such nightspots did begin to open, and they were mobbed by the beautiful people. Where had they come from? I wondered. Where had they been hiding? Now we had traffic jams on Ocean Drive at 1 A.M .
Since valet
“Hell,” he said, grinning, “it’s your story! You broke the thing, got the jump on everybody. And you know the widow, which gives you a leg up.”
“I only met her once or twice,” I grumbled. I hate covering funerals. I am embarrassed when the media pack stampedes through churches and cemeteries, shoving microphones and cameras in the faces of the bereaved. People in pain deserve some privacy. When I had covered newsworthy funerals with Lottie, she, at least, had been discreet, dressing in subdued fashion and shooting from a distance with a long lens. But few TV journalists show any respect. That is what gives reporters a bad name.
“Show ‘em how it’s done, Montero,” Fred urged. “It could be a nice piece.”
I frowned. I had laundry and grocery shopping to do, and needed some time off. “What about Janowitz, can’t he go?”
“Ahhh, he’s tied up on some weekend story, and besides,” he leaned forward, lowered his voice, and triggered both barrels of his famous persuasion, “he doesn’t have your touch.” He chuckled, his bow tie bobbing.
“There must be somebody,” I said, frantically scanning the huge newsroom.
“The city desk is shorthanded, as usual. You know how it is.”
Sure, I thought, the general assignment reporters always manage to look too busy on other projects when it comes to covering something nobody wants to do. Still, I began to waver. The story could be a good one, if done right. Hudson’s death was a big loss to the community. The man should have a decent send-off, a story his kids could read years from now, when they were grown up.
I left the office on time for a change, to have dinner with my mother, who had been complaining about “never seeing me.” We arranged to meet in my favorite neighborhood, South Beach’s Art Deco district, a treasure trove of architectural confections in pastel pinks, blues, greens, and white. For decades, the eccentric hotels of the 1930s housed only elderly retirees who drowsed and daydreamed in the sun. Then, like Rip Van Winkle, South Beach rose from its slumber. The neighborhood sprang to vivid new life with miles of hot pink neon, back-lit glass brick, wraparound porches overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, and chic sidewalk cafes frequented by beautiful people from all over the world.
In one respect I liked South Beach better before it became the in place to be—at least you could find a parking space back in those days. My T-Bird crept along Ocean Drive, caught in a traffic jam of stretch limos, Porsches, Cadillacs, Mercedes, and BMWs. A dazzling long-haired model wearing shorts swept by on roller blades, making far better time than we did along a two-block stretch of palm-fringed oceanfront streetscape.
The rediscovery of South Beach was due primarily to a small band of preservationists who fought to save Art Deco from our city fathers who, given the chance, would have eagerly leveled it all to make a buck—and to a TV show about two Miami cops who dressed to kill and busted notorious drug lords and psychotic mobsters without ever messing up their perfect hair. Ironically, Miami city officials had strenuously objected to the television concept. They refused to cooperate with the production, insisting that it would further damage the city’s image, already tarnished by crime and violence. The successful show, now long dead, had left a legacy.
In its first season, the series showcased the glamorous discos, terrific-looking nightspots, and swank restaurants of Miami Beach. Such places were strictly fiction, of course. In reality, Miami Beach had become a ghost town after 10 P.M . A bowling ball rolled down Ocean Drive after sunset would not have hit a thing. But life gradually began to imitate art. Within months, such nightspots did begin to open, and they were mobbed by the beautiful people. Where had they come from? I wondered. Where had they been hiding? Now we had traffic jams on Ocean Drive at 1 A.M .
Since valet
Similar Books
