The Pilot by Nick Stone

“Gennellmen,” Eldon addressed Max and Joe with a broad grin. “You’re gonna be movie stars.”

  Max and Joe looked at Eldon and then at each other nonplussed.

  “Ok, that’s an exaggeration,” Eldon chuckled. “But there’s this Hollywood producer I know wants to do a pilot for a cop show based in Miami. He’s heard all about us and the fine work we do here. He needs two detectives to show him around, take him through their day, let him see life through their eyes. I thought of you two.”

  Miami PD frequently got asked to help out on movies, TV shows and the like in one capacity or another and usually refused, unless a big name star contacted them in person and the project was resolutely pro-cop.

  “So what exactly are we supposed to do?” Max asked. He didn’t like the idea one bit. He didn’t watch cop shows and hated most cop movies – not his bag, being entertained by a cartoon version of what you did for a living every day; and the actors were the kind of pussies who wouldn’t have lasted an hour on the real job – although there were a few exceptions, like Clint Eastwood, Gene Hackman and Roy Scheider in the first French Connection, and Anthony Quinn and Yaphet Kotto in Across 110th Street.

  “I want you two to play at bein’ cops for the day. Put on a show. Imagine you’re two characters in a movie, and the guy’s your audience. Impress him, wow him, inspire him.”

  “Huh?” Max grunted.

  “I got a little scenario in mind. Take him for a spin around the city for about an hour, point things out to him, let him see the luxury and the misery. Then, at about 11.00 AM you’ll get a call from Dispatch sayin’ there’s a stiff on a boat in the Marina. You go over there to investigate with the guy, show him what you do – whole process, boarding the boat, securing the scene, discovering the body, witness canvassing – no paperwork though, that’s boring.”

  “Who’s the stiff?” Joe asked.

  “Some rich guy turned up dead ten minutes ago. It don’t matter,” Eldon lost a little of his jovial glow as he addressed Joe, impatience stealing the sheen off his smile. “City PD’ll take over once you guys have done your thing.”

  “What else we gotta do?” Max asked.

  “As you’re drivin’ around, tell the guy war stories, entertain him, give him stuff he can use – shake down some hookers and dealers, if you like.”

  “We gotta spend all day with this guy?” Max groaned. Eldon nodded. “Want us to take him home with us too?” Max joked.

  “Cute,” smirked Eldon. “But no, you don’t. When your shift’s over, bring back up here. Think you can handle that?”

  Max grunted his assent.

  “Remember, this is about makin’ a good impression. So don’t get him killed. And Max, ain’t you got a better suit of clothes you can wear? You look like you woke up in what you’re stood in.”

  “I didn’t know we’d be on show today – or else I woulda come here in my dress blues,” Max retorted. “White gloves and decorations. The whole nine yards.”

  Max was wearing black jeans, a black T-shirt, his houndstooth jacket and black and white suede Nike Cortez sneakers. He hadn’t shaved. Joe was smartly turned out as ever, navy blue suit and open necked white shirt and polished black leather shoes.

  “Liston, can you wait outside please?” Eldon said.

  “Yes Mr Burns.”

  Eldon waited several seconds after Joe had left before speaking, which he did in a quieter tone, leaning slightly forward over his desk.

  “Just so’s you know, I’m puttin’ up some of my own money into this thing against a share of the profits. I consider it a good investment. The series comes off right, the country’ll get a picture postcard of Miami beamed into its living room once a week. No better ad for this city than a popular TV show. It’ll boost tourism and bring in the money. God knows this place could use it.”

  “That’s if it works out,” Max said.

  “Of course,” Eldon nodded. “But this guy knows what he’s doing. He’s worked for David Jacobs. And David Jacobs is the guy who put Dallas on the map.”

  “Who shot JR Ewing?” Max remembered with a rueful smile. “Two of the quietest nights in the history of Miami law enforcement.” On March 21st the previous year, the streets, bars and clubs had nearly emptied for the hour that cliffhanger episode of Dallas had aired – a phenomenon repeated in nearly all major American cities. And they’d been deserted all over again on November 21st when the shooter’s identity had been revealed. Max hadn’t watched either episode, but he’d had the lowdown from virtually everyone he knew, as well as a constant barrage of newspaper headlines, magazine covers and TV reports wherever he went.

  “You can’t argue with the power of television,” Eldon grinned. “This series comes off it’ll be great for the city and great for us.”

Good for you, you mean, Max thought, but didn’t let it show in his face, giving Eldon a mild nod of approval.

  “Sure Eldon,” he said. “What’s this guy’s name?”

* * * *

“Justin Paley,” the film producer stood up and introduced himself with a hand extended in Joe’s direction. He’d been waiting for them downstairs in reception, black notebook in hand.

  Paley was in his mid to late thirties and stood slightly over six feet tall, but his was a strictly blow-away-in-the-breeze build, as if his skeleton had been put together with matchsticks. He was the sort of guy who coordinated his colours. His sharply-creased beige chinos matched his pastel yellow complexion; his maroon Lacoste polo shirt whose sleeves billowed around his long, thin arms, went with his polished leather loafers and the frames of the large square-framed glasses he wore, both exactly the same shade of maroon. His small brown eyes were magnified by the thick lenses so that they appeared to hover over and in front of his head like a pair of greasy bees, seemingly disengaged from the rest his face, which was as thin and pointy as a rodent drawn by a bored architect with ruler and pencil. Paley’s straight hair was the same shade as his eyes. It was cut short at the back and left semi-long at the front, so it fell over his forehead in bangs, which he’d parted in the middle. He wore a gold Rolex on his left wrist and a thick gold chain around his neck, which reminded Max of the kind of very expensive collar rich, misanthropic old women bought for the ugly dogs they named after dead husbands.

  “You must be Detective Mingus,” Paley said to Joe, in a voice which couldn’t have fitted his physique better – thin, reedy and slightly nasal.

Joe gave Max a slight look which Max acknowledged with the meagerest of nods, giving his partner the go-ahead to bullshit. It was an easy enough mistake to make and one people made regularly, but Max had already taken a dislike to Paley before meeting him, simply because they were having to waste their time sucking up to him on Eldon’s say-so. This meant that nothing the jerk could say or do short of pissing off out of their lives that instant would ever be right.

  “I must be,” Joe replied with a smile.

  “Betcha get asked this all the time, but are you related to Charles Mingus, the jazz musician?”

  “As a matter o’ fact I am,” Joe said. “He and my mom are second cousins. Uncle Ming, we used to call him.”

  Max had to cough and look away to stop himself from laughing.

  “Wow! That’s amazing!” Paley smiled broadly and holding it for a few seconds longer than seemed natural or normal, as if his lips had got stuck to the top of his gums – which, Max noticed, went very well with his shirt, glasses and loafers. His teeth were as white and straight as the best American dentistry could make them, but when he smiled Paley reminded Max of stuffed and mounted roadkill. “You know, when I saw you coming out of the elevator I thought I noticed a resemblance.”

  “You’re a sharp one. Observant,” Joe smiled. Charles Mingus - light-skinned, with a strong hint of the Orient about him – was about as close to the diametric physical opposite of Joe as you could get.

  Paley looked at Max.

  “And you must be Detective Liston?”

  “Right again,” Max deadpanned. “No relation to Sonny.”

  “Sonny …?”

  “Sonny Liston, the boxer,” Max said. “Guy who lost the world title to Ali.”

  “Oh …”

  “It was a joke,” Max prompted.

  “Right …,” Paley smiled his hold-fast smile again and nodded quickly, wiping his glasses. “I don’t know all that much about boxing – except for Marty’s movie, Raging Bull. You know it?”

  “Uh-uh,” Max shook his head.

  “Betcha saw Rocky though, right?”

  “Nope. Can’t say I did,” Max shook his head. “I follow boxers not actors,” Max had a hint of contempt in his voice.

  Now it was Joe’s turn to kill a laugh, which he did by feigning a loud sneeze. Max looked at his partner and saw Joe’s eyes tearing up from the suppressed mirth. Joe was either laughing at him or laughing at Paley or both, Max couldn’t decide.

  “You ok?” Paley asked, although his concern, Max could tell, was as phoney as Joe’s sneeze.

  “Tail end of a cold,” Joe said, sniffing for effect.

  “So, ur, how’s this gonna work?”

  “What we’re gonna do is you drive around some. Show you a few sights and – if we’re lucky – we might get to do some business,” Joe said jovially.

  “Business?”

  “Yeah, you know cop business. Arrest us some bad guys.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Good is what it is – after you”, Joe motioned Paley to the glass front door and they followed him out. Joe made a jerk-off sign behind the producer’s back and Max nodded and smirked.

* * * *

They took Macarthur Causeway to Miami Beach. It was a nice day, the bright morning sun boosting the shimmering blue of the ocean against the ashen concrete of the bridge.

  Joe drove. Paley sat in the back, grinning like a kid who’s been allowed to stay up late. Joe told Paley war stories about 100 mile an hour car chases across Macarthur and how the bridge was a popular spot for jumpers. Paley was writing everything down in his black notebook with a gold pen which went with his watch and necklace. When the details were to his liking he’d gasp an excited “Wow-yeah!” – which came out as “Wah-hair!”– or a curt “Neat!” – or, if they got particularly juicy (anything with coke and multiple homicides), he’d make a long low sound somewhere between a choked gurgle and a pleased moan, like he was getting the blowjob of his life and being strangled at the same time.

  Max said nothing whatsoever, left it all to Joe, glad he didn’t have to entertain this asshole.

  They had the radio on. Joe would stop in mid-tale whenever the dispatcher came on.

  “What’s QSM mean?” referring to the way the dispatcher started every call out.

  Quit Shooting Your Mouth, Max thought to say, but kept his peace.

  “It’s a code requesting a response from an available unit. So, what she just said – “QSM a unit to respond to 714 Northwest Eighteenth Street in reference to male stabbed” – means any car or cars in the vicinity go to this place. Then the car in the area will answer QSL, then give their car number and say they’re on their way.”

  “Neat!” Paley said as he scribbled, his pen making the sounds of rat paws scuttling back and forth across a ceiling.

  They went down to South Beach, which Joe told Paley was called God’s Waiting Room, on account of the majority of the population being over 60 or the kind of lowlifes who wouldn’t make it past 30.

  “God’s Waiting Room – Wah-hair!”

  Ocean Drive and Collins Avenue fascinated Paley, as Joe pointed out spots where epic gun battles had taken place or mutilated bodies had been found in parked cars. His pen scratched furiously, like a dog with stubborn tics, and his fellated hanged man noises got louder and more intense, embarrassing the two cops.

  Joe stopped right in front of Max’s building and gave Paley a long talk about how the once glorious and fashionable art deco hotels had all turned into near slums from the new Cuban intake, or doubled up as brothels, shooting galleries and squats. Max mouthed “fuck you” to Joe, who merely winked at him. Max had never seen Joe happier on the job.

  They rolled down James Avenue, past the derelict and boarded up Albion Hotel and into a strip of poverty, where failed cafes, cheap motels, used tire stores and scrap metal lots dominated either side of the street. They turned off at 18th Street and went down Washington Avenue, passing bars and clubs, Joe reeling out more stories about shoot outs between rival posses of cocaine cowboys that had happened right in the middle of the dancefloors, with the cops caught in between.

  “What kind of guns do you guys carry?” Paley asked.

  “Mine’s a .45 Colt M1911 automatic,” Joe said.

  “That work out for you ok?”

  “Sure,” Joe said. “I’d be happiest with a revolver though – a .357 Magnum or even a .38 Special – ‘cause they don’t jam and they’re next to always reliable – autos jam like crazy. But this is the Wild West out here and you need to get off fast rounds. We carry a couple of Ithaca pumps in the back, plus two M16s in case things gets real heavy”.

  “Has it?”

  “This is Miami, man,” Joe said. “There’s always a war on somewhere.”

  Paley let out a long and very satisfied moan at that and they heard him squirm in his seat before he grated some more in his book.

  “What about you, Detective Liston?” Paley asked Max. “What do you carry?”

  “9 Mil Sig Sauer P220,” Max mumbled.

  “A what?”

  Max repeated himself and spelled the name.

  “They ain’t that common here yet,” he added. “They’re Swiss-made. Double action, no safety, so once you pull it you’re good to go. It’s low recoil, very accurate and reliable. I regularly put 90% of a clip dead centre of a target.”

  “Where d’you get it?”

  “Company sent some over for us to try out,” Max lied. He’d kept two of the pistols on a raid of a Finnish arms dealer’s warehouse in 1978. The guns were brand new and still in their boxes. He kept the other one at home.

  “Can I see it?”

  “Askin’ a cop if you can see his gun is like askin’ a man to show you his dick,” Max said.

  “Come on, Liston, be a sport,” Joe grinned. “I do hold rank here.”

  “I’ll show him mine if you show him yours, Sarge,” Max said.

  “Deal.”

  Max took out the Sig and ejected the clip by pressing the release behind the well at the end of the handle. He passed it to Paley, who took the gun – which weighed well over a kilo – in the palm of his hand, admiring it.

  “Real neat!” he said, and wrote down some more notes.

  “So what’s this show of yours about?” Max asked when Paley handed him his piece back.

  “It’s not a show as such yet. It’s a pilot.”

  “Pilot?” Max asked.

  “Yeah, a pilot’s like a feature length episode that gets made ahead of a projected series. Sort of a trailer for the series. Introduces the characters, what they do, who they are, where they’re at. It gets aired, and if it does ok, a series gets commissioned.”

  “Like a TV movie then?”

  “Kind of, yeah, if you see it that way,” Paley said in a slightly condescending tone, which Max picked up on.

  “This pilot got a name?” Joe asked, passing Max his black Colt.

  “Yeah – Cap’n Crunch!” Max joked.

  Joe guffawed, more to let out a few hundred cubic metres of trapped laughter than because of Max’s witticism.

  Paley didn’t laugh at all.

  “I was thinking of 'Miami Homicide',” he said, coldly.

  “That’s real positive,” Max said, ejecting the clip and the spare round in the Colt’s chamber before passing it back to Paley.

  “Miami is Murder Capital USA, right now,” Paley remarked. “But this series isn’t just going to be about crime. I want to make it into a – a – a poem to Miami. I want to capture the city’s beauty – not just the cupcakes in bikinis either, but its cultural diversity, its – its – its ethnicky beat.”

  “Ethnicky beat?” Max turned around and looked at him. “The fuck is that?”

  “He means gunfire,” Joe laughed. “That’s the beat of the streets right now.”

  Paley didn’t reply. He was transfixed by Joe’s gun.

  “Wah-hair! Pearl handles! This is a real black man’s gun!” Paley said excitedly. Max turned around and saw the film producer virtually drooling over Joe’s black automatic and its mother of pearl grips, feeling its heft and damn well caressing the damn thing with the tip of his index finger, all the while filling the car with his curdled moan, lost in his own space. Joe watched Paley in his rear view mirror, his brow creasing with incredulity and hilarity.

  “If you’re gonna stereotype, you might as well get it right,” Joe said through his laugh. “Niggers and spics love their guns shiny – chrome, nickel and silver-plated. You get that down in you book now. Word for word.”

  Paley’s said nothing, didn’t seem to hear, so transfixed was he with Joe’s gun and whatever fantasies it was transporting him into.

  They got onto Dade Boulevard and made for the Venetian Causeway, and headed back towards Downtown Miami.

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