Detective Sonny Crockett is tired. He scans the dismal room, having long ago traded in his sailboat for a one-room apartment on the industrial outskirts of Miami. He misses his Ferrari Daytona Spyder, he misses Gina, he misses his double life as a a drug runner and middleman, but most of all he misses his pet alligator Elvis. A neon light flickers in vain outside the window. Crockett closes his eyes. The brooding ghost of Edward James Olmos appears. “I’ve always tried to do what’s right,” he murmurs. “That’s the code I live by. Do you understand that?” Crockett nods. But truthfully, he doesn’t understand. He feels the full weight of five seasons of cynicism and futility and a nascent fear that gnaws away at the hem of his stained white Versace blazer. Why isn’t it 1986? Why did Miami Vice get cancelled? Where did all these earth tones come from? There are certain colors you are not allowed to shoot, such as red and brown. Michael Mann taught him this.
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