The humidity in Miami hangs heavy, like a wet velvet curtain, but with a cold drink in my hand and the smell of expensive tobacco in the air, I don't mind the sweat. I sit back, drawing a slow, deliberate pull from my cigarette, watching the chaos of the "Deep Throat" wrap party through a veil of smoke. It’s loud, it’s garish, and it smells like chlorine and ambition.

Beside me, Butchie is acting like he owns the Atlantic. He’s leaning forward, flagging down the waiter with that restless energy of his. "Hey! Oyster man," he barks, standing up just long enough to assert his space. "Yeah, come here. We gotta talk."

The waiter slides over, tray extended. "Oyster, sir?" Butchie doesn't wait. He snatches one up, settling back into his chair with a grin that’s all teeth. "Best oysters in Miami," he mutters, more to himself than anyone else. He reaches out, snagging Dolly by the waist and pulling her onto his lap. "Come here, Baby."

He holds the shell up like it’s a religious relic. "You know, these are a natural aphrodisiac, honey."

Dolly doesn't miss a beat, her cigarette smoldering between two fingers. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Butchie grins. "They make you horny."

"I’m always horny," she purrs.

Butchie lets out a raucous laugh, slurping the oyster down before leaning in to kiss her. I sit there, silent, the cool ash of my cigarette growing long. It’s a circus, and I’m the one who paid for the tent.

Suddenly, a shadow falls over the table. It’s the nuisance, Chuck Traynor, wearing that grin of his that never quite makes it past his teeth. He folds his arms over his chest, looking down at me. "No girl for you? I can fix that."

I feel the amusement ripple through me, though I keep my face a mask of calm. "No, thanks, Charlie," I say, my voice smooth as silk.

I call him Charlie on purpose. It’s a small thing, but it reminds him that he’s not important enough for me to get his name right. He flinches, just a tiny bit, but keeps that grin plastered on. He puts his hands on his hips, and calls out toward the edge of the pool where his wife is sitting with Harry Reems. "Hey, Linda!"

Linda stops talking to Harry and looks over.

"Why don’t you come sit on Mr. Romano’s lap?" Chuck yells, his voice dripping with that peculiar brand of ownership he favors.

Linda doesn't even hesitate, "I’m having an interesting conversation, Chuck. Why don’t you sit on his lap?"

Butchie, Dolly, even some of the crew nearby begin to snicker at Charlie’s expense. I find myself smiling, a genuine, quiet amusement. The kid’s got a spine; I like that.

Just then, Jerry comes bustling through the crowd, clutching reels of film in his hands like they're the Holy Grail. "All right, come on! Party’s moving up to my room!" He’s waving everyone toward the stairs. "Where you going?" He raises his eyebrows, "Up to my room, come on!"

The crowd starts to drift, a slow migration of loud voices heading for the stairs. I start to get up, but then I see you.

You’re at the far end of the pool, away from the cannonballing idiots and the screeching laughter. You’re sitting on the edge, dipping your toes in the water. You’re quiet. I like quiet.

"We were on our way up anyway," I say to Jerry, my eyes never leaving you. "Just give me a moment."

I walk toward you, my shoes clicking rhythmically against the concrete. I stop a few feet away, the moonlight and the neon from the motel sign catch the smoke from my cigarette.

"It’s a nice night," I say, my voice a low, resonant baritone that carries over the water without effort. I step closer, watching where your feet break the surface of the pool, and take one last pull of my cigarette before flicking it out onto the lawn.

"The party’s moving upstairs," I offer you a small smile, my tone turns warm, almost paternal, as I lean in. "It’ll be much more comfortable than sitting out here, and I think you’d find the company much more to your liking."

I slightly extend my hand out, a silent invitation. "Why don't you come upstairs with me?"