Miami Splice

"Forty years ago I was showing the same movies to these same folks," whispers Chris Dalton, the Shore's salty social director. "Back then we did it out by the pool, under the stars. The pools were all lit up like emeralds. We sold hot dogs and soda for a quarter. Nearly put the clubs outta business! The old-timers still love these pictures. The Jazz Singer. I always get that for the Jewish holidays. That's the one with Al Jolson singing 'Kol Nidre' A they love that." With the proliferation of VCRs and cable TV, few hoteliers bother with rented films nowadays, Dalton says.

"LAST REEL!" shouts Harriet Braelow, the Shore's social hostess. By the time a baby-faced Frank Sinatra croons "Moon River," half the crowd has departed, and most of those remaining have slumped into dreamland.

Toward the back, though, one gentleman has kept conspicuous vigil. He sings along with Judy Garland's syrupy "Look for the Silver Lining" in a soft tenor dampened with phlegm and a thick Yiddish accent. "Look fer de silvah linink," he warbles softly. Gradually, those still awake pick up the chorus, the projector's soft light bathing the speckled skulls and fading wigs.

What Marty Abrams wants to know is what's in it for him. He wants to know where all this interviewing is headed. He wants to know if anyone at the newspaper writes movies. This is a frequently sounded theme in Abrams's world, one that cuts to the core of his on-the-make persona. Money may be the trigger, but in this case it doesn't seem to be the target.

As he careens around his kitschy home and shuffles his papers and lays out his stories like a road show man's candy apples, one can't help but hear a certain kind of yearning. What does he want? Pride, maybe? Glory? The honor bestowed upon the legitimate?

No! What Abrams wants -- he insists over and over -- is a screenwriter. Somebody to commit this thing to film. Stories, he's got so many stories. Knock at his life and you can hear the echo of an empty reel case.

Mostly, he wants a sneak preview of the picture he's going to see when the final credits roll, the epic they say flashes before your eyes in those waning moments. He needs to know it's going to be a helluva film with plenty of action and drama and a real hero, not some chintzy, hacked up B-grade you wouldn't pay ten bucks for. Because Marty Abrams can tell you, folks, that's the last screening you get before you have to face the two saddest words in the world:

The End.