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MIAMI, OCTOBER 1976
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MIAMI INTERNATIONAL Airport seemed to be always surrounded by cumulus nimbus. Those huge hammerhead clouds signifying thunderstorms were close at hand. Humidity and thunderstorms go hand in hand. Steve Regan walked towards the glass sliding doors of the airport. Whoosh – they opened as if by magic and whoosh Regan felt wet. Not just wet but soaked. Within seconds his shirt stuck to his back. He had never experienced such humidity.
“Like being in a sauna,” Regan said to his driver.
The driver of the white stretch limousine ignored him. His task was to meet Regan and drop him at the motel. He wasn’t paid to talk. Besides, he knew talking could get you in trouble with his bosses.
“Talk to me fuckin’ self then,” Regan mumbled. The driver did not hear or chose to ignore the Regan cussing. Instead the driver, who reminded Regan of a Mexican featherweight boxer in looks and physique, took the bag containing Regan’s belongings and placed it into the trunk of the limousine with its mandatory black tinted windows.
This is the life, thought the undercover cop. I really could get used to this. But not the friggin’ heat, as he wiped the sweat from his brow and pulled his shirt away from his sticky back. As Regan climbed into the first row of seats behind the driver, he felt the contrast. The air-conditioning of the vehicle had been set at 60 Fahrenheit. Boy, this is good. Cold, but good. Regan was equally as impressed with the stealth of the limo as it purred away from the terminal. He was unable to detect any engine noise; only the swish of the tyres on concrete. Regan glanced up and saw the breeze making the fronds of the palm trees dance.
It took around forty minutes through heavy traffic to arrive at his destination, a beachfront full-service condo overlooking Miami Beach. Steve Regan checked in, immediately feeling comfortable in his new surroundings. Sure beats Blackpool, was an idle thought.
The bell boy carried his solitary bag to Room 620 and gained access to the room. Regan stepped inside. It wasn’t a room. It was a suite with a large living area, a kitchen/dining space, large bedroom with a king size bed and best of all a huge balcony overlooking the ocean. He tipped the bell boy a one dollar bill and received a cheery, “Have a nice day!” Regan thought, They really do say that here, and grinned.
There was a large TV set so Regan pressed the red button on the remote and it flickered into life. He spent the next five minutes zapping through the multitude of channels. He never knew so many existed. The unfamiliar but typical American ring tone of one drawn out ring of a nearby phone drew his attention. Regan found it a contrast to the British trill-trill sound. Just like in the movies, he thought.
Picking up, he spoke into the mouthpiece, “Yes.”
It was Bill. “Listen, Steve, get settled in buddy. It’s a long flight and you must be whacked. Let’s meet and talk tomorrow after breakfast. I will send a car for you.”
“No argument from me.”
“One more thing. Do you want some company tonight?”
“What do you ....”
“What do you think? You want a girl for the night?”
“No mate. Thanks, but as you say, I’m whacked.”
“Okay but the booze is in the fridge. It’s all on the house so enjoy. Same with room service if you get hungry.” The line went dead.
Regan used the telephone to order room service. A cheeseburger the size of a small loaf of bread defeated him. It was too much even for his voracious appetite. He finished off all six cans of beer and fell asleep fully clothed on the giant sofa in the living area. It was eight in the evening local time.
He woke, startled, at exactly two the following morning and could not get back to sleep. “Bloody jet lag,” he said out loud to no one as the room was empty. He carried on with the monologue. “Time to shower.”
Pow! Regan could not believe the force from the shower head. “What the fuck!” He yelled again, “How do they do that?” Now acclimatised to the force of the water, he soaped up and spent the next ten minutes in the shower. I could really get used to all this, was his overriding thought.
Regan wiped the bathroom mirror with the towel and surveyed his face. He looked younger and cleaner and not because of the soap and water. He thought it best to dispense with the hippie look. Not entirely, but tone it down some. His hair was now cut shorter but still hung well over his collar and the beard had vanished. A droopy Mexican-style moustache still adorned his top lip.
Steve Regan spent the remainder of the night watching old movies, Once more mesmerised by High Noon. No matter how many times he watched that film, he never tired of it. He first watched it at the cinema in Liverpool. He was no older than ten when his parents took him to see it. They were both film fans. Regan started to think about his mother.
Mum, I hope you understand. If I go rogue please don’t disown me. I love you. It was now daybreak. His chest rose and fell and he started to sob. His soul was troubled.
A few moments later Regan snapped out of his introspection, once more talking to no one save for his inner self, “Fuck this! Get real or you’re going to fuck up big time, Steve.”
“Shower, Mister Regan?” No, he thought, the air conditioning had made sure he hadn’t sweated up, just a roll of the deodorant and he was fine. He threw on a linen shirt and slid into a pair of chinos, checked the breakfast menu and dialled room service.
“Two eggs over easy on some toast. Orange juice and .... Yeah, okay, tea please.” Regan was pleased he remembered how to order the eggs. Eggs over easy or eggs easy over? I must have got it right otherwise the waiter would have laughed, thought Regan.
He took breakfast on the balcony. Before the waiter left, he sipped the tea and spat it back into the cup. “That’s bloody awful. Gnat’s piss!”
“Would you prefer coffee?”
“I’d prefer alligator piss than that stuff. Yeah, coffee please.”
Lesson learned – when in America, drink coffee. Regan liked the coffee served up to him in a large stainless steel pot. He quaffed his second cup smoking his third cigarette of the morning, gazing on the tanned female forms lazing on the beach below. Blonde, gorgeous, long legs, but do they have money? Regan mulled the question over in his head.
The now familiar drawl of the ring tone sounded again. Regan slowly walked back inside and picked up the handset.
“Thirty minutes. Your driver will be there to collect you.” It was a voice unknown to Regan, a heavily accented voice, not quite Mexican, more South American.
The elevator took Regan down to the ground floor. On the way down he thought, Why first? What happened to ground floor? Bloody Yanks! He dropped his room key at Reception and wandered through the cool air-conditioned lobby to take a seat outside the front entrance. God, it’s humid, was his first thought as the wet blanket of air smothered him. Fuck it, I need a smoke.
Regan, as many nicotine addicts do, braved the elements to puff away at his cigarette. Finished, he extinguished it in the sand of the chrome stand of an ash tray which doubled as a trash can. With his back to the parking area, he heard the car horn honk twice. He turned to see a Mercedes Spyder pull up alongside him. A window powered down and the same South American voice spoke, “Senor Reegun? Hop in.”
He felt like correcting the pronunciation – Raygun not Reegun – but instead he said, “Nice wheels.” He meant it.
There was no response from the driver, no verbal response, only a chilly stare. Regan was learning quickly. He shut up and enjoyed the ride, taking in all the sights on the way. They forced him once more into imagining his alternative lifestyle, the houses, cars, money and women. The twenty-minute car ride gave him many glimpses into what was possible. Possible? Yes, Regan’s thought patterns kicked in once more, I can do this. Only cocaine can give me the money I want.
