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Last
week
an
editor
from
Us
Weekly
called
us
here
at
The
Express.
The
magazine
needed
someone
in
Miami
to
work
as
a
“stringer,”
a
local
lackey
to
snoop
around
and
gather
info
for
a
story.
It
seemed
simple
enough:
ask
a
few
questions,
maybe
obtain
a
quote
or
two.
The
story
in
question:
Alex
Rodriguez
and
his
wife
are
getting
a
divorce.
His
wife
went
to
Paris
to
stay
with
Lenny
Kravitz.
And
A-Rod
is
spotted
all
over
the
place
with
Madonna.
Celebrities
travel
in
packs,
apparently.
The
catch:
A-Rod
is
the
highest
paid
baseball
player
in
the
league,
worth
hundreds
of
millions
of
dollars,
and
due
to
some
glitch
in
the
pre-nup
his
wife
could
pull
a
Heather
Mills
and
take
half
of
what
he’s
worth.
As
I
haven’t
seen
a
baseball
game
since
my
brother
played
in
high
school,
it
goes
without
saying
I
had
no
idea
who
A-Rod
was.
Although
I
am
familiar
with
Madonna,
so
that
was
a
start.
Within
hours,
I
was
presented
with
a
long
list
of
individuals
to
contact:
addresses
for
A-Rod’s
house
in
Miami,
his
wife’s
brother
and
sister,
his
physical
trainer,
various
friends;
phone
numbers,
personal
information,
restaurants
where
A-Rod
liked
to
eat,
it
was
all
there.
So
I
asked
a
friend—who
wishes
to
remain
nameless—to
accompany
me
as
my
secret
weapon.
She
speaks
Spanish
fluently,
which
is
key
when
knocking
on
doors
in
Miami;
she
has
a
great
body,
which
is
key
when
dealing
with
heterosexual
men
in
Miami;
and
she
has
a
cell
phone,
with
which
to
call
the
police
in
the
event
I
got
punched
in
the
face
whilst
I
bothered
the
residents
of
Miami.
We
decided
to
start
at
the
home
of
A-Rod’s
(rumored)
girlfriend,
a
stripper
who
had
been
seen
in
public
with
him
on
numerous
occasions.
Her
apartment
was
in
Coconut
Grove,
so
even
if
we
didn’t
get
her,
there
were
stores
in
her
neighborhood
where
we
could
ask
for
leads.
We
stood
in
front
of
her
building
for
20
minutes,
hearts
pounding,
nervously
debating
whether
we
should
ring
the
bell.
This
was
insane,
knocking
on
strangers’
doors.
But
our
problem
was
solved
for
us:
it
turns
out
she
had
just
moved,
days
before.
Dang.
But
why
so
suddenly?
And
who
was
paying
for
that
apartment,
anyway?
The
building
is
all
condos,
and
would
probably
require
extensive
background
checks
before
moving
in.
We
couldn’t
believe
they
would
rent
to
someone
who
worked
as
a
stripper.
Hmm.
It
should
be
noted
the
apartment
is,
oh,
approximately
a
five-minute
drive
from
A-Rod’s
house.
Seriously,
you
could
walk
there.
That’s
a
little
gross.
Our
nerves
steeled
by
our
moral
judgment
of
A-Rod
(presumably)
shacking
up
his
girlfriend
so
close
to
his
own
home,
we
headed
out
on
our
fact-finding
mission.
Starbucks
employees
told
us
when
the
girlfriend
came
in
and
what
she
liked
to
drink;
Victoria’s
Secret
sales
associates
told
us
what
A-Rod
had
purchased
when
he
shopped
there.
(But
for
whom?)
We
even
got
a
neighbor
to
dish
a
lot
of
dirt.
Fueled
by
our
successes,
we
snuck
past
the
gates
of
Cocoplum,
but
no
one
was
home
at
A-Rod’s
house.
So
I
jammed
my
camera
under
their
security
gate
and
took
a
picture.
It’s
a
nice
place,
I’ll
show
you
the
photo
if
you
want
to
see
it.
At
the
end
of
the
day
we
raced
south,
past
Pinecrest,
where
we
had
one
more
stop:
the
home
of
their
physical
trainer,
some
guy
named
Dodd
Romero.
He
had
made
several
damning
statements
to
the
media
about
A-Rod,
which
were
presumably
orchestrated
by
the
wife;
that
way,
she
is
never
quoted
in
the
press
saying
anything
negative.
If
she
did,
she
wouldn’t
get
as
much
in
the
divorce.
The
Us
Weekly
editors
wanted
that
guy
to
talk,
but
alas,
he
also
lived
in
a
gated
community.
So
I
parked
across
the
street,
waited
for
the
city
bus
to
drop
off
some
residents
at
the
nearby
stop,
and
I
walked
in
with
them,
blending
in
with
the
group.
Success.
But
as
I
walked
toward
his
house,
a
very
large,
scary-looking
man
in
a
grey
car
spotted
me—and
began
following
me,
as
I
turned
right,
turned
left,
navigating
my
way
through
the
streets.
I
was
clearly
trespassing;
this
guy
was
clearly
a
body
guard
of
some
sort,
clearly
hired
by
A-Rod’s
wife
to
protect
the
trainer.
So
I
pulled
out
my
...
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