sell everything from soap to music. And it reminded him of prison. Porn had wallpapered practically every cell in Attica. Everyone jerked off in the Big House. It was the only thing they had in common – apart from the fact that they were massive fuck-ups. Masturbation was the great leveller. Blacks, whites, Latinos, Asians; lifers, short-timers; big men and their bitches. Everybody did it. His cellmate, Velasquez, had elevated it to a kind of theatre. He painted the nails of his left hand red and let them grow, relieving himself with the manicured paw after sitting on the hand for an hour to deaden it. When he closed his eyes, he explained, it was almost like his mamacita Melyssa was right there pulling his pud. She gave the lousiest handjob in Harlem, he said. But he still used to cry when he was finished. That was some sad shit.
As the film started Max realised it was the first time he’d thought of Velasquez since leaving prison. They’d spent every day of seven years and change together. He even liked him, as much as he allowed himself to like anyone in jail. Velasquez was several sets of irritating, but he didn’t care that Max had been a cop. Mingus wondered what he was doing now. Probably back inside, jerking off.
The DVD started with a shaky shot of an American Airlines plane coming in to land at Miami International, sunlight flashing in and out of the frame, as if it had been filmed on a cellphone. The picture briefly cut out. He saw a bright flash on the screen and heard a garbled noise – a short, low-pitched moan like a cassette tape of bass notes being chewed up. Then the picture returned and he heard the unmistakable crepitations of a needle on vinyl. As the aircraft’s wheels bounced on the runway, the music kicked in. Mid-tempo, mid-eighties generic rock bombast – every instrument turned up way too loud, echoing electronic drums and guitars wailing like suffering cats – bringing back memories of music videos of gurning men in Davy Crockett mullets and Sonny Crockett half-beards. To his ear, the music seemed better suited to an action movie soundtrack from the era, something starring Dolph Lundgren or some other semi-literate Eurotrash beefcake. But out of nowhere, a saxophone undercut the synth metal with sleazy honkings, bonding film to genre.
What was it about sax and sex in movies? Surely, more than just a misplaced vowel.
On the screen the woman he’d known as Fabiana Prescott strutted out of arrivals in high heels, a sprayed-on white suit, big sunglasses and a broad-brimmed floppy black hat with a white polka dot band. No bags. The camera zoomed in and out on Fabiana’s pneumatic tits and round ass. She went up to the chauffeur, who was stood close to the exit in cap and black suit.
Está usted mi chófer?
Yes, mam. I haf big car.
The following ten minutes comprised a medley of scene-setting (cue palm trees, the beach, girls on the beach, girls under palm trees) intercut with front and side shots of a Lincoln Town Car, and interiors of Fabiana and the driver exchanging suggestive looks. Plenty of zooms down Fabiana’s cleavage, close-ups of her giving come-hither stares and licking her collagen-plumped lips. The chauffeur arched a brow and loosened his tie, as he pretended to drive the car, which was apparently stationary and parked next to a convenience store. Max guessed the budget didn’t extend to CGI.
The sequence ended with the limo stopping outside Tides on Ocean Drive. Fabiana got out and walked up the stairs. At the top she turned and beckoned suggestively to the chauffeur leaning against the car. That last touch made Max smile. Every time a movie set in Miami featured a hotel sequence where one or more of the characters was rich and classy, it was filmed at Tides.
Now the couple were in familiar territory, getting it on in Room 30 of the Zurich. Max recognised Fabiana’s dialogue by tone and intonation, having committed every vocal inflection to memory when he’d timed
As the film started Max realised it was the first time he’d thought of Velasquez since leaving prison. They’d spent every day of seven years and change together. He even liked him, as much as he allowed himself to like anyone in jail. Velasquez was several sets of irritating, but he didn’t care that Max had been a cop. Mingus wondered what he was doing now. Probably back inside, jerking off.
The DVD started with a shaky shot of an American Airlines plane coming in to land at Miami International, sunlight flashing in and out of the frame, as if it had been filmed on a cellphone. The picture briefly cut out. He saw a bright flash on the screen and heard a garbled noise – a short, low-pitched moan like a cassette tape of bass notes being chewed up. Then the picture returned and he heard the unmistakable crepitations of a needle on vinyl. As the aircraft’s wheels bounced on the runway, the music kicked in. Mid-tempo, mid-eighties generic rock bombast – every instrument turned up way too loud, echoing electronic drums and guitars wailing like suffering cats – bringing back memories of music videos of gurning men in Davy Crockett mullets and Sonny Crockett half-beards. To his ear, the music seemed better suited to an action movie soundtrack from the era, something starring Dolph Lundgren or some other semi-literate Eurotrash beefcake. But out of nowhere, a saxophone undercut the synth metal with sleazy honkings, bonding film to genre.
What was it about sax and sex in movies? Surely, more than just a misplaced vowel.
On the screen the woman he’d known as Fabiana Prescott strutted out of arrivals in high heels, a sprayed-on white suit, big sunglasses and a broad-brimmed floppy black hat with a white polka dot band. No bags. The camera zoomed in and out on Fabiana’s pneumatic tits and round ass. She went up to the chauffeur, who was stood close to the exit in cap and black suit.
Está usted mi chófer?
Yes, mam. I haf big car.
The following ten minutes comprised a medley of scene-setting (cue palm trees, the beach, girls on the beach, girls under palm trees) intercut with front and side shots of a Lincoln Town Car, and interiors of Fabiana and the driver exchanging suggestive looks. Plenty of zooms down Fabiana’s cleavage, close-ups of her giving come-hither stares and licking her collagen-plumped lips. The chauffeur arched a brow and loosened his tie, as he pretended to drive the car, which was apparently stationary and parked next to a convenience store. Max guessed the budget didn’t extend to CGI.
The sequence ended with the limo stopping outside Tides on Ocean Drive. Fabiana got out and walked up the stairs. At the top she turned and beckoned suggestively to the chauffeur leaning against the car. That last touch made Max smile. Every time a movie set in Miami featured a hotel sequence where one or more of the characters was rich and classy, it was filmed at Tides.
Now the couple were in familiar territory, getting it on in Room 30 of the Zurich. Max recognised Fabiana’s dialogue by tone and intonation, having committed every vocal inflection to memory when he’d timed
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