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Bayshore Dr. In its time there was nothing like it, and today it lives on in hindsight like the afterimage of a hallucination, bright but blurry.
The following is an excerpt of the volume, which can be purchased via the Penguin website. America in the late s and early '80s was in a pronounced funk : Inflation and unemployment were high; consumer sentiment was in the dumps. But so exceptional was Miami's cocaine economy that dopers were paying banks to accept suitcases full of cash while certificates of deposit were yielding 20 percent, on top of your choice of toaster or alarm clock. According to one study from Florida International University, at least one-third of the city's economic output was derived from narcotics at the time.
Burton Goldberg's Mutiny at Sailboat Bay was one of the country's most lucrative hotels, perennially overbooked and sending off armored trucks with sacks of its cash profits, albeit in the new murder-and-drug capital of America, a city that had been ravaged by race riots, gun killings, and the sudden arrival of , Cuban refugees, many of them sprung right from Fidel Castro's jails.
By the turn of the decade, the room hotel and club was a criminal free-trade zone of sorts where gangsters could both revel in Miami's danger and escape from it. They heard right: A suite at the hotel was converted into a giant walk-in cooler; beautiful women would ooh and ahh at tabletop cascades of bubbly in stacks of flutes; dopers bought bottles for the house when their loads came in; and management often flew out the Mutiny's private plane at the last minute to procure even more from other cities.
Internationally wanted hit men and mercenaries chilled at the Mutiny. Frequent visitors kept their guns tucked in the cushions, and cases of cash and cocaine in their suites. Bullets flew. Thugs were nabbed. Refugees snuck in. Cops were bribed. Dopers were recorded. Pilots were hired. Contracts were placed. Plots were hatched.
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You might recognize this backdrop as the Babylon Club in the movie Scarface , whose creators, Oliver Stone and Brian De Palma, stayed at the Mutiny and sought permission to film there. In Stone's screenplay, he accidentally referenced the Mutiny Club; stars Al Pacino, Steven Bauer, and other supporting cast checked in at the hotel. Miami Vice stars were also gravitationally pulled to the Mutiny.
Don Johnson partied there, and Philip Michael Thomas moved in with his family and insisted on parking his purple imitation Ferrari out front on the curb. The hit show's creators studied agents and kingpins at the Mutiny; one cooperating drug lord even finagled his way onto two episodes. The Miami of the Mutiny's heyday abounded with the surreal. Take that, energy crisis!
Area McDonald's restaurants were running out of their tiny spoon-tipped coffee stirrers — they were perfect, it turned out, for portioning and sniffing cocaine. Mutiny dopers wore bronzed ones around their necks to advertise how far they'd come. Burger King, meanwhile, loaned the overwhelmed county morgue a refrigerated truck. Bodies were turning up in gator-infested canals; in duffel bags alongside the Turnpike; bobbing out of drums, bins, and shopping carts in marinas along Biscayne Bay. Machine-gun fire rained over the parking lot of the city's busiest mall.
Right away! A private jet for jaunts to the islands, stocked with Mutiny girls, a five-man crew, and stone crab claws on dry ice? No sweat. Your machine guns, bullets, and silencers discreetly locked in a chest? Sin problema. Plus, a hostess would hide your piece in her skirt if the cops showed up, while another Mutiny girl was adept at clicking her stilettos against guys on the dance floor to check for ankle holsters. You owned a Pinto but drove home a Jag. No one in this hedonistic fantasyland knew or cared that the year-old small-time dealer Owen Band had an older brother working drug cases in the state prosecutor's office.
Few in this lair of high-school dropouts that was the Mutiny knew he was the salutatorian at Boston University, where he gave a speech titled "The Value of an Education":. We have seen countless examples today of unfulfilled lives devoid of ethics and an understanding of basic moral principles. We are surrounded and led by men with encyclopedic knowledge, but without a capacity to tell right from wrong.
So how in the world could a nice Jewish salutatorian end up dealing and debauching at the Mutiny? This is the long and short of it: So big and sprawling was Muchachos Corp. Rewind to Band thought he'd be giving his BU commencement address with an acceptance letter to Harvard Law School in tow. So confident was he of getting in that it was the only program he applied to, having spent hours across the river in Cambridge buttonholing professors and deans about his application.
He even had a recommendation from his internship for Florida Gov. Bob Graham, an antidrug crusader. But when Band was wait-listed by Harvard, he suffered an attack of Crohn's disease and had a nervous breakdown. He ended up depressed and back at his parents' house in North Miami Beach. Band's parents, always doting on his older brother, an assistant state prosecutor in Miami, pushed the graduate to get out of the house and look for work. He settled on a bartending gig at a downtown Miami discotheque, where exile gangsters would tip him in hundred-dollar bills and pinches of quality Peruvian cocaine.
About the first time he tried blow, Band recalled: "I took the guy's hundred-dollar bill, bent over, and inhaled deeply. Immediately, my head snapped back, and I felt a rush — like all my senses were heightened. First, the stuff smelled like bubblegum. But then he couldn't feel his nose, and his heart felt like it was going to bore a hole out of his chest. Band saw his bright-red face reflected in the table's glass layer. The soundtrack to Saturday Night Fever blasted in the background, and he could discern the smallest notes. The agony of getting hosed by Harvard Law and having a nervous breakdown dissolved into irrevelevance.
In , when the disco was shut down in a cocaine sting operation, Band went to the Mutiny to catch up with former co-workers who had just been hired there. He saw Fernando Puig, the club's gargantuan head of security, handling a Colt.
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Band ordered a drink and took in the scene. The bartender pointed out Deep Throat star Linda Lovelace, a porn legend who shot most of her famous scenes a few blocks away. He traded glances with the "Cutler Coot," who was sitting by himself, dressed in jeans and a black Members Only jacket. The tall, lanky man's idea of a combover was tying up what was left of his longish hair in a bun. One of Band's former co-workers, now a Mutiny hostess, filled him in. The Coot, she explained, "was like a godfather" to the girls who worked at the Mutiny. He always had coke and always hugged and kissed on both cheeks.
He was a historical figure — something about Kennedy and Castro — and was enough of a big deal at the club that he somehow never, ever paid for anything. Had Owen Band researched a bit more about the Coot, he would have learned that the guy was one of the last Bay of Pigs prisoners sprung by Fidel Castro. He took a bayonet to the shoulder while attempting to fight his jailers. After John F. Kennedy was killed in , the exile showed up in New Orleans, claiming to want to help prosecutor Jim Garrison, the assassination's chief investigator, with his case.
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The Coot, invoking his patriotic duty, insisted he was so well sourced in both worlds that he would be an invaluable asset for Garrison. The prosecutor agreed to the exile's offer, only to cut ties with the Coot when he realized he was depleting his budget with dead leads and unreliable information — and probably reporting back to his handlers in the CIA.
In , the Coot was ordered to appear before the House Select Committee on Assassinations but was not questioned about the period leading up to Kennedy's death. The CIA instructed the committee on what it could and could not ask him. At the Mutiny, Band walked over to the older man's table. They made small talk and Band told him about his unconventional route back down to Miami from New England's ivory tower.
He dropped the names of exiles who used to party with him at his old job; the Coot said they had fought together at the Bay of Pigs. And he said he didn't just want to ' give it away to all the girls with long pinkie nails. The Coot invited Band upstairs.
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In the elevator, he admitted he hadn't paid a cent for his dinner. No, he had "bartered" his quality blow with Chef Manny in the kitchen, who was happy to grill him up anything he craved, from a huge steak to lobster tails to any fish he could think of. They entered the Mutiny's expansive Emerald Isle Room, overlooking the bay. The Coot, it turned out, had also traded cocaine for the keys the weeknight front desk guy had a nose for it. Band and the Coot took a toot together.
It was powerful, mind-fucking stuff, the kind that made you feel immortal and indefatigable.
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Said Band: "I had never tried anything like it. I didn't even know it could be that good.
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He made some calls — "Hey, Mandy, what you doing? You down to party? Yeah, bring her too. No, she doesn't have to be a member. I'll leave your name at the front" — and what ensued was an Emerald Isle all-nighter with five girls. The Coot, the lapsed honor student, and coke whores multitasked, snorting lines, drinking champagne, and boinking one another.
On the bed.