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Show 49, Jeffries, Islamorada [Section 2] "Aren't you going to. . .invite me in?" The boy tossed his beautiful hair. "It's uh, it's late son." The little preener, Dorian fumed, locking up. He turned on all the lights and thumbed angrily through an old Penthouse. Friday he told himself, payday, I'm gonna get up to Miami and meet a woman if I have to pay the escort service. Beautiful golden winter evening. Racing for the city in the convertible. Miami winking north across open water. But downtown didn't look quite right, and he turned onto what he thought was the MacArthur Causeway for Collins Avenue and Miami Beach. Abruptly he dead-ended into the darkness; it was a bridge for the Port of Miami, and the docks. Looming at their moorings, from the darkness, were the cruise ships, marine and impermanent, the final architectures of the city. More carefully he retraced to the Venetian Causeway and out onto South Miami Beach. Here the mood was Lenten and sober, guardedly optimistic, hopeful that the Angel of Death could somehow, once again, pass over each oldster The Yiddish clerk at the Atlantic Towers seemed surprised to see him again, and, with what Dory took to be reluctance, conceded that there might be some |