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Miami, Florida—1986
The morning’s air was hot and slimy-damp and thick. A hard, sticky wind blew in off the
Atlantic. Down at the waterfront the warehouse was a scene of confusion, and that confusion was scattered and colored the scene in every direction.
Furious orange and red flames poured through exploding windows, mixing with thick and
greasy, toxic smoke. Shards of glass flew in every direction at once, like a deadly web. The
stench and plumes of thicker smoke engulfed some idling semi-trucks. Gasoline and diesel oil
fires burned everywhere, commingled with random explosions from every corner. Helicopters
filled the air, adding an intimidating noise to the chaos and a palpable thump felt in the chest,
even from a sidewalk a half mile away.
From a safe distance, breathless reporters standing outside news vans screamed events as
they unfolded and jammed microphones in the faces of bystanders and anyone who walked past them on the sidewalk, while camera crews filmed and recorded the cacophony.
The world watched on TV, transfixed.
If you took a step back from the chaos and carnage, it all looked almost staged.
On a corner, to the north side of the red brick building, stood an assembly of local cops,
FBI, DEA and some federal agents in plainclothes. Out of a door, a flash of blue uniforms and a
hurried band of handcuffed men ran out the door and into waiting vans. One of the men was the notorious New York mobster, Vinny Gentile.
It was always quite a spectacle when the US Government decided to seize the moral
higher ground.
