Insane City Page 4

  “Plus,” said Marty, “they don’t have Miss Hot Amateur Bod at the Ritz, not to mention D.J. Booga Wooga.”

  Seth looked back out at Ocean Drive. Still no taxis.

  “Maybe there’s a bus to Key Biscayne,” said Big Steve.

  “Shut up, Steve,” said Kevin.

  “Come on, Seth,” said Marty. “One drink.”

  “OK,” said Seth, dragging his suitcase toward the bar. “One drink.”

  Three hours later, they were on their fifth pitcher of margaritas. The pitchers were $50 apiece, plus a generous tip for Vicki the bartender, with whom Kevin had fallen deeply in love. Kevin was also in love with Cyndi Friend Gonzalez, an outgoing young woman who had finished fourth in the Miss Hot Amateur Bod competition and who was wearing a dress made from roughly one square inch of some extremely stretchy material. At Kevin’s invitation, Cyndi had joined the Groom Posse at the bar; she had in turn been joined by a friend of hers, a large bald man named Duane.

  The Posse was not thrilled about Duane, but nobody told him to leave because in addition to being large, he had an eleven-foot Burmese albino python named Blossom draped over his shoulders. Duane made his living collecting tips from tourists who wanted to have their pictures taken with Blossom. He’d been doing this for eight years and considered himself a professional. He also considered himself an ambassador for Miami, and upon learning that Seth was about to get married, he had appointed himself as tour guide.

  “This is my fuckin’ town,” he said. “¿Se hablo españolo? You need weed? Oxy?”

  “I think we’re good,” said Seth.

  Duane brandished Blossom. “You want to hold her? No charge for the groom, man.”

  “Maybe later,” said Seth, leaning back to avoid Blossom’s flicking tongue.

  “Just say the word,” said Duane, pouring Seth and himself another glass from the pitcher, finishing it. Kevin waved to Vicki for another.

  The Clevelander was now very crowded and making far more noise than the entire state of Nebraska. The sea-salted night air was warm and sticky and thick with the aromas of spilled beer and cigar smoke and AXE body spray and billowing clouds of fuck-me perfume worn by women who were not wearing a whole lot else. Seth was staring at one of these women, wondering how she sat down in that dress and hoping she would attempt to do so soon, when he realized that Big Steve was shouting something into his ear, trying to be heard over the all-obliterating boom-boom issuing from the coffin-sized speakers of D.J. Booga Wooga.

  “WHAT?” said Seth.

  “THE HOTEL!” said Big Steve. He held up his phone so Seth could see the time: 9:30. Seth frowned. He swiveled toward Marty, grabbing the bar to keep from falling off the stool.

  “MARTY!”

  “WHAT?”

  “WE NEED TO GET TO THE HOTEL!”

  “WHAT?”

  “THE HOTEL!”

  Marty frowned deeply for several seconds, processing this concept, then said, “WHAT?”

  “Never mind,” said Seth. Realizing it was time to take matters into his own hands, he turned away from Marty and slid smoothly off the stool. He continued sliding smoothly until he found himself on all fours under the bar. He decided to remain that way for a bit, collecting his thoughts.

  He’d been down there a while and had yet to collect any when he became vaguely aware of voices shouting above him in the thumping din. He heard his name and realized that the voices belonged to Marty, Big Steve and Kevin, who, apparently unaware that he was under the bar, were trying to figure out where he was.

  “Hey!” said Seth. “Down here!”

  They didn’t hear him. Their voices were louder now and more concerned.

  “Hey!” Seth repeated, again going unheard. He thought about attempting to stand up, but at the moment that didn’t seem to be a good idea or even possible. He decided to collect his thoughts some more and soon fell asleep with his back against the bar.

  He was awakened by the sudden absence of thunderous noise; D.J. Booga Wooga was taking a short break. It took Seth a few seconds to remember where he was. He rolled over and saw a forest of legs. He reached out an unsteady hand, his plan being to signal his location to his Posse.

  “What the hell?” said a woman’s voice from above. At the same moment, Seth felt a sharp pain, the result of being kicked in the forehead by the pointy-toed, high-heeled sandal of Hot Bod competitor Cyndi, whose ankle his hand had landed on.

  “Sorry!” said Seth, crawling out from under the bar. He took hold of the barstool and began pulling himself upward. It was a struggle, and he would have failed if Duane hadn’t grabbed his arm and helped him finish the job. He stood blinking, holding the bar for support.

  “So that’s where you were,” said Duane, who still had Blossom around his shoulders.

  Cyndi said, “Ohmigod, you’re bleeding.”

  Seth touched a hand to his forehead, felt a stinging pain and sticky wetness.

  “Shit,” he said.

  “Sorry I kicked you,” said Cyndi. “I didn’t know it was you.”

  “It’s OK,” said Seth, making a Don’t worry about it gesture with his bloody hand. He looked around the teeming bar but saw no sign of his Posse.

  “Where’d they go?” he said.

  “They went looking for you,” said Duane. “A while ago.”

  “Where?”

  Duane waved his arm in the general direction of Miami.

  “Shit,” said Seth. “I gotta find them.” He let go of the bar and went down on all fours again. Cyndi and Duane pulled him back to his feet.

  “You better stay here for now,” said Duane.

  “I have to get married,” said Seth. “I’m the groom.”

  “You should sit down,” said Duane.

  “I gotta get to the whaddycallit. Ricks Carleston.”

  “There’s blood on your face,” said Cyndi, dabbing at Seth’s forehead with a napkin.

  “My father-in-law has two helicopters, you believe that?” said Seth.

  “Wow,” said Cyndi, still dabbing.

  “He thinks I’m a loser,” said Seth. “I don’t even know what the Commerce Clause does! You believe that?”

  “I don’t know what it does either, dude,” said Duane.

  Cyndi shrugged to indicate that she, too, was unfamiliar with the Commerce Clause.

  “You think she thinks I’m a loser?” said Seth.

  “Who?” said Cyndi.

  “Tina.”

  “Who’s Tina?”

  “Tina is my bride. With whom I am getting married. To.”

  “Of course she doesn’t think you’re a loser,” said Cyndi. “She’s marrying you!”

  “Yeah, but why?” said Seth. “Thass what I don’t get. She’s hot and she went to Harvard and she knows about the Commerce Clause. You wanna know what I do?”

  “What?” said Cyndi.

  “I tweet about douche!” To emphasize this point, Seth pounded the bar, accidentally knocking over the Miller Lite of the guy standing next to him, who turned and was about to say something but quickly turned back when he saw Duane and Blossom both giving him the eye, with Blossom adding some tongue.

  “I’m sure she loves you,” said Cyndi.

  “Thank you,” said Seth. He frowned at her. “Who’re you?”

  “I’m Cyndi.”

  “Thank you, Cyndi. You’re ver’ nice.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re ver’ beautiful.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I don’t wanna throw up on you.”

  “Thank you,” said Cyndi, stepping back.

  Seth released the bar and took a staggering step toward Ocean Drive. He nearly fell again, but Duane caught him.

  “Easy,” he said.

  “I hafta get to the hotel,” said Seth. “The Ricks Carleson. Hotel. Key. Bickscayne. I hafta get there. I’m the groom. Of a wedding.”

  “OK,” said Duane. “You got a car?”

  Seth nodded.

  “OK,”
said Duane. “Where’s it parked?”

  “Washington.”

  “Washington Avenue?”

  “No. D.C.”

  “Your car is parked in Washington, D.C.?”

  Seth nodded hard, almost falling over with the effort.

  “OK,” said Duane. “We’ll find a taxi.”

  “We already tried that,” said Seth. “It doesn’t work.”

  “Let’s try again,” said Duane. He and Cyndi each took one of Seth’s arms and they guided him out of the Clevelander and onto the sidewalk. Ocean Drive was now an unmoving mass of cars, so they made their way through the sidewalk crowd to Tenth Street, then over to Collins Avenue. Duane held on to Seth while Cyndi stepped into the street; she spotted a taxi rolling north and waved it over. She opened the door, then helped Duane push Seth into the backseat. She slid in next to him, followed by Duane.

  The driver turned and looked at them.

  “It’s not him!” said Seth.

  “Not who?” said Cyndi.

  “That other guy,” said Seth.

  “Oh,” said Cyndi.

  “No snakes in the taxi,” the driver said to Duane.

  “It’s a service snake,” said Duane.

  “A what?”

  “Service snake. I need it for my emotional . . . needs. Federal law, you have to take this snake. We’re going to Key Biscayne.” He looked at Seth. “What hotel again?”

  “The Rich Carlston,” said Seth. “I’m the groom.”

  “That snake better stay back there,” said the driver.

  It was just after 11:30 p.m. when they pulled up at the main entrance to the Ritz-Carlton. With effort, Seth located his wallet and paid the driver the fare, plus a generous tip. He then doubled the amount to cover Duane and Cyndi’s fare back to Miami.

  They helped him out of the taxi. The instant they were outside, the driver stomped on the gas.

  “Hey!” shouted Duane. “Wait!” But the taxi was gone.

  “Asshole,” said Duane.

  A uniformed doorman emerged from the hotel. He paused at the sight of the newly arrived trio: Seth, standing unsteadily, blood oozing down his forehead; Cyndi, in her microdress and heels; and Duane, with Blossom coiled around him, her head hovering next to his.

  “Checking in?” said the doorman.

  “Yes,” said Seth. “I’m the groom.”

  “Congratulations,” said the doorman, with a little bow toward Seth, then Cyndi.

  “Oh no,” said Cyndi. “I’m not her.”

  “Ah,” said the doorman. “Do you need any help with your luggage?”

  Seth looked around, then took a staggering step backward.

  “Oh shit,” he said.

  “What?” said Duane.

  “My suitcase!” said Seth. “Did we bring my suitcase?”

  “You had a suitcase?” said Duane.

  “Yes! Oh Jesus! The ring’s in it!”

  “The wedding ring?” said Cyndi.

  “Yes!”

  “Oh man,” said Cyndi.

  At that moment a black stretch limo glided up and stopped. A dark-suited driver jumped out and hurried back to open the right rear door. Out stepped a tall, tan, distinguished, square-jawed, silver-haired man wearing a blue silk blazer, knit shirt and perfectly creased slacks. He wore tasseled Italian loafers without socks.

  “Oh no,” said Seth.

  “What?” said Cyndi.

  “That’s Tina’s dad. Shit.”

  The man, whose name was Mike Clark and whose net worth was estimated by Forbes at $3.7 billion, turned and held out his hand to assist in the graceful emergence from the limo of a tall, slim blonde woman in a pale pink designer dress and pearls. This was his wife, Marcia, who looked remarkably like Tilda Swinton in the role of the White Witch in The Chronicles of Narnia; the resemblance was so pronounced that despite Marcia’s classic beauty, small children sometimes fled from her at malls.

  The couple stood facing the limo as their three children emerged: Tina’s sister, Meghan; their brother, Eric, a younger, even handsomer version of his father; and Tina. The family formed a tableau of perfection next to the limo, a real-life Ralph Lauren ad.

  Tina’s eyes fell on Seth and widened.

  “Seth?” she said.

  The others turned and saw Seth and his two companions, their faces registering varying mixtures of surprise and revulsion.

  “Hey, Tina,” said Seth. “Hey, Meghan, Eric.” He turned to Tina’s parents. “Hello, Mike. Marcia.”

  Mike responded with a one-micron nod. Marcia did not move. She was regarding Seth with the expression of a woman peering down the seat hole of a Porta-Potty into which she has just dropped her designer purse.

  “You’re bleeding,” said Tina. “Are you OK?”

  “I’m fine!” said Seth, attempting a jaunty wave, which turned into a sideways stagger requiring several steps to recover from.

  “What happened to your head?” said Tina.

  “My head?”

  “Your head. Which is bleeding.”

  “Oh! Sorry. Cyndi kicked me. But it was totally my fault.”

  “Cyndi?” said Tina.

  “I’m Cyndi,” said Cyndi. “Congratulations, by the way.”

  Ignoring her, Tina said, “She kicked you in the head?”

  “I didn’t know it was him,” explained Cyndi.

  Meghan snorted. “Maybe your friends should have paid more than a hundred twenty dollars,” she said.

  “What did you say?” said Cyndi.

  “Nonono,” said Seth, waving his arms in the referee sign for a missed field goal. “She’s not a stripper.”

  “Really?” said Meghan, staring at Cyndi. “So what is she?”

  “What does that mean?” said Cyndi.

  “Hey now, ladies,” said Duane.

  “And who are you?” said Tina.

  “I’m Duane.”

  “Nice snake,” said Eric. Meghan snorted again.

  “Listen, Tina,” said Seth, wishing desperately that he were less drunk. “This isn’t what it looks like.”

  “Ah,” said Tina. “So you’re not bleeding from the head and hanging out with a Beyoncé look-alike and a Jerry Springer bouncer carrying a large snake.”

  “No, no. I mean, yes. But listen, here’s what happened. We couldn’t find the Ricks Carlson. I mean, the taxi couldn’t find it. I mean, he found the Ricks Carlson, but it was the wrong one. So we got another taxi, but it was the same taxi. And he—”

  “Seth,” said Tina. “Forget it, OK? Like I said at the airport, just be ready for the rehearsal dinner.”

  “But really, Tina, this isn’t . . .”

  “Seth, it’s OK. Really. I’m going in. You have fun at your bachelor party with your new friends.”

  “But these’re not my . . .” Seth caught himself, glanced at Duane and Cyndi.

  There was an awkward pause, ended by Mike, who did not get where he was in life by standing around idly during pauses. “Seth,” he said. “I know this is your bachelor party, and I’m sure this”—he waved in the general direction of Cyndi and Duane without looking at them—“is all in good fun. I understand that. I’m all for having fun.” He flashed a brief, dentally impeccable smile to indicate the extent to which he was in favor of fun.

  “But remember, son, that the day after tomorrow you’re going to be marrying my daughter and joining our family.”

  Behind Mike, Marcia shuddered visibly.

  “So,” said Mike, “I’m sure you won’t do anything to embarrass your new family.” He looked at Duane and Cyndi, then back at Seth. “Will you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Seth, I’ve told you to call me Mike.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Another snort from Meghan.

  “All right, then,” said Mike. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Absolutely,” said Seth.

  Mike and his acutely hygienic family headed for the hotel door, which was hastily opened by the doorman. The
second-to-last thing Seth saw was Eric and Meghan laughing; the last thing was Marcia taking Tina’s arm and leaning close, filling her daughter’s ear with words that Seth suspected were not complimentary to him.

  “Shit,” said Seth.

  “She’s beautiful,” said Cyndi.

  “I know,” said Seth. “And I lost the ring. Jesus. I hafta find my suitcase.”

  “Maybe your friends took it,” said Cyndi.

  “Ohmigod!” said Seth, feeling hope surge within him. “You think?”

  “You could call them.”

  “Ohmigod! I could call them!”

  “That’s what I was thinking,” said Cyndi.

  “With my phone!”

  “Right.”

  Seth dug out his phone, hit the speed dial for Marty, got voice mail, said, “Shit,” speed-dialed Kevin, said “Shit” again, speed-dialed Big Steve.

  “Come on, Steve, please,” he said. The phone rang four times.

  “Please,” said Seth.

  “HELLO?” It was Big Steve, shouting over a roar.

  “Steve! It’s me! Seth!”

  “HELLO?”

  “This is Seth!”

  “SETH?”

  “Yes.”

  “WE’RE TRYING TO FIND YOU!”

  “I’m at the hotel.”

  “WHAT?”

  “The hotel.”

  “NO, WE’RE AT A CLUB!”

  “No, I’m at the—”

  “IT’S CALLED MEAT SOMETHING. PATROL. MEAT PATROL. YOU KNOW HOW MUCH A BEER COSTS HERE?”

  “Steve, listen to me, OK? Do you have the suit—”

  “FIFTEEN DOLLARS A BOTTLE! FOR MILLER LITE! I ASKED IF THEY HAD IT ON TAP, BUT THEY DON’T!”

  “Steve, listen to—”

  “FIFTEEN DOLLARS! FOR MILLER LITE!”

  “Is Marty there?”

  “WHAT?”

  “Marty. Is he there!”

  “NO, THIS IS STEVE!”

  “No, I want to talk to Marty. Can you put him on? Steve? Hello? Steve? Hello?”

  Seth looked at the phone: DISCONNECTED. He hit redial. This time he got voice mail.

  “Shit!” he said.

  “What?” said Duane.

  Seth said, “They’re at some club. Meat something.”

  “Meat Patrol?” said Duane.

  “That’s it.”

  “That’s a hot club,” said Cyndi. “Do they have your suitcase?”