Boca Daze

by Steven M. Forman

  “Because I love you and you love me,” he said. “We can take care of each other. It will be great.”

  “My stump is repulsive.”

  “Your stump is incredibly sexy,” he said with a sly smile. “It’s kinda kinky.”

  “You’re an idiot,” she scolded him, and almost smiled. “It’s ugly.”

  “Nothing about you is ugly,” he insisted. “I think you’re the most beautiful woman in the world. Will you marry me, Joy Feely?”

  She reached for him with both arms. She was crying. “Yes, I’ll marry you, Lou Dewey.”

  I called Claudette from outside the hospital.

  She answered the phone without saying hello. “If you’re not calling to say you miss me and want me by your side, I’m going to be very upset.”

  “I miss you. But it’s too dangerous to be by my side right now.”

  “Are you forgetting I cut a man’s head off with a machete before I left Haiti?”

  “You have my permission to cut off Benjamin Grover’s head.”

  “I’m serious,” she said. “I want to help you.”

  “And I want to protect you.”

  “I can take care of myself,” she insisted.

  “That’s what Lou Dewey said just before his ass caught on fire.”

  “No one’s going to set my ass on fire except you.”

  “My point exactly,” I told her. “And the safest place for your ass right now is at your grandmother Queen’s house. No one’s going to infiltrate Osceola Park.”

  “You’re right about that. Queen has mobilized the entire neighborhood,” Claudette said. Queen was Claudette’s maternal grandmother from the black side of the family. She was ninety-something years old, and she loved me.

  “Good. So Queen agrees with me.”

  “She always agrees with you,” Claudette said.

  “Did she tell you to listen to your cute, little white boy?”

  “You know she did.”

  “Take her advice,” I said.

  “But I want to help you.”

  “You are helping by letting me do what I do best without having to worry about you.”

  “You’re just saying that.”

  I could visualize her pouting. “I’m saying that because I love you.”

  I heard her sniffle. “I love you, too. If you die out there, I’ll kill you.”

  “I’ll try to stay alive.”

  “You better. How are you feeling?”

  “I’m a little tired, and my behavior is totally erratic,” I said. “Yesterday I fired my Colt in the direction of the golf course. Fortunately, I didn’t hit anything, but I scared the shit out of four golfers.”

  “Did they give you a mulligan?”

  I laughed.

  “What about the red spots?”

  “It’s a red veil, and it’s always there,” I said. “But it’s not like IED. I don’t explode and forget what I did afterward. I’m on edge all the time, constantly on alert. I just don’t know what the hell I’m going to do next.”

  “You need a doctor.”

  “When this is over, I’ll see one,” I promised.

  “How are Lou and Joy?”

  “They came off the critical list today.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me right away?” she said, raising her voice.

  “You didn’t give me a chance.”

  “Can I visit them?”

  “Not yet. I have two guards posted outside their rooms. I’m not satisfied the danger is over.”

  “How’s Joy handling things?”

  “She’s very happy,” I said.

  “How can she be happy? She lost a leg.”

  “Lou asked her to marry him. He said prostheses turn him on.”

  Claudette was silent for a moment, then said, “I love that man.”

  “He’s special. Even though he almost got us killed.”

  “He got carried away,” she said, defending him.

  “We all got carried away.”

  “What are you going to do next?”

  “I’m haven’t figured that out yet,” I admitted.

  “You better call me and let me know, or I’ll come looking for you.”

  “I promise,” I said to my lover and best friend.

  I went back to the intensive care ward and arranged for Lou to be moved into the same room with Joy with the consent of their doctor. I put both cops outside their door. “Be careful,” I told them. “Either nothing is going to happen, or all hell is going to break loose.”

  When I was ready to leave, Lou and Joy were in adjacent beds, holding hands.

  I kissed Joy goodbye and told Lou he was too ugly to kiss.

  “Lou and I want you to be our best man at our wedding,” Joy said.

  “Since there’s no one more qualified … I accept.”

  “We’re going to ask Claudette to be the matron of honor,” Joy said. “But don’t tell her. I want to ask her myself.”

  “I know she’ll be an honored matron,” I said.

  What now? I asked myself, sitting in the rental car, outside the hospital. The fight at Rutherford had proven I wasn’t in fighting condition and should lie low for a couple of weeks. All my cases were stable. Weary Willie wasn’t going anywhere; Bailey was self-sufficient; Gino, Tony, and Father Vincent could wait; Doc was being patient, and Lou and Joy were protected. I was the most vulnerable, so the best move for me was to get out of town and rest. But where should I go? I couldn’t just sit around doing nothing for two weeks. I went for a drive to think things over. Within minutes, I had a plan. I went to the body shop and picked up the Mini, which wasn’t cosmetically ready but was safe to drive again. I was advised not to take it, but I explained I was going on a trip and felt most comfortable in my own car.

  I got on Florida’s Turnpike north to Orlando for 230 miles and merged onto I-75 North for another 107 miles. A hundred miles more and I saw signs for Tallahassee. According to the nurses at Boca Hospital, the state legislature in Tallahassee was in session for six weeks. The police I met during the raid on the No Pain-U-Gain clinic told me the state legislature could change laws governing pill mills. I went to Tallahassee for RR&R … Rest, Relaxation, and Research.

  It was early evening when I checked into the Studio Deluxe Motel a few miles from downtown Tallahassee. The room was neat and clean, with a mini-kitchen. I flopped on the bed and put my hands behind my head and considered my situation.

  I knew no one in Tallahassee. I didn’t know what Florida district I lived in or the name of my state senator or representative. I didn’t have a change of clothes, a toothbrush, or a razor. I was hungry. I had a Visa and a MasterCard. No problem.

  The man at the reception desk gave me directions to the nearest Wal-Mart. I bought shirts, pants, and underwear for the next two weeks. I asked a Wal-Mart associate if there was a restaurant or bar where the legislators hung out after a daily session.

  “That would be the State House Steak House, not far from here,” the octogenarian said, and he gave me directions.

  I found the restaurant easily. It was the kind of establishment I avoided in Boca - dimly lit, rich, dark paneling, and big-time prices. The elegant dining room was empty. The manager told me they served food in the Legislature Lounge and pointed the way. The high-top tables and low-slung booths were unoccupied, and only one person sat at the far end of the bar. I took a stool at the opposite end and nodded to the solitary bartender, whose name was William according to his name tag. I ordered a burger and a Coke and looked around. Pictures of Florida State athletic teams were on the walls, and one large, signed photo of an older man in a maroon baseball cap.

  “Who’s that?” I pointed.

  “Bobby Bowden,” William said, punching my order into the computerized cash register. “Head coach of the Seminoles for thirty years.”

  “Best damn coach in the history of college football,” the other patron in the bar said.

  “Right you are, Mick,” William responded, putt
ing my Coke in front of me.

  “Why is it so quiet here?” I asked. “Isn’t the legislature in session?”

  “Yeah, we’re normally very busy at this hour,” William said. “Tonight the crowd of legislators got here early and left early. Don’t know why.”

  “I can tell you,” the only other person at the bar said. “The legislature began a discussion at the end of the day on breastfeeding in public and decided to sleep on it.”

  William and I laughed.

  “Mick’s a journalist from Key West,” William told me. “He knows everything about Florida politics. He returns here on the first Tuesday following the first Monday of every March when the legislature convenes. He’s like a migrating duck.”

  “Quack,” Mick said.

  “Another Jameson’s?” William asked.

  “Of course,” Mick said. “My glass is half-empty.”

  “It’s half-full,” I said, working my way into the conversation.

  “Spoken like a man who gets free Coke refills.” Mick smiled good-naturedly. “I have to pay for each Jameson’s … except when William feels charitable.”

  “I’ll buy you a Jameson’s if you tell me what a Jameson’s is,” I offered.

  Mick beamed. He stood and approached me, glass in hand. “You don’t have to buy me a drink,” he said with a smile. “I just like to joke with William.”

  Mick was a good-looking man, ruddy-faced, slightly taller than average with an athletic build. He had a full red beard and long red hair that looked like it was cut by a friend at a barber school. His clothes indicated that he’d rather be sailing.

  “Jameson’s is a good, affordable Irish whiskey,” he told me, never losing his smile. “John Jameson started producing his whiskey in 1780 at the Bow Street Brewery in Dublin. Now it’s made in Cork. The recipe calls for two kinds of barley, one malted … one not. The brew is cooked in a ‘pure pot’ still, which gives it a smooth, sweet taste.”

  “You’ve sold me,” I said. “Make that two Jameson’s, William.”

  “I don’t want to corrupt your morals,” Mick said.

  “I was drinking whiskey before you were born. I just never made it a habit.”

  “No one’s perfect,” Mick said.

  We clinked our glasses and took a sip.

  Not bad.

  “Liam Michael Murphy,” he introduced himself and held out his hand. “My friends call me Mick. Those who know me best call me Mad Mick.”

  “Eddie Perlmutter,” I said as we shook hands.

  His eyes grew wide. “Were you a cop in Boston?”

  I nodded.

  “I’ll be damned. I wrote about you a hundred years ago. I’m from Boston originally … Southie.” Mick referred to the Irish enclave of South Boston. “I graduated BC and Harvard School of Journalism and became a freelance journalist in the late seventies. In the eighties, I was hired to write an article about famous Boston criminals of the sixties and seventies. I included you in my story.”

  “Why?”

  “I wrote about the Emperor of Chinatown, Danny Dong.”

  “That miserable son of a bitch,” I grumbled at the memory of the drug-dealing cop-killer. “Did you write how I shot him between the eyes while he was holding a knife to a prostitute’s throat?”

  William took one step back and a second look at me.

  “I did,” Mick said. “You were twenty feet away. It was a great shot. Any regrets?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry I didn’t shoot him in the balls first.” I gulped my Jameson’s and slammed my glass down on the bar. Mick did the same.

  “Fuck Danny Dong,” I said.

  “Damn right,” Mick said.

  “Two more,” I told William.

  “Damn right,” Mick said again. “I’ll buy.”

  “If you insist.”

  “I don’t insist, but it’s my turn.”

  “I’ll get the next one,” I said.

  “I was counting on that.”

  “Who else did you write about?” I asked.

  “The Winter Hill Gang-”

  “Whitey Bulger, Howie Winter,” I interrupted, feeling a whiskey buzz. “I knew those guys.”

  “I know you did. I wrote about the hoods at the Tap Royal bar in Somerville, Raymond Patriarca in Providence, Joe McDonald from Southie, and that MDC cop Russell Nicholson, who turned gangster.”

  “I knew him, too, that sneaky bastard. What about Wimpy Bennett?”

  “Sure and his brothers, Willie and Walter,” Mad Mick said with a twinkle in his eye. He was enjoying the memories. “I wrote about the McLaughlin brothers, Vinnie, the Animal, Barboza, Fat Tony Ciulla, Kevin Weeks, Jerry Angiulo, Doc Hurwitz.”

  “Was I the only cop you wrote about?” I asked, not mentioning my recent connection to Doc.

  “No, but you were the most colorful.”

  We gulped our drinks, and I ordered two more. I don’t know why. I was already buzzing like a hornets’ nest. My burger arrived just in time to save me from oblivion.

  “What have you been doing with your life since Boston, Mick?” I asked him, chewing on a mouthful of fries.

  “Enjoying it and following my muse. I was in Central America for a few years covering the civil wars. I decided I didn’t like the contras much so I did my fighting with my typewriter and had to get the hell out of there while I could. Back in the States, I got a job covering the drug wars in Tijuana and lived in Redondo Beach, California, for a while.”

  “Sounds like an exciting life.”

  “It was until someone close to me got killed, and I dropped out of the fast lane,” Mick said sadly. “I took my forty-foot sloop, the Fenian Bastard, and sailed into the sunset with an adventurous friend of mine who needed a ride to Panama. We took three months to get there.”

  “Seems like a long time to be at sea.”

  “When you’re mourning, you lose track of time. Plus we made plenty of stops along the way: Mexico, El Salvador, and some really small islands. When we got to the Caribbean side of the canal, my friend got off in Panama and I went on to the Antilles.”

  “What are the Antilles? I’m geographically challenged.”

  “They’re a series of islands,” he told me. “Some are big, like Cuba, Hispaniola, Jamaica, and Puerto Rico. Some are small, like Anguilla, Antigua, Aruba, and Grenada.

  “Didn’t the US invade Granada?”

  “Yeah, I missed that one,” he said, smiling. “I spent a full year sailing those waters, and when mourning turned to loneliness, I docked in Key West and never left. And here I am in Tallahassee on assignment. What about you? I read about the Boca Knight stuff. What brings you to this city?”

  I told him about my detective agency and my pill mill case with Doc.

  “Didn’t Hurwitz burn down Suffolk Downs in the eighties?”

  I nodded.

  “I remember he had a daughter,” Mick said.

  “She disappeared.”

  “Probably drugs, if I remember her correctly. Too bad.”

  “Too bad about all the children who get involved with this shit,” I said.

  “So let me get this straight. You drove up here from Boca not knowing anyone in state government or anything about state government and figure you’d work it out when you got here.”

  “That’s it,” I said, feeling pretty dumb. “I don’t even know the name of the representative from Boca.”

  Mick closed his eyes and thought. “District Ninety,” he said, opening his eyes again. “Representative Liz Frem, second term.”

  “Do you know all their names?” I asked, impressed and woozy.

  “Most of them. It’s my job.”

  “Could you introduce me to someone who might be able to help me?”

  “Do you pay well?” he asked, downing half his drink.

  “No.”

  “How much are you offering?”

  “Nothing.”

  “If you’re prepared to double that offer, I’ll take it,” Mick said.

 
“It’s a deal.”

  “On one condition.”

  “What?”

  “You guarantee me an exclusive on the pill mill story when it’s done,” he said.

  I thought it was a reasonable request, so I said, “No.”

  “Come on.” He finished his Jameson’s and ordered another. “It’s a reasonable request.”

  “It is. But I give all my stuff to a newspaper friend of mine in Boca. I’m very loyal that way.”

  “I respect that, but I’m talking about a magazine article … not a news report. Your friend can get the news story for his paper first, and I get the sexy details for my magazines a month later. I could collaborate with your friend.”

  “What if I say no?”

  “I’ll help you anyway.”

  “In that case, I’ll say yes. I’ve got stories that will make you a star.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” Liam Michael Murphy said. “When do I get these gems?”

  “After I take care of my business. It’ll be worth the wait. Trust me.”

  He held out his hand. “Deal!”

  We had another drink. I needed more alcohol like I needed another hole in my head.

  “Where do we start?” I slurred my words because my lips were numb.

  “There are 120 representatives and forty state senators. I know a lot of them. Some were poking around the pain-clinic industry a couple of year ago … mostly fact-finding. One of them is a friend of mine … James Field from District 120 … Monroe County … which includes Key West. I’ll set up a meeting.”

  I tried to thank him, but I hiccupped instead.

  “Are you drunk?” Mick laughed.

  “Dizzy,” I managed.

  “I’ll drive you to your hotel.”

  “You drank more than me,” I protested.

  “Yes, but I’m a professional.”

  Outside, I tried to get into my Mini, but Mick stopped me and stuffed me into his unidentifiable car. The ride to the motel was a blur. All I remember is Mick saying he would call me in the morning around eleven and not to worry about my car.

  “No one will steal that piece of shit,” he assured me.

  Never again, I promised myself the next morning.

  I brushed the film of Jameson’s off my teeth and the mohair from my tongue, then placed my palms over my ears to prevent my brains from sliding onto the tile. I took a cold shower, but all that did was freeze my balls together. I figured I was doomed until dusk.