(rising to the bait)

They love to talk about South Beach.Disco bars with metal palm-frond shingles,roller-skating Cubano Chiquitas in thongs,gay pool-boys sashaying out of Panama Jack's wearing canary-yellow short-shorts,Columbian Snow-Kings in silver Excalibres double-parked outside Starbucks.That's not my Miami.Find me in North Beach,in the ramshackle file of pink-green pastel motels along A1A,somewhere between the Jai-alai Courts and the Greyhound Track.In particular,look for me at Caligula's,Sol Lowenstein's Lap Dance Emporium on Monterey Avenue,where drinks (at least for yours truly) are free and the girls are friendly,especially Brenda,the skinny little blonde with the scientifically enhanced hooters.She's a nice kid,country gal really. Left Waycross Georgia in '93 to make it in Miami as a blues singer,but she fell into the street until Sol took her in.

I pushed open the door to Caligula's,leaving the heat and brightness of South Florida behind me.Inside,it was nearly as black as a coal mine,but illuminated here and there by pools of red and blue light,and overlayed by a web of Coltrane unrolling from the ceiling speakers.

"Blake! Long time no hear from." It was Simon,the friendly and efficient Jamaican bartender.In no time he had a glass of Rocks and Roses on the bar for me.I made my way to Brenda's stage and sat down.She had the show face on,looking at the suckers,not seeing them.Then she smiled and her blue eyes widened."Madison" she said,demonstrating the amazing flexibility of her spine by bending backward until she was looking at me from between her knees.Maybe she knew about this Mudcat guy.Most of the Florida Fatcats found their way to Caligula's and to Brenda.Then again,maybe she didn't.Either way,I had a free whiskey and an hour to kill.