Yes, it’s coming into… focus. The mist is thinning. We’re in the middle of a deadly game of suspense and international intrigue… I see it all clearly now. There’s this James Bond character, a bit of a stiff in his tight-fitting dinner jacket, holding a vodka martini like a trophy, coolly surveying the baccarat table. There’s an assortment of murderous characters scattered around, grotesque people with stilettos and poisonous spiders. One has a hat with a razor-sharp brim, which he flings like a Frisbee. There are women, too, scantily clad, curvaceous, as immersed in the game as the men.
And me. I’m Pussy Galore. Poossy, James calls me, in his odd Welsh accent. “You’re a woman of many parts, Poossy,” he says.
But what’s James Bond without a locale? There must be an exotic scene, with dives, coral reefs, billionaire’s yachts, corrupt power brokers, alligators and sharks, haute cuisine, spas and pleasure palaces, colorful ethnic hangouts, and a million characters to fill in the background. A cast of millions.
The locale is Broward-Palm Beach, of course. Your Pussy G. has uncovered the best of everything in this stretch of the Florida subtropics:
A spa for men, with hot and cold running Scotch. An out-of-the-way roadside café with the best frozen custard in Florida. The real skinny on who’s the best coach around (it ain’t Riley). The best hamburger, the best hot dog, and the best place to hock Granddaddy’s watch. Where you should go for Italian food or Chinese take-out. The places that come alive when the sun goes down.
Pay attention now. The lights are dimming. A galloping guitar riff. A trumpet, yowling like a lonely street cat. A man with a gun. Danger. Excitement. My fevered dreams are coming to life.