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Languid waves lap at rocks and sand along the causeway. Nearby, teal neon, shining from across an expanse of white beach reflects in the quicksilver of Nova's Ray-bans, screams: "dancers."

The gold on his wrist swings from side to side, metal detector scanning., seeking... what... a clue? No. D.I.G. deeper. Back six months through a red curtain, framed by palm fronds. It pulls aside, an entrance, a doorman. More neon, mirrors, always. A sign: Miembros del Club Sociale Solamente. Smoke hangs in the air and the dance floor sweats out all the troubles of the day.

It wasn't the first time he'd drowned in these sounds of the Miami night. Heavy rhythm: a certain, immutable swing. The high stabs of the triangle ring out. Timbales clap like the hooves of a white horse, past the girls on their platforms, over a steaming expanse of white dance floor. The sound of glasses breaking by the chrome-ringed bar.

That night was the last time he saw her. Now nothing remained, save the memory of four carats falling into the sea's ankle-deep foam, her white dress, receding into the blackness . Nothing to remember, but the sound of Miami night....
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