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I’m not sure if this has been posted before, but here is the original uncut “By Hooker By Crook” love/murder scene. It’s dubbed in Italian but you still see everything you couldn’t see on DVD/Blu/streaming. It’s interesting to see the parallels between the two scenes.

Yes we had it earlier already but thanks anyway! What is mysterious about this clip: the full length scene was only broadcasted once- in the original NBC airing. That Night it was when NBC censors allegedly found out that the producers did not cut as agreed before airing (Dick Wolf denied that-he said in an interview that they had Cut as agreed but NBC probably got some viewer calls and extended their cuts accordingly) and NBC took their contractual right of final cut and cut the scene for all subsequent airings (re-runs, syndication) and also for the DVD/BluRay Masters later on that were based on the TV masters. In Europe and in Italy the 1987 episodes were bought and aired much later than in the US. MV started in most European countries in 1986 with the first season. So how come that Italian TV had the first airing master tape for dubbing and airing that nobody else has except people with a VCR at home in February 1987???

Sadly...the ‘law’ didn’t help either Rita or Ellen, and that’s why they chose to try and hire assassins. It was wrong & ultimately they paid the price (literally & figuratively) for their actions—even if it wasn’t actual jail. Ellen’s case got so much media attention that I tend to lean towards a copy-cat stalker wanting to integrate himself into the case & get attention for himself...but it could be she created it in her mind?? I too like the mystery of not knowing...ads to the creepiness and suspense!

You are right. There were many times in the series people got away with crimes for lack of evidence or etc. I think this happens in life quite often too. I still feel very bad for her. Reminds me of poor Rita Amato from “No Exit”. They both felt they had no other option than hiring a mercenary. Yes, that ending is a mystery! Could be a copycat or a delusion/hallucination... Personally, I like that it’s kept a mystery! Very spooky ending!

You got it! On Newton Blade’s boat. We see this same lady a little bit later when Crockett & Tubbs are meeting with Blade but never see her face. I think she was literally all legs...

Yes he was also in the biker bar in Viking Bikers from hell

No idea here. I even tried to Google search. Still coming up with nothing... This may have just been Vicefan7777’s thoughts at 1:08AM? I’d recommend IHOP or Perkin’s for 24 hour breakfast!

“I still don’t get it, Jimmy.” Jake Renfro fixed the reporter with his best perplexed editor glare. “Why you got such a hard-on for that rehab place, anyhow? What’s the angle? A senator’s daughter? Dead hookers? What?” Jimmy Campbell. That’s what he called himself now. Jimmy was his name, but he’d borrowed Campbell from a can of soup. The story made him smile inside. “It’s big, boss. No senator’s daughter, but there’s big things going on in that place.” He paused for effect, his thin frame almost lost in the big chair on the other side of Renfro’s desk. “I just gotta get close enough to get it on tape or film.” Renfro waved the papers in front of his face. “You know that ain’t gonna be easy thanks to this damned restraining order. You so much as touch the fence and they can have you arrested. That’s jail, Jimmy! And I gotta say I don’t see you writing a prison romance exposé.” Jimmy scratched his chin, considering his reply. He had a number of reasons to go after Caitlin’s House; all of them personal and none of the editor’s business as far as he was concerned. “I keep hearing talk on the street, boss. Those girls? They bring ‘em in and maybe rent them out to high rollers. You know, celebs, politicians, connected people.” “You got any proof of that? We may have some money behind us now, but that lawyer they’ve got could clean us out in a heartbeat.” “That’s why I need to get at the place. So far it’s all talk. Street rumors. But I keep hearing the same ones.” Renfro nodded, and Jimmy could see rotating dollar signs in the man’s eyes. “I’ll give you a week. No more. You don’t bring me something solid forget about it and start staking out that private beach up the coast. Might be some good topless starlet shots from that one, or an abused illegal or two.” “You got it, boss.” Pushing himself out of the chair, Jimmy managed to bite back a sigh of relief. A week wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing. He’d just have to up his game. The Post’s ‘newsroom’ was little more than a collection of cubicles dropped into what might have been a sales floor at one time. It was late, and most of the staff had gone home, leaving the place to the handful of night owls chasing their own demons in their stories. Jimmy nodded to the two he passed on his way to his cubicle. They all knew each other, or at least understood each other. Dropping into his desk chair, Jimmy sighed. He’d been chasing Caitlin’s House ever since his lure girl, a pretty little hooker with the street name Angel, got run through the program and cleaned up. He’d used her to get people into compromising positions…some of his best headlines had been engineered using her. Sure, he’d smacked her around a time or two after she asked for more money, but that’s what those girls all wanted. She’d been off the streets for a week after the last time, and he’d gotten wind that her pimp, some punk called Marco, was pissed. Not that he cared. Marco was all talk and no action. But then Angel had been picked up in one of the routine hooker sweeps and sent off. That was his first pass at Caitlin’s House. He’d never really heard of the place before that. Hell, why would I? They don’t treat rich girls…just streetwalking trash. No story there. He let the thought roll through his head, grinning at his own ignorance. Losing Angel had been a blow, especially since the word was out about him and he couldn’t get another lure with her looks and ability. He started digging more out of reflex than anything else. At least until he found out who was behind the place. He’d expected to find some faceless shell company, but instead he found a ghost. Sonny Burnett. Even now the name sent a quick shiver down his spine, chased by a flash of anger. He’d never met the man, hadn’t even really seen him if he was honest, but the impact of Burnett on his life was almost beyond calculation. He was the reason Jimmy had tried to join any police force he could find in South Florida, why he’d dabbled as a PI, and then why he’d wandered into what passed for journalism. It still pissed him off thinking about it. All that time I spent, and then I basically trip over the son-of-a-bitch chasing down some hooker! Fuck me running. Opening a file drawer under his cluttered desk, he pulled out the one marked ‘Security’ and started flipping through it without really reading. He’d been through the damned thing so many times he had it more or less memorized. Every detail about the security surrounding Caitlin’s House, and he had to admit he’d seen high-security prisons that were weaker than the rehab center. But the activity kept his hands busy while his mind worked. It all started with his big sister. Back when his last name wasn’t Campbell. He’d just left high school, barely scraping through like most of the kids from his decaying neighborhood, when she lucked out and hooked up with some older dude. A rich older dude. Celeste had been working the club circuit for over a year, dating and then ditching a number of would-be players in the Miami scene. And then she hooked Oscar Carrera. Oscar. He snorted, still turning pages without seeing them. The answer to our prayers, she’d said. My ass. The man was a fat old fool. Rich, but a fool. And the son wasn’t any better. He let his mind slide back to those days, when she’d come home telling them they’d be moving into a fancy apartment soon. Just as soon as she sorted out the money. She’d convinced the old fool to marry her, and things were set. Their mother smiled and nodded, not caring where the money came from. Jimmy knew, and he knew enough even then to be worried. The drug trade wasn’t exactly stable or secure. He’d watched the whole thing unfold: the evolving feud with the Manolos, the demise of that cartel and the scramble to fill the void, and the arrival on scene of Sonny Burnett. Jimmy had still been an outsider, working here and there on the fringes of the trade. A few small deals, moving a little bit of product. Nothing big, but with the hope of eventually moving up. Especially with his sister being married to the boss. The other dealers looked at him with envy, telling him he was set for the good life. It wasn’t exactly his choice, but the money made life easy and if it was going to be handed to him he’d be a fool not to take it. Then everything changed. By chance he looked down just when he’d turned to one of the two pictures he had of Sonny Burnett. It was older, taken at a distance not long after Caitlin’s House had opened. The short ponytail was gone, but the black suit and blacker sunglasses were the same. Even now he guessed he could understand what Celeste had seen in him. The guy was a mover. No question. Her mistake had been assuming she could control him like she had Oscar and that drug-addled Miguel. He’d never risen high enough to actually meet Burnett. The closest he’d gotten was some trailer trash thug called Cliff who his sister latched onto toward the end before going back to Burnett. He’d taken an instant dislike to Cliff, with his beady, darting eyes and fast talking. But even then he’d known enough to keep his mouth shut. When the fight between Cliff and Burnett kicked off, Jimmy had gone to ground like the rest of the rank and file. Sure, some chose sides, but Jimmy chose his own and got out with what he could before the whole thing went up in smoke. Snorting, he closed the folder with a snap. The rise and fall of the Carrera organization under Burnett was the stuff of legends, but somehow the man had managed to walk away from the wreckage with his transportation business intact. Unlike his sister. She’d disappeared soon after the Carrera organization went tits up, sending an occasional postcard from places like Lauderdale, Dallas, and once even Los Angeles. Then the cards stopped. Jimmy didn’t really care. They’d never been especially close, and he figured she was a big girl now…or should be after what she’d done. But he hated what it did to his mother and his own plans for the future, and so by extension he hated Sonny Burnett. Reaching into the drawer, he pulled out his map of the area around Caitlin’s House. He’d looked at the damned thing so many times he saw it in his sleep, but reviewing the map was sort of a ritual now. He’d monitored their radios enough to know the code names for most sections of fence, and his eyes narrowed as he looked at Charlie 3. It was the one section with a good view of the house’s long second floor balcony and the wide windows of Burnett’s office. He’d pieced that together by buying drinks for workers who’d done some of the renovations. It killed his expense account, but gave him a better idea of what the place looked like on the inside. But that didn’t help him get through the place’s security. That was the piece of the puzzle he couldn’t break. He’d worked around tough security before, anything from cut-rate celebrity ‘security’ to the Secret Service…he was still drawing on the royalties he’d collected for a series of nudie shots of a Senator’s twenty year old daughter poolside in their Miami compound. Burnett’s security made the Secret Service look like mall cops at a cut-rate Kmart. But that was part of the draw. He’d want to get in even if Burnett wasn’t there. He was like the cherry on top of a sundae. Usually the weak spot was people, but Burnett knew that, too. Jimmy had never seen such a collection of former cops in one place. And none of them were Miami-Dade rejects. He’d been smart enough not to approach them himself, not after seeing a stringer from the Herald get decked trying to bribe one off-duty. But he’d gotten pictures of a few and used his contacts to pull some information. Former State Police. Ex-military. Former Marshal’s Service. All heavy hitters. Still, he knew it wouldn’t take much. A conversation that could be massaged into something else. A photo you could hang a lurid caption under. One of the most important things he’d learned from Renfro and the old timers at the Post was how to skirt the law when it came to that kind of thing. You didn’t tamper with the recording or the picture. Amateurs did that. Instead you turned it into something it wasn’t…or something it might be. And now he had a deadline. One week to produce or else. Turning off the flickering neon desk lamp, Jimmy sat in the gloom for a moment before leaving. Listening to the click of computer keys as the handful of lost souls still in the building worked on their stories or their suicide notes. Sometimes, Jimmy knew, they were the same thing. Hector Rendozo’s head hurt. He slowly opened his eyes, looking up at the popcorn ceiling in his hotel room and once again swearing off vodka in all its forms. It might have been a good night, and from what he remembered it was, but the morning was going to be hell. At least there wasn’t a girl in the bed. With this kind of hangover the last thing he needed was some girl wanting to talk. Rolling over, he closed his eyes and willed the room to stop spinning before opening them again and sitting up in bed. The red numbers on the room’s bedside clock told him it was after one in the afternoon. “Glad I ain’t got nowhere to be,” he muttered as he eased himself out of bed. After a shower, coffee, and a handful of aspirin he felt like he could leave the room without embarrassing himself. Reaching into his pants pocket, he found the number the older lawyer had given him and headed down to the lobby pay phones. It was harder for cops to trace calls from them, and old habits died hard with Hector. The lawyer answered on the fourth ring, and Hector didn’t give him time to ramble. “Checking in. You got anything for me?” There was a pause, and then recognition. “Hank. Yes, I think we do. I need to check something on it first, though. Can you meet tonight at the same place?” “Yeah, I suppose so.” “Good. And Hank? We may need to move quickly on this.” “Sure.” He hung up without waiting for a reply, leaning against the side of the booth for a moment to steady his body and mind. “Damned vodka,” he muttered again as he headed for the elevators. Back in his room he turned on the TV and flopped in one of the chairs where he could see both the screen and the balcony door. He kept the volume low, the images flickering on the screen more of a distraction for his mind than anything he cared to watch. He’d learned in prison he did some of his best thinking this way. The more he thought about it, the more he didn’t want to wait for whatever stunt Miguel had in mind. Even if the suits were good with waiting, and from the panic in Haskell’s voice he didn’t think they were, Miguel’s man was a player he didn’t control. Hell, he barely controlled Ramon and one person like that was all he felt like managing. And then there was Cooper or whoever he really was. No, they needed another way. Maybe the suits would have something, but he doubted it would be solid. And he wouldn’t control it. He knew with Sonny Burnett involved he’d get one shot at Cooper. So he had to make it count. Then there was the question of money: the million dollars the suits had promised. Even if it was only half-true, that kind of cash wasn’t something you walked away from. Not without a fight at least. And even if it turned out to be only a few grand it was still more than he had right now. Seed money he could multiply ten or twenty-fold with a couple of good deals and maybe a fast move or two. His eyes lost focus as he stared out the window, watching white clouds scuttle across a clean blue sky. Miguel had it half-right trying to sneak someone into the place. But staff were watched too closely, and screened too hard before they became staff. With the security they had, one blip would mean you were out and the next person on the list got a call to come in. But the patients…they were trying to keep them in and away from outside contact. Sitting up straight, he tried to remember what he’d read about the place. How girls got sent there. Shaking his head, he got to his feet and headed for the door. His hangover was gone. The hotel had one of those “business centers,” a fancy name for a room with a few computers and a copy machine or two. Hector took one of the computers toward the back of the room and punched in the hotel password. He’d learned more than a bit about computers while he was inside - one of the only good things about doing time - and it paid off now. One search command later he was looking at the home page of Caitlin’s House, its logo splashed across a picture of the big white house and the ocean beyond. He skipped the crap about programs and support, and even ignored the staff bios. He knew all they’d talk about there were the doctors and other shit. Instead he pointed the mouse cursor at the heading titled ‘entry’ and clicked. The screen flickered and changed to a wall of text, broken up by what looked to be ‘before’ and ‘after’ pictures of girls who’d been through the House. A blurb near the top said they’d be accepting male patients as soon as construction was finished on a new building, but he ignored that part, too. Once he’d finished reading he did another web search or two before closing the browser and restarting the computer. He knew that would clear the memory and make finding his trail a little bit harder. His stomach had settled enough to be hungry, so he ducked into the hotel restaurant for a sandwich before heading back upstairs. It was cool and dark in the restaurant, almost empty since the lunch crowd had faded, and he took his time eating. It was a good space for thinking, and he needed to do some of that before tonight. The two searches had confirmed what he’d read on Caitlin’s House’s website. Girls were admitted based on the recommendation of victims’ services and one or two other offices associated with the court system or law enforcement. They were almost always girls under the age of twenty-one, runaways, and using one or more drugs. Hector knew plenty of girls like that, or had before he’d been locked up. The problem was finding one you could trust not to screw things up. The other problem was he’d have to trust Jangles to find the right girl, and to do it quick. Both those things were problematic. Finishing the last bite of his club sandwich, Hector chased it with a sip of ice water and looked around the almost empty room. Jangles himself was fairly reliable, but he wasn’t the best judge of character. Maybe it wasn’t his best idea, but Hector was running out of options. Leaving the blonde waitress a reasonable tip, he went back to his room and resumed his seat between the TV and the balcony door. He had a few hours yet until the meet, and he wanted to try to sort through everything in his head before sitting down with those damned suits again. He still wasn’t quite sure what they wanted done with Caitlin’s House, but maybe they’d get more into that tonight. And maybe he’d look into some kind of down payment, along with the insurance in his jacket pocket. It was loud in the bar, and he was glad he’d started recording before walking through the door. He was also glad he could feel the Beretta tucked into his waistband. Flying solo always made him want to carry his own insurance. They were sitting toward the back, the big one with the accent and the older one. Haskell. Cutting around a waitress with a tray load of drinks, he nodded when he got close enough to be seen and slipped into a chair, turning it so he could see the door and the two other men at the table. The big one nodded. “Careful. I like that. I believe it’s time we filled our friend in on his task, yes?” Haskell nodded, but Hector thought he could see doubt in the man’s bloodshot eyes. “Yes, I suppose so.” He turned away from the other lawyer. “As I said on the phone, we may need to move quickly on this one.” “Yeah. But I might need some good faith money. It ain’t that I don’t trust you…” “But you don’t trust us.” The big man nodded again. “A good way to be in business. But I believe friend Arthur here has something to ease your concern. Isn’t that right, Arthur?” Again Hector could see the doubt, but the big one seemed to have some kind of hold over the other man. Haskell lifted a leather overnight bag from the floor and put it on the table. “There’s fifty thousand dollars in there. Consider it a down payment.” “Sure.” Hector unzipped the bag and flipped through the bundles inside. A mix of bills, and nothing consecutive. These guys know the score. He smiled as he zipped it back up. “Looks like we got a down payment. Now what is it you need done?” “You seem like a smart man, Hector. So let us talk straight, yes? We want to ruin the reputation of Caitlin’s House. Destroy it so the place must close and never reopen.” “Why not just burn it?” “Direct as well. No, this must cause someone to suffer a great deal. Property may be rebuilt, after all…” “But when a reputation’s gone, you’re screwed.” Hector nodded slowly, letting his mind wrap itself around the idea. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with Sonny Burnett, would it?” “Let us just say it’s an old issue. One that’s been too long in being dealt with.” Wiggins steepled his fingers and leaned forward on the table. “Now how would you go about destroying the place’s reputation?” Hector paused for a moment. “Get a girl in there. One you got some hooks in so she does what you want. Then maybe have her smuggle in some drugs. Get pictures. The kinda stuff those rags in the supermarkets go nuts for. Maybe have her say one of the guards tried to fuck her. All kindsa stuff you could do if you got the right girl in play.” He shook his head. “Trouble is getting on those supermarket rags.” “You mustn’t concern yourself with that. All in good time, friend Hector. But do you think you could find such a girl? And, what was your phrase, put her in play?” “Yeah. I think so.” He wasn’t as sure as he sounded, but with this kind of money in play he’d make it happen. Even if he had to cut Jangles’ balls off and send him in singing soprano. Or Ramon. Dude might actually like that, though. Then the rest of what the lawyer had said sunk in. They’ve got a paper ready to run the story! Gotta be the Post. No one else around here would touch that. Not with Burnett in back of it. “So how soon do you need this?” “As soon as possible. But don’t cut corners. Haste makes waste, as they say.” The big one leaned back again. “We will likely only have one shot at this, so it must be true.” Haskell cleared his throat. “Call me as soon as you have the girl. I’d like to check her out, just to make sure she’s what we need.” “You mean bang her?” “No. She has to be a certain type if we want the press to buy the story.” “I get it. One of them hookers with heart of gold? Big eyes an’ a sob story as wide as the Gulf? We’ll do what we can, gents, but it’s also gotta be a reliable piece of tail. And those are hard to find.” “Do what you must.” The big one got to his feet, followed by Haskell. “Don’t let too much time pass, Hector. Once you have the girl we’ll start preparing her story.” Hector waited for them to leave before reaching into his pocket and shutting off the recorder. The brown leather bag still sat on the table, and he resisted the urge to open it again. But he knew he had to move. He didn’t need the attention, or some moron cop thinking he was a buyer. Snatching up the bag he headed for the door. He’d call Jangles from a pay phone and set up his own meet. And hope the little asshole could come through.

We wish a very Happy Birthday to …………….. MichaelAce ! Enjoy your big Day !

I’ve seen this. I believe it was posted here before. I’d forgotten how much better the uncut version is. For me, the parallels alone make it better, even if they’re a little cheesy.

the first assumption is impossible. The first airing master was locked by NBC after they cut it. Besides, the tapes sold for international TV stations were all the same. If the Italians had it, all others would have it too. I rather suspect that this is no original/normal airing by Italian TV (MV aired there on RAI 1 as far as I know not on RAI DUE like the watermark says), but rather a "curiosity report" tape based on a VCR recording from a US viewer. The picture quality supports that assumption.

There are a couple scenes where Trudy overacted...I’m pretty sure I can think of one scene you’re referring to, lol! But, it was still 80s TV. As for Ellen and not charging her...yes, they knew she was thinking about trying to hire a mercenary, but I also think they understood where she was coming from—even though wrong. She had suffered physically and psychologically enough already. They stopped the assassin, her original psycho-stalker was dead, and other than the ‘circled’ magazine ads, there wasn’t much actual evidence to take to court. I’m still questioning whether the psycho tormenting Ellen on the phone at the end was real & a copy-cat...or if poor Ellen had finally ‘lost’ it and it was only in her mind??

Sad news as the English director Alan Parker has died at age 76. Sad as he was a great director. He directed the classic movie Midnight Express and his direction of it was first class, especially in the tense arrest scene at the start with the pioneering use of heartbeat on the soundtrack. His other films included Fame, The Commitments, Birdy (underrated and good. Moving), Pink Floyd - The Wall, Angel Heart, Bugsy Malone. Rest in peace to a talented director.

Prodigal Son?

As stated before, I really enjoy this episode! I just rewatched it last night. However, I forgot about the little things that bug me. For one, they knew damn well Ellen hired the mercenary as she circled adds in the magazine and they tracked the killer down. I know she was a victim, but that doesn’t make her action right. At the end of the episode, they made it sound like they didn’t have hardly any evidence against her. Also, Trudy seems over the top in several scenes. Of course, we see Crockett freak out more often, but it just seemed odd for Trudy’s character.

Meanwhile I suspect this old apartment complex is gone. It has no open yard (no light inside!) and was certainly in SB. South of 6 Street there have been many demolitions since then as we all know. I tried around the Corsair on historic aerials with focus on a relatively broad building (most are very slim and there is no fit for the yard between two rows of apartments) with no open yard but no luck. On Google I cruised all SoBe streets and all Google picture search terms for Art Deco railings but no find. Also special MDPL Like Sites with old postcards did not help. I am stumped.

Background beat is TOTALLY VICE

Never heard of trust? (Silvio in Killshot)

Fancy - Slice Me Nice (1985) Little Miss Dangerous - Well it does sound a bit twisted

Thanks for posting this, the song has really grew on me. Can't stop listening to it And the video is like something out of an 80's Cronenberg film

Ah ok, cool! For a minute there I thought that screenshot got lost in the shuffle.

You are right. I was just spoofing that scene with “Make it easy, RedDragon86” instead of “Make it easy, Mosca.” I was wanting a hint with the episode screenshot he posted. Hmm, yeah that could be same guy!

I have always wondered if this was the same guy in Chemistry with the pink glasses on.

No Andrew, the scenes are not related to the cop job at all. First one is the phone crashing scene, while talking to my girlfriend, I guess I was in my early 30s). It happened exactly the same way, I kept asking her not to hang up but she DID hang up. I hit the handset against the telephone until it was in pieces. The other one is the barf scene. It was at the hospital after a (very bad) car accident, right out of the ambulance: I warned the doctors to stay away cause I was about to vomit, but they kept repeating: "Relax, Sir". One of them came very close to me and... just watch the movie and you'll see what happened ;-)

I don't know about as good as it gets but thanks lol !!! I'm stoked that this is coming back into style, so tired of undercuts !!!

That’s more like a cinderblock!

Not? He then lied to me!

Just remember, the “little worm” looks might appetizing to all the hungry fishes in the water!

Lol..there are a few episodes that plot-wise are pretty “shallow”...possibly dip your pinky in. But, with this one as to whether or not Joe Dan actually sold cocaine before hand? Not gonna lie, it’s been a few years since I’ve watched this one, but from what I remember I think he was planning to, but hadn’t actually yet. But maybe I’m wrong?? I’ll be honest again and say this one bores me ...it’s not a “terrible” episode, necessarily, it just doesn’t have anything captivating or interesting. This is one I actually did not see when it originally aired, and I didn’t see it until reruns at some point—possibly on USA or TNN in the 90s. I’ve maybe only seen it twice since then.

THE SHRINK PRACTICE unknown still, but 90% studio set. See the second picture which is very suspicious as a set with the interrupted, separately angled wall parts. I never seen something like this in a real house. Bit overdone and too "vicey" (all other shrink scenes eg in Miami Squeeze were studio). Also 4020 Hardie Ave (Docs house, the only modern house in that episode and built in 1988) does not have any of these on 30+ interior pictures). I doubt that they used a completely different onsite location in this episode for these scenes when they clustered all other locations perfeclty in this episode.

Senator Palpatine Rx?

He was in "Nightmare on Elm Street 2"... One of my favorites! Here I am with him and the autograph I got...

Here's a neat video about this topic... it's not as exact as @Mrich209's, which is as good as it gets, but if your hairstylist doesn't understand how to do long layers on men (which likely they don't because they've been steeped in modern disconnected hairstyles), then show them this: I'm thrilled this style is coming back. I never thought it would. In the 90s and 00s, it was RIDICULED to death. But what goes around comes around... the younger generation who weren't around back then is re-discovering a classic.

Outside Gordon Wiggins could see the shadows growing longer as the day faded into memory. Both Arthur and that scrub Watkins were still in court as far as he knew, but if he was honest with himself he also didn’t care where they were. They were tools, and ones intent on proving themselves less and less useful with every passing day. Sighing, he looked down at the glowing screen of the microfiche reader. In the old days he’d have some fluff of a paralegal doing this. One of those little co-eds with ambition to match her bra size. Maybe it was better this way, though. He knew what he was looking for, and there was always a chance he’d find something related another searcher wouldn’t even notice. Since he’d made the connection between Burnett and Crockett, he’d started looking further back through the papers. Finding any links he could, and then expanding to Caitlin and her career. Oh, he knew all about Tommy Lowe and his ham-handed attempts to ‘handle’ situations, going all the way back to the murder of her bass player and some before that. But friend Tommy’s little bits had been scattered all over a rooftop parking garage, so there was no need to look further into him. Looking from the screen to his notes, Wiggins sighed again. He’d found precious little on this Crockett after the man had moved from Robbery to Vice, aside from the lurid tales of his relationship with Frank Hackman. Before that he’d found some scattered stories about the ‘football hero and veteran turned cop’, but those were back in his uniform patrol days. There’d also been a divorce notice, but that wasn’t unusual for cops. It was when he turned to the gossip pages things got interesting. Not for Crockett, but for the Davies woman. Not so much her, but that behemoth she’d always had close by. Angie. Wiggins wasn’t too proud to admit the woman made him nervous; always looking at him like she wanted to snap him in half, even though he was her height. There was some chatter about her social life, but what seemed exciting and dangerous back in the early ‘80s and before was simply mundane now. But even the world-weary ‘90s still frowned on drug dealing. Especially if it happened to be something like crack or heroin. They’d wink at some pot, and maybe even explain away cocaine…so long as it was going to the ‘right’ people whoever they were. But harder drugs were still a solid no-go. Wiggins moved the fiche holder to bring up other pages, making a few notes on his pad. Then he dug into his pants pocket and fed dimes into the machine, listening to the machine whir and hum each time he hit the button to print a page. There was simply too much to write down, and he had to meet Arthur soon in any case. Better to take what he needed with him to review later. He met Arthur in the hotel bar at the agreed-upon time, frowning when he realized his friend had brought the idiot Watkins along. He thought about going back to his room, but Haskell had already seen him and was waving a big hand like he was having some kind of fit. Forcing a smile on his face, Wiggins headed over to their table. The last thing he wanted to do was ‘handle’ Watkins, but he guessed that was why Haskell had dragged the younger man along. He was still smiling when he sat down. “Arthur. And this must be Watkins. If you don’t mind my asking how did court go today?” Haskell took a long pull from his drink. “Not bad for opening remarks.” “What he means is they didn’t hang us. Not yet, anyhow.” Watkins’ face had the blush of three drinks too many, and Wiggins wondered how long they’d been down here, or how big the flask was Watkins had been pulling on in court. Or maybe he’d just gotten stoned from inhaling the cloud of cologne that always surrounded him. Wiggins never trusted a man who wore too much cologne or one who dyed his hair before the age of fifty. Watkins fell into both categories. “Courage, Watkins. My God, man. Arthur’s a top-flight attorney when he wants to be. You’ll beat this one. Might take a little assistance, but you’ll come out on top. Never fear.” Turning, he shot Haskell a quick glare. “Has there been any word about that other business?” “Hank’s been quiet, but he usually is until he’s ready to move. Same with my friend at the paper. Why?” “I might have found something that will help us.” He raised his hand. “All in due time, friend Arthur. All in due time. But things are not as gloomy as they might have been. My day at the library has not been wasted. Not by half.” Watkins looked up from his drink and sneered. “Arthur said you’d done time. I figured you’d be tougher than this.” Wiggins smiled, his hand flashing out to grab Watkins’ wrist. “Not all tough guys have tattoos and bad mustaches, my young friend.” He applied pressure, twisting until he saw tears beading up in Watkins’ eyes and his lips turn white as he clamped his mouth shut. It wasn’t the first time he’d been underestimated because of his accent and manner of speaking. But people usually did it only once. “Now perhaps you’ll just sit quietly and let the adults talk, humh?” Haskell looked from one many to the other. “Roger, you need to just shut up now. And you think you have something that will help us?” “Perhaps.” Wiggins didn’t want to give his hand away, especially with the fool Watkins sniveling and rubbing his wrist at the table. “But we need to start discrediting this facility. How soon do you think you’ll hear back from your contact at the paper?” “Tomorrow at the latest.” Haskell snorted. “I guess that reporter of his likes to disappear for days at a time. Says he’s researching stories, but who knows with reporters.” “Indeed.” Wiggins rubbed his temples and tried to keep his face expressionless. Is there no one in this damned town who’s dependable any more? “Please tell me the other man is more reliable.” “Hank? Oh, don’t call him that to his face. He hates the nickname.” Haskell smiled. “Yes, I’d say he’s more reliable. Especially if he takes an interest in a project. And he seems to have taken a big interest in this one. Maybe because Burnett’s involved. I don’t know. These underworld feuds are too much for me to follow.” “Agreed.” Wiggins paused as the waitress brought his drink. “Thank you, my dear. Charge it to my, room, please.” He sipped, letting the single malt scotch roll across his tongue and across his nerves. “Unfortunately we need information from your friend at the paper before we can turn this other one loose. Unless, of course, he develops his own leads.” Wiggins took another sip, ideas forming in his mind. “Is there a chance he might do that, Arthur?” “I…I don’t know. I suppose he could. My business with him never really required him to use his head, you know.” “I understand, Arthur. Truly, I do. But maybe you could encourage him a bit in that direction. In case this reporter stays lost for an unacceptable period of time. For all we know the man’s an addict, feeding his habit in some seedy hotel.” Wiggins took another drink, hoping his true motives didn’t show. “Can’t trust reporters, can we? Consider it done.” Haskell clapped Watkins on the shoulder. “And now I’d best get Roger fed and home. Too much booze on an empty stomach is an occupational hazard, but you don’t want to show up in court with a hangover, right?” “Of course not. Bad for business.” Wiggins nodded them away, not wanting to move from his chair quite yet. The scotch was doing its job, both relaxing him and lubricating his mind. When the waitress sauntered by again he signaled for another. After what he’d seen, he was sure he didn’t trust Haskell with the information he’d uncovered. The man would share it with Watkins. He simply couldn’t help himself. And telling Watkins was the same as buying air time on all the local channels. It was looking more and more like he’d need to find other ways to use what he’d learned, and maybe this Hector was part of the answer. He thought about the missing reporter and decided maybe he’d had too much to drink already. Telling a reporter was buying air time, and he’d lose control of his information in the bargain. No, he’d start with Hector. He didn’t realize his glass was empty until the waitress stopped again. “Can I get you another?” He looked down at the melting ice, weighing his options. “Please. And then close out my tab if you could.” He’d eat in his room. There was serious thinking to be done, and he preferred to do that alone. To be honest, Hector hadn’t expected a call from Ramon. He’d been sitting in his hotel room, nursing a beer and staring at the TV without seeing it, when the phone jangled and the kid’s thin voice filled his ear. “I got someone you might want to talk to. You know where the Palm Club is?” “I can find it.” Hector snarled as he set down the beer bottle. It still annoyed him how much Miami had changed while he was locked up. “But this better be worth it.” “Oh, it is, boss. Juan will meet us there.” There was a click, and the buzzing dial tone filled his ear. Hector stared at the TV for a moment longer, then opened the dresser drawer and pulled the Beretta out from under some wadded-up clothes. A guy had to be careful these days, and he’d bought the 9mm earlier that same day from a dude he’d known in the pen. Hefting the pistol, he worked the slide to chamber a round and then flipped on the safety before stuffing the pistol into the waistband of his jeans and pulling his loose shirt over the front. An extra magazine in his front pocket and he was ready to roll. He was about to ask about the Palm Club at the front desk but thought better of it. No reason to let some college punk know his business. Instead he stepped out into the humid evening and walked down half a block before hailing one of the cabs that circled the hotels close to the airport. He didn’t look at the driver. “The Palm Club.” “You got it, boss.” The driver, who sounded to Hector like he’d gotten off a boat from Haiti only a few days ago, threw the car into gear and bulled his way into traffic. The Palm Club looked to have started its life as a gas station with an attached mechanic’s shop some time in the 1950s, only to be reborn as a cheap club adorned with a flickering neon palm tree within the last three years. Tossing two twenties to the driver with a muttered “keep it,” Hector checked his shirt to make sure it was still covering the Beretta before heading for the door. There was no line, and no big guy checking IDs and cup sizes outside, so Hector kept his expectations as low as the wattage on the sign. He wasn’t disappointed. The bar must have been scavenged from another club, a disco judging by the rhinestones stuck to its front panels, but the stools were strictly Western theme. Fake palm trees in cheap clay pots from World Market marked the edges of what passed for a dance floor, and some pasty kid with oversized headphones pretended to be a DJ in a booth that must have come from the same club as the bar. There were some drunk couples on the dance floor, and a scattering of other people at the bar and tables. He spotted Ramon and Jangles at the far end of the bar, and he wondered why the hell they hadn’t grabbed a table as he walked over. Ramon seemed to anticipate his question. “Table won’t work for this one, boss. The guy you gotta meet is the bartender.” “Must not be a very good one if he’s working here.” Ramon and Jangles exchanged glances, and Hector was sure he saw them grin at each other. Jangles spoke first. “You know, Hector, what they say about looks and all that. This place looks like a dive, but more coke moves through here than Rumour and Overton combined. Place like this is better for wholesale.” “Nice.” Hector shook his head, and it pained him to admit he hadn’t expected that. “This bartender own the joint?” “Him and a couple of other dudes. They don’t figure, though.” Ramon chuckled. “Out of town money.” Hector nodded. He knew what that meant. Some things never really change. “So what’s his angle?” “Same as yours, boss. Revenge.” Nodding, Hector watched the man detach himself from a group near the beer taps and make his way down to them. It wasn’t anything special. Average height, looked to be more Puerto Rican than anything, and carried himself like he had an attitude. Normal Rican, then. Shit. Last thing I need. But when he spoke the voice was level and smooth. “You must be Hector. I’m Miguel, but call me Mike. Makes the frat boys breathe easier.” “Whatever you say, Mike.” Hector shook the offered hand, exerting just enough strength to match what the bartender threw. “My boys here say we got business.” “Yeah, you could say that. I know Ramon from back in the day, and he says you’re lookin’ for information on Sonny Burnett and that place of his.” “Something like that. I also got some things to square with Burnett.” “I heard you got sent up.” Miguel flashed a short smile. “That ain’t all I owe him for. But you first, mano. What do you need from me?” He looked around. “From what I hear you got a good thing here.” “You mean aside from Columbians having their damned hands in my cash box? Yeah, it’s a good thing. If you think small.” Miguel’s eyes lost focus, and Hector felt a little worm turn in his stomach. “I was on my way to something bigger when Sonny Burnett smashed El Gato’s operation.” He raised his hand. “I know…I was lucky to get out with my life. But to be that close…to taste it and touch it with my fingers and then have it ripped away. I swore I’d find a way to get back at him. And now you land in my lap.” Hector hated dealing with the crazy ones. You never knew what they’d do when things got tight. “That’s nice an’ all, mano, but it don’t answer my question. What do you need from me? And what you got that I need?” “You’re out to ruin that place he’s got out there? Good. That’s all I need. I want to see his dream crumble in front of his eyes. As for what I got, in a week I’ll have someone on the inside.” “And you do this for free? Just to see him suffer?” Miguel smiled. “Mostly, yes. But getting Burnett out of the way should free up some routes and assets a strong man could swoop in and take. Cut me in on that and we’ll be even.” “How much?” “Say twenty percent? As you say, I have a good thing here. But it could be better. More routes means more custom, and that means more money in the bank for me.” “Sounds good.” Hector shook the man’s hand again, not bothering to mention Burnett was just a means to an end for him, and that he didn’t give two shits about what happened to the hooker rehab center. He just wanted Cooper or whatever his damned name was. But having someone on the inside would make things a hell of a lot easier. “So when do I get to meet your guy?” “Better if you don’t. I hear they use lie detectors during the interviews. My guy’s clean, but that also means he don’t lie for shit.” “Fine by me. But I better meet him at some point.” Hector was about to go on when he sensed rather than saw someone standing behind him. He shifted his hand, getting it closer to the warm grips of the Beretta. “You best back off quick. And then say what the hell you want.” Turning on the cheap Western bar stool, he came eye-to-eye with a greasy punk with lank hair and ambitious eyes. “Easy, Hank. Come on, man! It’s Rafe. Remember?” Hector sorted through his collection of names and faces, nodding slowly. “Yeah, I remember you. Goddamned punk who cut and ran when we had a two key deal going down on the edge of Overtown.” He was about to turn back to the bar and just blow the punk off when he remembered something Ramon had said. Maybe it was time to show these bitches, including Miguel, the old Hector. “What you buggin’ me for, bitch?” “I ain’t the one who spent a few years in charm school, Hank.” Rafe’s gin showed bad teeth and worse intentions. “I bet you made a damned fine…” The Beretta flashed for an instant in the dim light of the bar and then Rafe spun away, clutching at his face where the pistol’s front sight had torn a deep gash in his left cheek. Hector continued the arc of his swing, letting the pistol cross in front of him before lowering it between his legs where it couldn’t be seen but was ready to strike again. “Way I hear it you don’t need to be in prison to be someone’s girlfriend, Rafe. Now you’d best step the fuck off before I really get pissed.” Blood dripped between the man’s fingers, turned almost black by the bar’s lights. “I oughta…” “What?” Hector’s voice was a hiss, and he could feel the others watching him. So far the sounds of the bar hadn’t changed, and he guessed this was normal weeknight entertainment in a place like this. But he also didn’t underestimate the amount of firepower on hand. Balance was key. “You oughta what, Rafe? Exactly? Change your pants? Put on more lipstick? What? But whatever it is, do it away from me. I don’t work with punks or bitches, and you’re both.” Rafe looked around, suddenly seeming to realize he was very much alone in the Palm Club. “I’ll see you later,” he muttered and turned away. “No. You ain’t gonna see me at all. If you do, it’s the last thing you’ll see. Make no mistake about that.” Hector kept the Beretta in his hand until the skinny punk left the bar, and then stuffed it back into the wasteland of his jeans. Ramon let out a low whistle. “Now that’s the Hector I heard about. Surprised you didn’t pop him.” “Look around, mano. This is Miguel’s place, and he don’t need the headache. Besides, there’s enough firepower in here to start a small war, and if I shoot someone that’s what happens. Ain’t that right, Mike?” The bartender nodded. “Pretty much. The marketplace likes its mayhem kept to acceptable levels, if you know what I mean.” He turned to head down the bar. “I’m gonna tell my people to keep that one out. His kind we don’t need in here.” Once he was out of earshot, Jangles found his voice. “You think he’s on the level about his guy?” “We’ll find out. If not, we just don’t come back. Simple enough. But he don’t care a bit for Burnett. That means he might be tellin’ the truth.” He kept an eye on the figure at the far end of the bar. “We’ll play along for now, but keep lookin’ for other ways in. I gotta meet with them damned suits again, an’ maybe they found somethin’.” He shook his head and stopped talking. It had felt good to smack that little bitch Rafe. Just like it had ditching those damned boots. He’d not understood how much he’d locked down the old Hector in prison until bits of him started climbing out again. And he knew if he was gonna get this cop who called himself Cooper he’d have to get all of Hector out again. Sonny Crockett let his hand slip down to Jenny’s firm backside as they walked through the door of Sanctuary. As soon as they got through the door he could hear the shouting from the back tables and knew Stan and Randy had found each other. Dave’s voice could be heard, too, along with the more nasal tones of Lester. He kissed the top of Jenny’s head and grinned. “Team Elvis is in the house.” “It’s good to hear them again.” Jenny pressed back against his hand. “Stan hasn’t laughed like that since they left.” “I know. Big goof seems happy enough most days, though.” “But the things they shared…” “Yeah, I know, darlin’. I’ll bet they missed him, too, even though those two Jarheads would never admit to it. At least not while they were sober.” He grinned and gave her a little nudge. “Let’s quit blockin’ the door and get back there.” The tables had been pushed together to make one long row, and Sonny could see pretty much the entire Strike Team gathered. Even Tiny, his wheelchair centered on the far end of the table, was there, laughing at something Dave had said around his glass of beer. Marty and Trudy were sitting with Randy, sandwiched between Stan and Lester, and he could see Mindy and Tubbs helping Angie settle in with some kind of huge drink dominated by an umbrella. Rico happened to look up and see them, and his eyes lit up. “Sonny! Jenny! Bout time you dragged your asses in here!” “Yeah, yeah!” Sonny grinned and made his way through the crowd, feeling Jenny close behind. “You better have saved me some beer, pal.” “You snooze, you loose, chump!” Rico laughed and poured them glasses from the pitcher on his end of the table. “But you did miss those two fools tellin’ lies about their exploits out in the wild west!” Sonny settled in a free chair, grinning as Jenny settled into his lap with a smile. Another burst of laughter exploded from the other end of the table, and he looked across at Rico. “Sounds like they’re havin’ a grand old time.” “Yeah. It’s been like that ever since Stan got here. Gina’s enjoying it, too, and Marty said Pete was gonna stop by after eight.” “Good. I didn’t realize how much I missed those two jokers.” “Yeah. And look at Stan and Lester. Those two…” “Yeah. Happiest I’ve seen ‘em in months.” Sonny kissed Jenny’s neck. “She said it, too.” “Hey!” Gina’s voice echoed down the length of the table. “You two better get a room!” Sonny was about to reply when Jenny turned to face him and kissed him. It was full-on, lip-locking paradise, and he could taste the beer on her tongue. Finally she came up for air and turned to look up the table. “Not a chance. It’s funner this way.” True to his word, Pete made his entrance just after eight, strutting through the club with a swagger George Jefferson would have admired. Sonny laughed, still stuck after all these years by how much Pete did resemble the sitcom character. He looked around and spotted Dave and Randy at the far end of the tables. “I heard tell two of my wayward deputies happened to have wandered into town. You boys miss me or just get lost?” “We missed you, boss.” Randy laughed, spilling beer on Dave who returned the favor. “Or hell, maybe we did just get lost. It’s all so damned flat down here it looks the same.” “Oh, them two gonna make some trouble.” Angie looked across at Sonny and waved a finger. “Blondie better keep them two in line.” “They’re big boys, Angie. They can take care of damned near anything they get themselves into.” He smiled at the woman’s concern. “Besides, with you watchin’ them there’s no way they’re gonna step out of line.” “Mmm…hmmm. Even Angie can’t watch that much trouble at one time.” Her stern face cracked into a grin for a fleeting second. “You and Little Blondie gonna make sure they don’t get Elvis and his friend in trouble?” “You got it, Angie.” Sonny looked at Jenny and winked. “I’ll bet Randy wouldn’t mind you buying him a beer, though.” “Good idea.” She waved a thick arm for the waitress. He hadn’t seen Robbie Cann arrive at the table, but his old friend was at his shoulder with a smile. “Now that’s not fair, turning her loose on Randy.” “I know. But it gets her out of our hair and might keep him from getting into trouble.” “I think Marty’s got that sewn up, partner.” Robbie jerked his head to point. “He’s been stuck to those two most of the night.” Sonny nodded slowly, realizing Robbie was right. Trudy and Mindy had been talking most of the night, and Rico alternated between him and Stan and Lester. But Castillo had remained close to the two former deputies, especially Randy Mather. “I wonder what the hell he’s up to.” “Memories, maybe.” Robbie clapped his hand on Sonny’s shoulder. “Marty Castillo has enough for ten men, and I think Randy’s carrying around more than he’ll admit to.” “Yeah.” Sonny thought back to the day he’d learned why Randy had stopped shooting the rifle…until the day he dropped the man who’d wounded Dave. “Ghosts, man. Funny how much of our lives are about ghosts.” “Until they’re not.” Robbie grinned. “Look around! You got friends all around you, and a pretty lady on your lap. We never would have believed this back in Da Nang.” “Naw. There it was day by day.” Sonny shook his head. “You’re right, Robbie. Although now that Pete’s here I’m starting to feel like a fifth wheel.” “Look…why don’t the two of you come back to the office? We’ll talk, have a quiet drink, and let the kids have their fun.” Jenny nodded. “I’d like that. This….I don’t know.” It was quieter in Robbie’s office, the blare of the club muffled by solid doors and good soundproofing. As soon as Sonny sat down Jenny reclaimed her spot on his lap, and Robbie grinned as he poured three drinks from a bottle of Maker’s Mark. “I must be getting old. I was thinking about leaving soon.” “Naw. You got Allan to keep you running. And Julia. How is she?” “Good. She keeps asking when you’re going to come by.” Jenny smacked him on the arm. “We can do that next week, can’t we, Sonny?” “Ow! Sure, sure we can.” He made a show of rubbing his arm. “Of course we can come by, Robbie. It’s been so damned busy out at the House with the renovations and all I lose track of time.” “And then you sail away on your boat.” Robbie chuckled as he sank back in his chair. “Gotta say I’m jealous sometimes, Sonny. But only sometimes. The club doesn’t sink or get run down by the Love Boat.” Sonny sipped his drink. “Can’t argue with that. But it’s nice, just being able to up anchor and get the hell out of Dodge some days.” He took another sip. “Looks like the club’s still doing well.” “Better than most of the competition, but you know how it goes. Always gotta stay fresh or you’re yesterday’s news. I’ve been thinking of bringing some of that techno stuff in a couple of nights a week.” “Talk to Lester. He actually is a dj from what I hear. And a good one. Goes by the stage name Tango Foxtrot.” “I heard of him. Didn’t know that was Lester. Yeah, I’ll give him a call. Word is he’s a great draw with the crowd I’d like to tap into.” Robbie leaned back. “But we didn’t come back here to talk about business.” “Yeah, yeah.” Sonny gave Jenny a quick squeeze. “Robbie’s always busting my chops about something.” “That’s what buddies do.” Sonny Crockett locked eyes with Robbie. “Yeah, you’re right. It’s what buddies do. Now we’d best drink up and get you home to Julia.”

Happy Birthday

Have a Happy Birthday!!!