The Party

Vice City Let's Play Contents:
In the Beginning, Parts I and II
Mood Music: Unaesta, "La Vida Es Una Lenteja".
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It’s been a nice week. Rosenberg gave me a set of keys to a car -- “The Oceanic parked outside your hotel? Ring a bell?” Apparently Forelli arranged for some wheels for Harry and I before we got here. It’s not the best-looking car I’ve seen in Vice, but god knows there are worse.



I’ve hit the beaches, done a little swimming, played volleyball, watched women, and generally taken it easy.




Some guys were racing little robot cars on the beach, and I won a little money betting on the races.



These same guys also race RC planes near the Washington Mall --  I bet there, too.



 I also found a shotgun in a lifeguard stand, which is convenient, given that I’m probably going to need firepower in the coming days.

I didn’t spend the entire weekend slacking off, though: I also got some work done. The hotel room is being paid for by Forelli, and the sooner I start footing my own bill the better -- so I “borrowed” a taxi from a cabbie and started taking fares. Not only did I earn a little spending money -- and since I’m not giving any of that to the company, it’s all mine -- but I learned my way around the city a little.




I also delivered pizzas, which was a laugh -- not.  I try to keep in touch with Rosenberg, but he doesn’t answer the phone at first. I guess he figures it’s Sonny, calling to theaten to kill him or something like that. I have no idea why someone this panicky got involved with the Mafia. Jesus, we’re not pleasant people. I drop by his place before the party to tell him I’m about to go see this colonel of his, but he balks at my clothes.

“Hey, buddy, I liked 1974, too --but this ain’t gonna be a beer and strippers ‘do!”.  So, on his advice -- and on his dime -- I stopped by a nearby clothes store called Rafaels to buy a suit.  Now I look like a schmuck, but on the bright side everyone else does as well. People have lost their minds since ‘71.




I find the Marina easily, thanks to the cabbying, and pull in as the sun sets.






I introduce myself to the Colonel. I’m pensive about meeting the guy, actually. He set up the deal, so he could have easily set up the ambush.




From the looks of this yacht, he’s certainly got the money.  Of course, Forelli wouldn’t be too happy about it, but maybe this guy’s got resources Forelli doesn’t.

 He tells me that what happened was “unfortunate” -- no, seriously? -- and then introduces me to his daughter, who shows me around while her dad chats people up. Her name’s Mercedes, and I can tell just from looking at her that she’s dangerous in a good way.




The list of names she rattles off mostly goes in one ear and out the other, but when a little Napoleon swaggers in from downstairs and the atmosphere of the entire deck changes -- everyone moving out of his way if they’re not pandering to him -- I pay attention. “Who’s the loudmouth?” I ask.




“That’s Ricardo Diaz,” she says, “Mister Coke.”  He starts hitting on her, and we beat a hasty retreat. “Take me to the Pole Position?” she asks, referring to some club in town.

“How about a tour first? Mind showing me around?” She doesn’t.
“Mind if I rest my hand in your lap?” I don’t.  We don’t take my Oceanic -- she produces keys to a blue Cheetah parked nearby. “It’s Gonazales’,” she says. “Let’s borrow it.”

Apparently his work hasn’t been satisfactory to her dad, so the Colonel arranged for her to take a joyride in the guy’s car if she wanted. “Don’t be afraid to ding it up a little bit,” she says, giggling. Jesus, remind me not to get on this Cortez’ bad side.




She shows me the town’s party sites, chiefly the club Malibu. We cross the Prawn Island bridges to go downtown, “accidentally” scraping alongside cement barriers as much as we can.  The car is smoking by the time we return to the North Point Mall, leaving it in an area frequented by hoodlums who wouldn’t hesitate to take it for parts.

We walk a few blocks to a friend of hers and she borrows his bike for the drive back across town. I soon learned that Mercedes was not only dangerous, but wild. She goaded me into stunting with the bike, which is a bad idea given I haven’t ridden since before prison.




I made five or six jumps along the way, listening to her scream  every time. We’d been out the entire night, and the sun was coming up by the time I took her to the club. I don’t think she minded.

Nice night.