Endless Blue

We open with the kind of scorching fires that would have made Survivor wince. It's a hot day in Miami, maybe the hottest day of the year. This is the city that at its warmest tends to reach just under triple figures every summer without fail. A Porsche rides down a long empty road where the buses certainly don't go down. Ted Nugent's Angry Young Man is pumping out establishing as quickly as possible, as Miami Vice always does, that the dudes are rocking and by rocking we mean hard. We bear witness to a sketchy business deal being formed.

Our buyer has hair longer than Mr Steely Dan and is none other than Ted Nugent himself. Another stellar cameo from this show. Already in this series we've seen the likes of Phil Collins, Miles Davis and Little Richard. Perfectly cast respectively as seedy talk show hosts, pimps and preachers. Desperately looking forward to when Leonard Cohen appears. Ted Nugent joins the greats with his contribution as a scam artist. Before the deal can be made, Nugent fires off his gun and takes the sorry son of a bitch's money. The nature of the business deal taking place is surrounded in mystery and the body (and car) burial under mountains of sand is nothing short of epic adding to that.

Cut straight in to the theme song and the memorable credits sequence. Future Sonny Crockett player, Colin Farrel, when asked what he recalled most from the show had just two words, "the flamingos". They undoubtedly dominate the screen and once seen can't be unseen. Only a few weeks back, Weng Weng and I went the zoo and upon seeing the flamingos, in an uncontrolled frenzy, I screamed, "It's Miami Vice, kid!". Being just 5 years of age, the reference was lost on him and he asked, "What's Miami Vice, is that a TV show?". Had to correct him by adding, "It's not a TV show, it's a god damn way of life, son!". And one quickly taking over me in a big, big way.

On top of the Flamingos, may I also mention the parrot that thinks he's bloody Rashford pointing to his head like that. Does that little birdy know something we don't? It's as if he's on the same wavelength as the producers here, a secret code between us and them that spells out, "we got you covered, dudes!". Well, they sure do with a flurry of credit sequence background images from boobies to boats. Give them credit, these guys know what we want to see each week. No-one could ever take that from them. Miami Vice is the perfect spectacle of the male fantasy and a solid satire of life under the Reagan administration.

It has a stronger sense of style than pretty much every movie released today with producer Michael Mann's strict rules about colour schemes (the perceived boring colour red was completely banned from every episode with bright pastels being the favoured). Costumes and colour schemes are its main attraction. Truthfully, I've not been this wired in to particular rig outs since Scorsese's Casino when De Niro was rocking up every 5 minutes in a brand new suit. Gangster games such as the Grand Theft Auto series would all be inspired too. Style certainly takes prevalence over routine plots.

After all, admittedly the plots do very little to expand on regular cop shows and the writing too is barely a grade above typical fare. Notably, suspense and mystery is often avoided as the game here is not for the viewer to work out the villain's identity. Audiences are invited to hang with the villains from the outset. However, these are all conventional means of storytelling. To criticise Miami Vice for prioritising plot as probably about the 5th most important thing on the show is to miss everything else it does uniquely.

Examples will no doubt pop up over this episode but areas of study would be the visual storytelling, presentation of Miami as a character itself, the establishment of mood, the creative use of music and through a combination of these the way it comments on the routine of the procedural and breaks away from its clutches to get to the one thing the procedural tends to fail to: the heart of its characters. In many ways, its auteur television, the infamous writers medium, with Michael Mann's vision dominating well before the recent idea of auteur television was conceived.

Having got the opening out the way, we rejoin our busy as ever boys, Crockett and Tubbs. Now what are two fine officers of the law doing on what has already been established to be one of the hottest days in Miami? If you guessed sat by a swimming pool drinking cocktails, you are absolutely right. Get this, they even have the nerve to complain about how they are spending their afternoon, crediting their inactivity as waiting for a break in a case. These cases don't solve themselves boys! Only in a pure fantasy show easy going show like this would this happen and I'm here for it. These guys are just living the life.

Right on cue, a glorious example of the female form appears in full beach gear. An actress by the name of Arielle Dombasle, primarily known for her numerous roles in French New Wave legend Eric Rohmer's films. Her casting demonstrates Miami Vice's existence being at the perfect intersection of popular entertainment and art. Everybody involved knows the two roads and how to guide them towards the perfect spot.

Playboy Crockett locks those sights on the Blonde bombshell and for the life of him can't look away for a second. Noticing his partner's dick growing in his pants, Tubbs throws him a warning of, "she's too conservative for you" In a moment of humorously relatable reflection, Crockett confesses, "I get these occasional urges for stability in my life". Don't we all. Tubbs can only laugh and say, "you need to see someone about that". Don't. We. All.

Rohmer Girl isn't helping matters by massaging those thighs so seductively and then we get one of those '80s style fades that shows us both her legs and his sleazy gaze layered on top of one another. What happened to that kind of editing? Rohmer Girl then deliberately wet T Shirt contests herself, getting a laugh out of Crockett for this. They smile from across the pool and that's when you know there's no going back. Courtship is in action, baby. When she walks on over, Crockett as cool as a cucumber says, "what took you so long?". It's guaranteed with this man, a veteran of the game. Rohmer Girl makes attempts to get his attention by stealing the ice from his cocktail and pouring it down her body. This causes Tubbs to sweat more than he did from the Miami heat. Crockett doesn't need the ice, he's colder than that. No reaction from him. An angry Rohmer Girl turns to Tubbs and fires out, "tell your friend Sonny to come and get me when he wakes up". He's not asleep, he's just a pro. After she leaves, we get a close up of Crockett sucking on some ice and putting us his partner at ease with, "Don't worry I'm immune"

Got to be one of the funniest exchanges in TV history. What could make the scene any better? Straight after a bad guy runs on over and Crockett has to bust out some Kung Fu moves, entertaining all the pool users and day time drinkers. Perfectly summarising this show as primarily about women, the cases come second. It seems they really do crack and close themselves in this world.

Back at the station, fans blow cool air at high speeds, sweat drips from the faces of every cop and the cells remain empty. This is when the narrative splits off in to two different directions. Crockett pursues Rohmer Girl, who appears to be having some trouble with a dangerous boyfriend. Naturally, Crockett is compelled to intervene. "Please just leave me alone" are not words in his vocabulary and so such requests are wasted on him. Eventually, they form a connection with Crockett knowing full well what Rohmer girls means when she talks about "how bad it feels when you wake up with nothing, so lost". Sadly, he can't even take his own advice when he says, "we all get in to free fall. Just gotta ride it out. First thing you gotta do is getaway"

Free Fall is actually the name of a later episode and one of the last I believe to receive the feature length treatment and DVD release. I hope this thread is picked back up there as it is in essence what the show is all about. Following a walk on the beach, they end up back at Crockett's crib. Where else would they go? However, Crockett makes it clear that he didn't take her there to make a play. Unconvinced she probes further into his psyche wondering aloud why Crockett doesn't find a new town and get a new job if he's so unhappy. The words, "you're restless, you're lonely, you have dreams" go right through Crockett as he stands by the window completely unsure of himself and whether to leave.

In contrast, Rohmer girl is lying on the bed casually, revealing she is in total control of the situation and where it is heading as she reveals, "men are my job. Well not really men. Wild men. Men who will give me what I need". Sign me up. Considering Miami Vice's typically very masculine viewpoints, Rohmer girl's utter selfawareness and manipulation of men makes her stand out allowing her to be a kind of feminist icon in this world. Consequently causing this to be one of the shows most memorable and best written episodes.

Elsewhere, on more official business, Tubbs is dealing with the shows secondary storyline. A member of the "Organised Time Task Force" (whatever that is) has come to ask for the location of a woman in witness protection. The woman's brother is a gangster and has agreed to make a deal for immunity if the authorities will allow him to see his sister one last time. Commander Castillo is reluctant to compromise a protected witness and put her under the possibility of harm just to gain the convictions. This character has already gained legendary status this season with the earlier episode titled, "Bushido". An absolutely flawless episode that Edward James Olmos directed himself. In this episode, the commander's chequered past catches up with him as it goes further into his previous role as a DEA agent working in the "Golden Triangle" of Southeast Asia. He can't tell if the CIA or the KGB are after him but he must personally bodyguard a friend's wife and child and chop down any enemies with a samurai sword Shogun Assassin style.

Commander Castillo is something of an enigma. He walks around with his hands in pockets, observing situations as he roams a room, avoiding eye contact until the most important part of a conversation when he will stare straight a character. A decision that came about mainly cause he hated Don Johnson's acting style and couldn't bear to look at him all day. Regardless, it really adds to the characters sense of mystery. We're still unsure on the exact events of his past but after an episode like Bushido, I'm beginning to look past his initial iciness and really admire the man. Bushido taught us he's not really an empty cold hearted bastard but like Crockett, he's a man of unyielding discipline, sacrificing the common life to defend the people. As that episode suggests, what we call a "warrior" Miami Vice is filled with developed characters like these, drawing me to it as it surpasses all other cop shows. Amongst the procedural routine, these are real people who are restless, who are lonely, who have dreams.

Back on Crockett's story line, we finally make the connection to Ted Nugent. Our protagonist is being beguiled. A honey trap is in action and he's the sucker. Rohmer Girl and Ted Nugent have a tasty little set-up. She pretends to be the damsel in distress and he demands money from the men. The sorry son of a bitches end up buried under mountains of sand. Erased from existence. Harking back to what we saw in the opening scenes and leading us to wonder will Crockett have the same fate?

Task Force guy and Commander Costillo reach an agreement midway. Since, using the woman in witness protection is far too dangerous, a trained decoy will be used instead and so the meeting is given the go ahead. On a secluded bridge, everybody arrives. Cop cars line the way. Helicopters ride the skies. We are treated to gorgeous pans across the police men waiting and breathtaking wide shots of the aerial units inches above the vehicles. Absolutely mind boggling to see such good production values on a TV show from this time. No way any of this could have been cheap and it precedes the epic qualities of Michael Mann's Heat when Al Pacino surfs LA from the skies in a heli to Moby's cover of New Dawn Fades.

During all the waiting around, Tubbs finds the time to warn Crockett about getting too involved with Rohmer girl. Like before, he has another wise crack to make with, "this is what I like about you, Sonny. You attract some of the weirdest women in the western hemisphere". Readers be aware, reminiscing over my former flames and brief burials of the weasel, I felt that line to my very soul. We are referring to women who occupy institutions for the insane and the front pages of local newspapers. Usually for outrageous acts such as creating flame throwers and trying to burn their flatmates to death and being banned from every club in town for public fornication. Whilst I ponder who these one night stands were in their absence, my friends send me articles about them and so their identity will forever not be a mystery. This happens so frequently its downright disturbing and if it continues I may have to get in to scrap book collecting to preserve these women's legacy. Why do they flock to your least favourite critic? And what does it say about me? Am I helping them or enabling them? These are questions that will one day need answering.

Whilst we're waiting for the meeting to go down, I'll add that there's a distinctive lack of screen time in this episode for Crockett's boat and alligator. Shame because I've been forming something of an attachment to that boat and its use as a site to seduce women. We never get any interior shots of the boats, where I assume he does his two person push ups to stay healthy. Embarrassingly, this obsession with Sonny's vessel, led me a few weeks back to blurt out my three step plan in life after a few drinks. Write this on a wall or something. Step one is, we buy a boat. Step two is we get heavily in to yacht rock. And step three is we get all the women. All my homies are invited to join in the plan. Even mentioned this to Long Tall Sally and her boyfriend, she was completely accepting of having more women around. Cause the thing is men love women and women love women. Women are great. But no men like men. They may fuck 'em, they may be in love with 'em but nobody actually likes men. Not even women.

About the highest a man can gravitate to is the six month poster boy male obsession. This is the difference between men and women, right. Women will fluctuate their tastes, week on week. Search history just becomes a compilation of tutorial videos. Hair styles change. Dresses change. All based on whatever their many ideal female icons are doing. They lack conviction. Instead, guys will print off a little picture of their male hero, take it to the barbers with them and say, "like that please". When they get home and their lover or mother asks, "What happened to your hair?". Their answer will be let's say, "It's Sonny Crockett!". If you think it stops here, you are sorely mistaken. They will make a playlist called, "Sonny Crockett vibes". They will dress like Sonny Crockett. They will fuck like Sonny Crockett. They will even eat like Sonny Crockett, picking out particular mannerisms and the way they hold the fork. This lasts for about 6 months and will irritate their social circle nonstop. The worst is that no friend can talk him out of it until the cycle is complete. Nature must run its course. Now, you tell me, which method is more pathetic, the female utter lack of conviction or the sixth month poster boy male obsession. Anyway, where was I?

Our meeting is a disaster. The gangster sees right through the trained decoy and drives away rejecting the deal. Out of options, Commander Costillo hesitantly agrees to use the real woman. No easy task as the woman in custody believes this will turn in to a murder attempt and isn't an innocent meeting between siblings. The selfish task force guy uses harsh bullying tactics to goad her into accepting the mission. Between them, Tubbs and Commander Costillo manage to convince her that she will be surrounded by cops and it is their personal duty to keep her safe at all costs. Concurrently, Crockett sets up a meeting of his own with Ted Nugent. Will he heroically leave his mark in the sand or be buried deep under it? Mother, I can feel the sand pouring over my head.

Noticing the atmosphere in the station, Tubbs mentions that it looks like "some kind of cemetery". There is an omen in the air as most of the force prepares to meet the gangster and Crockett gathers his belongings to see Ted Nugent. Starting with Tubbs, his mission is an absolute disaster. When the gangster rocks up, the sister strikes first and stabs him. She manically stands covered in blood, screaming that she had to do it. We wonder whether this is true and we get our answer pretty quickly after a sniper takes her out.

This then leads in to one of the series all-time great music montages. Here's the thing there's literally a good one in every episode so there's so many to compete with too. We knew Miami Vice was always going to deliver on the musical front from the first episode when In the Air Tonight comes on by Phil Collins and the two newly acquainted partners drive in to the night. It's impressive to watch the scene individually on YouTube but when you revisit the pilot and see how it follows on from the previous scene where Crockett has to arrest a corrupt cop that was his friend is even better. Mann is a master of mood and transition, it's genius!

Then out of nowhere, when you thought they couldn't, they top this in season 2 with the use of Dire Straits's Brothers in Arms. The combination of Mark Knopfler's guitar and Crockett's Ferrari roaring in to the night is powerful. A stunning crane shot done in long take following the car from behind through the empty streets is insane to comprehend for a TV show back in the '80s. To put this in context, in the '90s, Spike Lee had to beg for one in Malcolm X and got his request accepted for like a day. And this for a 3 hour plus movie about one of America's greatest figures. Kind of amusing when you think about it, that all Mann has to do is say Dire Straits and Crockett's Ferrari and boom he's got one. But yes, it's a very emotive and poetic scene.

Even in a weaker Miami Vice episode, you can be stunned by the use of music. Buddies is far from being a classic episode but the way it intercuts between all the characters to The Nobodys No Guarantees is so good it would have impressed Martin Scorsese.

Not only do the songs fit the mood exactly for the scenes they are selected for, it's the fact that they play out for their full duration. You think that No Guarantees has stopped playing in some scenes as you no longer notice it so much but then right when the song hits the chorus again it accentuates the action perfectly. Nicolas Winding Refn has talked about the decline in allowing songs to play out in full. What was a popular technique in the '80s has been tossed out in favour of playing songs quickly and pointlessly to fill gaps losing the power of sound and image. A song should not simply fill a gap, it must accentuate it. Miami Vice still leads the way in this department.

In Definitely Miami, Crockett drives down an empty road mirroring the opening shots and we hear an extended version of Godley & Creme's Cry. Along with the comments on the station being a cemetery, the disaster of the gangster meeting and this song, this episode really does feel like a wake. Finally, we get to see if Crockett's fate will be the same as the earlier guys. Both Crockett and Ted Nugent bounce in with such swag. Crockett's in his usual suit and the cameras doing these lovely slow spinning motions around him. Nugents strolling in shirtless with just a blazer on, throwing out cool lines like, "Burnett. So we meet again. Got something for me?". Out in the middle of nowhere, they begin their sandy duel like something out of a western. The '80s version of The Good, The Bad and The Ugly complete with music video style montages to new wave and pop rock.

A light success for Crockett in apprehending the criminal is about the most upbeat thing that occurs here. We cut back to the disastrous operation with the gangster. Tubbs is crouched down looking at the dead womans body on the floor. Task Force guy is laid out on the ground too, not dead, just in defeat. Commander Castillo walks over to Task Force guy and looks deep in to his eyes with disappointment and in a clever moment we get a close up of his face and he stares into the camera too so even the audience can't shy away from the disappointment in the air. It's classic Commander Castillo, cold and firm exterior but behind the eyes...pain.

In a surreal moment that feels like a Norm MacDonald sketch, the cops go trudging through the sand with metal detectors and find all the bodies and cars. "Found another one over here!", yells cop after cop. Now, this is the real cemetery. You could say a part of Crockett dies here too, the part that loved Rohmer girl and saw a way out of this life with her. And where is the woman in question? She lies on the beach making sand castles, writing promises in the sand that will soon be washed away by the tides.

Upon seeing a blurred figure in the distance, she stands up to attention. At first this figure is shown as Nugent then on a fade is changed to Crockett. Making you wonder, does it matter to her which man returns alive from the duel? She runs over and hugs Crockett passionately. However, he is indeed immune to her charms and doesn't say a word. Instead, he makes a sexy swift turn to go back in the direction he came. She tries to give this pretentious speech about beaches and dreams but it's too late. A helicopter flies in and 2 cops hop out on to the beach ready to make an arrest. A rather expensive arrest but a cool one nonetheless. Having seen the helicopter, Rohmer girl realises the game is up and looks at her man. Right as we hear the lyrics, "you cheat, you lie", Crockett puts on his sunglasses. One of the coldest things you'll ever see from the coldest motherfucker in the game.

We witness what we assume will be Rohmer girl's fate. She hugs and caresses the officers arresting her, resuming her role as the manipulator of men. Some people are destined not to go to jail. She'll find a way to get off with minimum punishment. She's a professional. Life will continue as normal for her and so it will for Crockett. He paces intensely across the beach in reflection. He makes a final sexy swift turn and stares out in to the sea, out in to an endless blue. Cut to a wide shot of Crockett as a small isolated insignificant dot against a vast sea that could sweep him up in and instant and maybe he wishes it would. Any audience will wonder, how was it that Rob Cohen, director of The Fast and Furious and XXX, could create such a masterpiece of television? The first credit we see is, "Executive Producer Michael Mann". He's the real auteur here.

Turn your attention now to Liverpool, England. Kelly barely has a moment to let this incredible work of cinema settle in before the phone is ringing. It's Ricardo Carvalho calling, he says he has come in to possession of a boat for the weekend. Belongs to his uncle. He invites me to spend the day with him and his girlfriend, now ex-girlfriend, Electric Six, on board The Glittering Jewel (the name of this vessel). I ask him whether he knows how to sail a boat. He informs me he's picked up a few lessons from his uncle. Says, "it only takes about an hour and you've learned everything you need to know" Now, normally, the last thing I'd want to do is spend time secluded with a recently separated couple. Who wants that drama? But at the same time, who turns down a free day trip on a boat?

In seconds flat, I'm making a packed lunch to take with me for this adventure. Maybe even listening to the Gilligan's Island theme song on repeat and fixing a playlist together. "A 3 hour tour", I sing to myself repeatedly, as I throw everything in a bag and head on down to Calday beach. The sun beams down on me and so I pop on the shades and look around for my hosts. They are stood in the distance with a life guard. We're not in trouble already are we? As it turns out, you need a guy from the sailing club to get you to your boat. I always wondered how one accesses those boats you see in the distance. You learn something new every day.

Once on board The Glittering Jewel, we wait. We wait for the tide to come in further so we can then get moving. Jonny Greenwood's Able Bodied Seamen scores the montage. This goes on for an eternity and the suspense gets to me. Any time the boredom creeps in, Ricardo and I pass a bottle of rum between us and break in to a round of "A 3 hour tour!". This severely annoys Electric Six who after about the 4th time yells at us to stop. We do not. We can't stop. We're going a on a 3 hour tour! The plan is to get to Wales and get a Kebab at Conway. That is our mission and we choose to accept it.

The moon does its job and stirs these waves into action. These are so aggressive, Bodhi from Point Break would get such a hard on. These are the waves he lives for. Off we go in to our unknown fate with Village People's In the Navy pumping out my cheap portable speaker. Spirits are running high. The space aboard the vessel is limited but this doesn't stop me throwing shapes up and down to the Village People. Electric Six can only shake her head. She demands to hear Danger! High Voltage but I have to remind her this isn't boat themed and unfortunately will not be tolerated at this precise time. Although, I did debate breaking the rules after she saved my life by shouting to get out of the way of the passing boom. Had I not been warned and ducked just in time, I'd be laid out like Wiley Coyote after an unsuccessful Road Runner chase.

At the half way point, my belly is rumbling. The message couldn't be any clearer, time for lunch. I crack out a few nachos from a plastic bag, instantly stirring Electric Six, who demands I, "not bite down on them loudly". Went in to a brief lecture on how I go the cinema like 3 times a week and during that time I have perfected how to eat nachos silently. To the point I have studied which tooth produces the least possible noise and the precise crunching technique that is best to mask all and any sound. I must have gnawed them too loudly for Electric Six's liking because she just walked off shaking her head. Unfortunately for her, there wasn't too far she could go to get away from the masticating because of The Glittering Jewel's intimate size. They cannot run, they cannot hide.

Before I can finish the nachos, there's a golden glow shining through the blue Dee in the distance. I halt the teeth and stare as if in a trance. I couldn't be sure but I could swear along with the light being emitted, so too were the sounds of Max Corbacho's A Place of Discovery. Ricardo takes notice of my fixed gaze and sees it too. It is not a figment of my imagination. "What is that?", he asks and drifts towards it. When in close range, I bend over the boat and attempt to pick up the shining object in the water. Electric Six grabs hold of my legs for maximum reach. It's close. I can feel the hum of its tune becoming ever louder...

She is within reach. With one last stretch, I grab the blaze of light from the water and hoist her on board. This is when I see the red drips of blood slipping down my palm. Our mystery object was sharp. Our mystery object was a blade. My eyes naturally fixate on the forged words across the centre of the knife. "Szwedzki Zabójca", were the words but these had no meaning to me. "Russian?", asks Electric Six, now standing shoulder to shoulder with me. I hadn't even noticed her creep up. "No, no. Polish perhaps", I answer. "Need to change direction!", yells Ricardo but neither of us hear with our attention firmly on the potentially Polish knife. Electric Six sees the boom slightly faster than me and responds by rapidly hitting the deck. I'm not so lucky. The boom strikes me right in the temple and takes me overboard.

An old dream from younger days replays as I drift in and out of consciousness. I was never a strong swimmer. Back in Worsley was where I learnt how to swim. Front crawl is tiresome, a light breast stroke comes naturally. Neither particularly interests me. Often, I'd give up and get on my Father's shoulders, as he formed a human torpedo and we'd go hunting for treasure, singing, "Shiver my timbers, shiver my soul!". Well, in this one memorable dream, the human torpedo packed in. A cocoon forms around him and the pool is evacuated. My father's body is left submersed in the water. The room is in near total darkness apart from the bright electrical pulses being shot out of the cocoon. People stand around the edges and the sight is treated like a memorial for all to see. The water becomes my father's permanent grave. From up above, standing on a ledge, someone wearing a white mask and robe lights a candle. Soon everyone begins to do the same. Dream over.

When I come round, I'm taking in colossal amounts of water. Screaming and screaming. What a slow and painful way to die. Just when all hope is deemed lost, a hand without a body grabs my arm and pulls me to the surface. The hand now has a body and the woman its connected to is giving me mouth to mouth, except it feels more like an MD addled bird trying to kiss you on a night out. Eventually, I am alive and kicking, albeit with a few bite marks on my cheek like a victim from a Jaws movie.

I put my hand down on the ground expecting to feel soft sand but am alarmed by the hard concrete. In front of me is a giant swimming pool, to my left and right is rows and rows of pastel coloured art deco buildings. Behind me palm trees and a Ferrari F40 whizzes by. Every man wears Hawaiian shirts with over exposed chests. Every woman wears Memphis style sweaters with enough patterns on to keep the eye busy for a week. There was only one place I could be, Miami in the 1980s. "He's alive! Turn the music back on he's alive!", cries out an enthused man. The DJ in the corner slams his fist down on the play button and out blasts Robert Palmer's Simply Irresistible. Like clockwork, everyone goes back in to throwing dance moves and incoherently ranting about the president.

"Thought we lost you there, partner", says a calm fellow who walks over gracefully in a fedora and low neck vest under a dark blue shirt. In one hand he holds a cigar, in the other a glass of champagne. Under his nose sits a wellgroomed tash. For some reason, he was putting on a sloppy Puerto Rican accent. He had the Ds and Ss going ok but the rhythm and intonation was all wrong. This man was not who he says he is. Over a glass of champagne we get to talking and it becomes clear that this is a work colleague. Joey Munro here and I are Miami Vice. And I'm not exactly me. These people keep calling me "Jack" Kelly. An undercover name perhaps? But what was our mission? What were we doing here? Before I could get an answer, a beefy bastard who looks like he's waltzed straight off a porn set calls the pair of us inside the apartment.

Inside the apartment more mischievous activities are taking place. Champagne towers flowing from top to bottom. Women lying across the floor like human centipedes ass to mouth. Cocaine snowfalls raining down from the hands of seedy men on to female flesh. It takes me a few seconds to realise a wealthy gentlemen behind a desk blowing cigar smoke in to the air is trying to get my attention. "Mr Kelly, do I have your attention?", asks the gangster with his feet on the desk. I crane my neck over to his direction, coming to my senses as I hear the intro of Talking Heads Swamp. "What was that you said there?", I ask.

"What's up with your boy?", asks the gangster, turning towards Joey Munro. My partner answers, "Maybe that fall in to the pool not done his head too good, Mr Cardenas". The gangster re-adjusts his position in his chair, looks directly in to my eyes and shouts, "Oi, scuba diver, you with us today? I'm a busy man. So either you come to do business or you can get the fuck out!". I assure him, "It's all cool, man". To avoid further trouble, I let Munro do most of the talking and try to look as present in the conversation as possible. This proves to be difficult as there is an unexplained man sat on the sofa holding a framed photo of Nancy Reagan and wanking himself silly. No one seems to be addressing this peculiar activity taking place only yards away from our business deal. I try to ignore this and restrict myself to simply observing this side show with my peripherals whilst maintaining my attention on Mr Cardenas.

Once the zeros are agreed, Munro and I rejoin the party. Duran Duran's Planet Earth is in full swing. No signs of slowing down, this one's going until sunrise and maybe even straight in to Monday. Women stand on tables grinding against each other and grabbing what God gave them. Men throw 20s at them and if they've got no 20s, they throw cocaine. I was beginning to wonder did anyone actually snort it round here? Out of the corner I spot...no, it couldn't be, an ex-girlfriend of mine by the name of Marianne Weatherford. Quickly, I move towards the exit. Best to leave and not think too much about this one. Too late. We make eye contact for a moment across the room and now I'm in serious trouble.

The next day, my partner and I stroll across the beach on our way to brunch. It's All I Can Do by The Cars can be heard coming from the café speakers in the distance. "I had a dream about my ex last night", Joey informs me.

Coincidentally, he'd broken up with his girlfriend recently. We're always losing women out here in Miami. They come and go like the tides. "Was it violent", I ask. "Na", he replies confused by my answer. "You don't have violent dreams about your ex's?", I probe. "Na", he says again and adds, "what sort of violence are we talking about here?".

"Well, my ex's have a habit of trying to stab me", I tell him.

"Stab you? Which ones?", asks Joey. "All of them. Some even put me in Saw traps", I clarify. Half laughing, half concerned, my partner says, "Maybe you should see someone about that" Defensively I counter with, "you started it, motherfucker". "Ok, no my ex's don't stab me in my dreams to answer your question", says Joey. "So what the fuck are you so worried about?", I blurt out. We make it to the café, take our seats and stick our head in the menus. A waiter takes our orders and walks away. Joey resumes our conversation with, "hold on. Just cause I'm not getting stabbed every night doesn't mean I'm on easy street". Back on that defensive, I shoot my mouth off by saying, "hey, I never said every night. Alright, what do your ex's do to you in your dreams?"

Joey responds with, "rejection, mainly". I spit out my coffee and chuckle, teasing my partner as I say, "fucking hell, you're pathetic. Don't you experience enough of that in real life?" "Fuck off. Don't know why I came to you with this", whines my partner. "Me neither", I throw back with mutual feelings.

We share a tense silence between us, drinking our coffees until we can't take it anymore and have to laugh. Joey embraces the situation and throws it back by pretending to be serious with, "so... you ever think about seeing someone about these stabbings, partner? For real, what have they got against you, where does all the anger come from?". The phrasing of the question throws me a little off guard and I try to think of answer, eventually saying, "Don't know. Do your ex's not represent your failures?" "Strange way to talk about your ex's", is all Joey can add. "No but like, regrets, pages left unturned, future lives unrealised, you know times you didn't get it right, times you could have been better", I rant letting out a tad more than I was wanting. Joey marinates on this with a few sips of beverage before declaring, "Well, I guess if you were still with them, you'd be getting it right".

"Exactly, you and Christina gonna work things out, mate?", I query. He doesn't answer the question. Instead, he leans back, exhales and then asks, "did I see Marianne last night?" "You did", I answer, holding back any further information. "You gonna try and meet up with her again while she's back?", enquires Joey. "No, no. Absolutely not", I state with zero conviction.

She is sighted walking across the road from Hotel Azul Pálido. I put down the binoculars and place them next to the half-eaten McDonalds and empty beer cans on the passenger seat. This is not a stakeout. This is not stalking. This is purely chance. None of my intel had been gathered abusing police resources and visiting my snitches. I was about to turn off the engine and get out my 1980 red Chevvy Corvette, when someone opened the passenger door, placed my McDonald's on the floor and sat down. Instinctively, I withdrew my pistol and pointed it straight at the intruder. On the other end of my gun was Joey's ex Christina. Worst time for a "talk" but when you gotta help your boys, you gotta help your boys.

She asks me if he'll ever change. I tell her, "He's a good kid but no. This is the life we've chosen. It's not a regular 9 to 5 type of life. We don't clock off. When the street moves, we move. We can't make promises. We can't be in certain places at certain times. If we move slow, if we're too busy thinking about life. That's when we get shot. You can't switch off for a second out here. You do and your dead. If your serious about Joey, you gotta accept that. That's just the way it's going to be. If you can't accept that then...". She tells me that was the worst "talk" she ever had slams the door behind her.

Personally, I thought that was a good speech. In confusion, I shrug at the outcome. Then I notice my half-eaten hamburger and I'm about to take my second bite, when Marianne walks out of a shop further up the road. Since nobody else is looking for a "talk", I get out the car and quickly head over. Six Different Ways by The Cure plays over some café speakers as Marianne and I reminisce over old memories. Both of us are careful not to discuss how the relationship ended, such an act would kill the joy in our voices. Always thought seeing her again would be awkward but the experience proved to be humorous. We were friends at one point after all. Practicality is the killer of most friendships. We never hated each other, we just couldn't make it work.

We retraced our steps going back to all the old hangouts, joints and dives. From the bookshops to the coffee bars. Walking under our favourite bridges and digging in the sand like children let loose in the adult world. Meanwhile, OMD's Souvenir echoed round in my head on repeat. You could say things were going swimmingly. By the end of the afternoon, we were fucking to Kate Bush in a dingy motel called Century. Hounds of Love blasted over the speakers and we were doing that passionate '80s fucking that no-one does any more. Heads slammed in to pillows. Legs parted. And fists clenched tight. You know the drill.

When it was over, my beeper was going off without any pauses. That could only be my boss. He'd be furious if he knew what I'd been doing on work time. I shook my head and Marianne told me to just ignore it. When duty calls, my friends, when duty calls. We had to cut our romance short. I slid on my pants, buckled my belt and put my arms through my blazer jacket. It was time to go back to work. Although, I couldn't leave without a goodbye kiss just as OMD's If you Leave was kicking in on the radio. If I could tick just one woman off the list from stabbing me every night that would be a good day, right?

As I make it back to the Corvette, the radio DJ has made his way to Cyndi Lauper's Time after Time. Hands firmly on the wheel and looking out the window, images of the afternoon bombard my brain. Romance was back, baby! Back in a big way. Gone is the selfloathing bullshit, who needs it? We're all about the feeling good, living life in the fast lane, letting the wave of positive emotions carry us through the night kind of life. One ticket to the shagger's Valhalla. All aboard the love train. Hurry up because, we will soon be departing the station. Hours of longing, replaced by hours of being horny. No longer the pathetic Mr Useless and Inadequate. I am the man who provides for his woman. I am the man thinking about the fuck around the corner. In the shower, in the back seat, in the office cupboard, whenever the mood takes us. I am sexy and she is the proof.

Strolling the station corridors, you'd notice a spring in my step. Shoulders up high, standing tall. All of this was shattered when the captain called me in to his office. With the slam of the door, I was brought back to reality and the love drug wore off. Mr Mood Killer went to work and I was brought down a few pegs. Who grassed on my whereabouts for the afternoon? Probably those fucking amateur ass cops Pinewood and Tucker. Should not have involved those clowns in finding Marianne. Proper sly characters those two. Munro and I never trusted them further than we could throw them. But desperate times called for desperate measures. Naturally, the captain reminded me of the mission at hand and that my former lover was working for Mr Cardenas. Told me to, "get that fucking look off your face and stay sharp out there!". Smoke was coming out his ears like a hot M60 recently out of rounds. He slams down the plans for the evening in front of my face and snaps a ruler pointing to Cardenas's face on a blackboard. I got the message. Tonight we were making some arrests.

Angrily firing up the Corvette's engine once more, Robert Tepper's No Easy Way Out let's rip from the speakers and the car roars in to the night. On my way to pick up Munro, I try to block out the images of the afternoon and recall everywhere my relationship with Marianne went wrong. One hand on the steering wheel, one constantly brushing through my hair in frustration. By the time, I made it to the Munro residence the hand motion was complete. Inside he was combing his hair back and straightening his shirt out. My mind drifted to Marianne, who was no doubt doing the same in the Hotel Azul Pálido. Damn she always looked beautiful when she did that. I'm brought back Munro's living room when he says, "I heard you spoke to Christina today". "Yeah. That could have gone better", I admitted. "You can't do anything for Marianne, it's too late", he adds. "What?", I asked, knowing full when what he was on about. "She's in too deep. She's fucking Cardenas, you know", states Munro. I knew. "Why don't we just not think about women this evening and just do our jobs?", I suggest. "I can get down with that", clarifies Munro.

The sun has been replaced with the moon. Day has become night. But we have a few lights of our own out here. Neon signs glow up the strip, making it even more alive than in the day time. Miami never sleeps. The Corvette's wheels roll over the crowded roads as we cruise along wondering what the night shall offer us.

The DJ chimes in with a perfectly timed use of The Lebanon by The Human League. We pull up outside the Colony Hotel. Mr Cardenas is on the top floor but first we have to get the go ahead all clear from one of his boys in the lobby. "How will we recognise him?", I asked when Mr Cadenas called us at a telephone booth round the corner. "His name is Juan. You can't miss him", said Mr Cardenas. It was true, we couldn't. Literally, as we entered the lobby, there was a grinning big beefy bastard sitting in a chair that barely seemed able to hold him. I'd clocked him at the party last night. We sat down in the two free chairs opposite him.

"Got the money?", asked Juan. Munro lifted the bag he was carrying up to his eye level. "Unzip", demanded Juan. Munro complied with a quick flash in the bag. You don't argue with a man like Juan. "Lot of cops about these days, you have to be careful", backed up Juan. "You do", I agreed and let out an evil laugh. This set Juan off laughing too and it didn't take long for Munro to do the same. The giggling trio, what a sight we must have been to the hotel guests currently occupying the lobby.

"Tell me, Juan, why is it I recognise you and not just from that party last night?", I enquire. "Maybe you've seem my pornos?", answers Juan. "You were in porn?", I ask trying not to laugh as I look at my partner. Juan nods and replies, "Juan Peterson at your service, star of such films as A Cockwork Orgy, A Cockalypse Now, Oceans 11 Inches, The Italian Blowjob, Boner and Clyde, Raging Boner, The League of Extraordinary Genitals, Cock Corridor, Juan Blew Over the Hooker's Breast, Night of the Giving Head and The Urethra Franklin Story. But these days the works kind of dried up so I offer a kind of protection. To whoever is the highest bidder. I used to go wherever my cock was needed, now I go wherever my fists are needed"

"A respectable list of titles there, I'm not really a big porn guy but I'm sure they're pretty good", I fire back. "They're pretty good", admits Munro. "You ever go drinking at Hardy Hars?", asks Juan. "Sometimes", I inform him. Juan's ears perk up on this and returns with, "ever speak to a guy named Lenny?". Before I can provide him with an answer, a bar tender flashes him a signal across the room and Juan changes the subject with, "Gentlemen, I think we best be going up". Together we ascend in the lift. It's kind of haunting standing in front of a man who could rip our necks off with one arm if he so wished. Even with two of us, it be difficult to stop him. I didn't feel safe until we are back in the open corridors.

Juan fiddles with a room key on a door and we walk in to the hotel room. Black Celebration by Depeche Mode can be heard from a nearby radio. Mr Cardenas is sat on a sofa eyes locked to the ceiling and smoking another of his cigars. His number two man greets us and invites us to sit down. Out on the balcony, there's a party going on. Marianne emerges from behind a curtain wiping some cocaine from her nose. She stops when she sees me. We try to down play the eye contact. There was never a greater pain. But we have business to attend to. The deal runs smoothly until Munro needs to use the bathroom. Unbeknownst to me, my partner had been struggling with a cocaine addiction as of late. Bloody difficult to hide when you're Miami Vice. I'd heard of it happening to one or two of the guys from the past. Never did I think it be something my own partner would succumb to.

Munro slipped to the toilet to get a hold of himself and try to calm the temptations. He paces round the bathroom, fighting a losing battle that is not helped by seeing a man dressed as a giant Marlin as soon as he opens the door again. In pure fight or flight mode, he knocks the giant Marlin out cold with a single punch. The B-52s Rock Lobster scores the chaos that takes place in room 303. Juan reaches for his gun, I slap it out of his hand and he throws me through the balcony window and over the rails. Using all the strength I have, I cling on to the bottom of the balcony for dear life.

A hail of bullets bounce across the room. Undoubtedly, my partner needs back up and here I am clowning about over the edge of the balcony like a God damn rookie. There's no excuse for this display of amateurism. I hoist myself over the steel bars and rejoin the battle. The second I re-enter the room, I am sent to the floor, taking a shot to the chest and shoulder. Munro has them pinned in all by himself operating on nothing more than pure anxiety mode. There was no intellectual decisions being made, nothing the enemy could predict, only rage and solid instinct. We'd have had this thing over there and then but Cardenas brought out the dirty tactics by using Marianne as a human shield. "Nooooooo!", I yelled out firing a bunch of aimless shots in to the wall. Cardenas, his new hostage, his number 2 and Peterson used this as a moment to make their exit.

My partner puts his arm round my shoulder and carries me out to the car. In the lift, I couldn't help but say, "there's a lot more room in here now without that big beefy bastard, ay?". Munro doesn't bother replying, he knows my heads gone. He dumps me in the passenger seat, takes the keys from my pocket and gets the car in motion. He drives in to the night and I become lost in the neon haze of Miami. Fragments of neon lingers in my blurred vision as we pass the signs at top speeds to Suicide's Surrender. The blood pours through my jacket on to my shoes. A bad day to wear white. You have to laugh. My speech becomes slurred and incomprehensible. In between calling his snitch to find out the location of Cardenas's secret property up the coast, Munro calls back at me, "hang in there, Kelly!"

I slip into an existential crisis in the passenger seat of the red 1980 Chevrolet Corvette and in those moments where I thought death was calling me, this life and what we were doing out here began to make sense. If Miami Vice can be reduced to a single sentence it's this feeling of longing amongst the mundane procedural as lovers come and go like tides in this ceaseless pursuit of honour and professionalism. Being warned that it's coming over and over until the day the other pillow grows cold, you look out across the vast emptiness of the Atlantic Ocean and all that you could ever had has been replaced by Endless Blue.

Obsessive focus on plot mechanics loses all meaning. Heart and soul grinded down until they are sold as spare parts. Being a part of a relentless party town, where the coke dealers keep popping up like whack-a-mole and for you it's just another kind of prison. You are a guest here but the hospitality does not extend to yourself. You can look but you can't touch. None of these people are your friends, only respectable snitches at best if such an oxymoron can exist. They form a greater part of your life than your own children. Any friendship earned is returned by slapping the cuffs down once the sting is over. Cheating and lying until the bars shut and the case is closed. I sometimes wonder who tells the truth more, us or the criminals we put away. Only your lovers get worse treatment than the criminals. We should play the harmless monk but who can resist latching on to somebody from time to time? Anything to ward off the incalculable isolation.

It was exactly as she said, "one day you will look for me and I'll be gone" There was a fleeting moment. An opportunity to escape and you let it whimper away. Chance after chance was handed to you and one more mojito with a beautiful lady might have saved it but once it sank in, it was already too late. A life dedicated to the badge means the only true relationship you will ever have is with your partner on the force. So he watches your back and you watch his. Naturally, credence and certitude are necessities. You must become an extension of the other. He your right arm and you his left. One brain. One police force. This is Miami Vice. Everything else is bullshit. There are no other commitments.

By the side of the road, using whatever materials available to him, Munro patches me up. "These will hold for the next couple of hours but then you're needing a doctor. You think we can do this by then?", says Munro. "We'll have the fucking report written up by then and put down on the captain's desk", I mention without hesitation. We laugh. I agree that once this is over I'm going to spend more time helping my partner with his addictions. We'll help each other.