I wrote Miami Red for the Vice Noir anthology. It was not accepted, but I loved writing the story. It’s a very rare story for me, placed in a time in living memory of both myself and the readers I market to. That required a lot of research because I wasn’t creating new vehicles, weapons, or locations. Everything was in a world that people remember, even if it is colored by Ray-Bans, bright suits, neon lights, and synthetic mood music. So I did the research, I talked to friends, and then I went to town. Literally.
Here is Captain William Carter, Texas Ranger, fighting a new kind of monster in the neon Miami of 1988.
1988, September 25
Florida
Near Miami
Miami Red
The silver BMW weaved through the blur of headlights and taillights on highway 41 as it shook the mud of the deep dark Florida Everglades off its fenders. It passed the other traffic like a wraith on its way towards the neon glow lighting the horizon on twelve cylinders of luxurious power that made no sound inside the cabin. No honking or screaming from flapping lips violated its occupants’ sanctity.
Captain William Carter of the Texas Rangers sat in the back, listening only to the strident tones of Pat Benatar singing of innocence, conviction, and sacrifice from the car’s radio. It was a hard song. A fitting song. Tonight he felt it harder than normal. Tonight he recognized the darkness festering under Miami’s neon lights.
“What’s on your mind, boss?”
Concern filled the glinting green eyes and short bright red hair in the rearview mirror. The driver knew exactly what they’d found out in the Everglades. She knew what it meant.
“Sarah?”
“Yeah, boss?”
“Mind the road.”
“I’m minding it, boss.” Her eyes flickered to the mirror for a split second before returning to the road as she passed another car like it was standing still.
Bill looked down from the mirror to check the car phone display. Nothing. Still no cellular network. They were still too far outside Miami to coordinate with the local police, and now he knew that wasn’t an option anyways. Texas had sent them to help the locals nail the local drug networks down but now they had proof it wasn’t incompetence. It was corruption, and the clock was ticking before the corrupted realized the help knew what was going on. Their information had a lifetime attached to it and it was running out fast. And that meant one thing. He winced.
“Sarah?”
“Yeah, boss?”
“Punch it.”
Her lips parted, an ecstatic smile lit the mirror, and her eyes glinted with pure pleasure. “You say the nicest things, boss.”
Her eyes returned to the road and her baby’s twelve cylinders let out a low growl. The BMW surged forward in a prodigious ground-devouring pace that turned the rest of the traffic into nothing but brightly colored blurs on the path to the magic city.
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