Boca Daze

by Steven M. Forman

  “Have you ever seen the Gulf of Mexico?”

  “Never been there,” I told him.

  “It’s only forty miles from here. I can get you a small rental cottage on a lake with a dock. You can relax, listen to the Gulf, watch the sun, and get ready for war.”

  And that’s what I did.

  It took a little over an hour to drive the forty miles from Tallahassee to Ochlockonee Bay using state roads 319 and 98 South. Through one of his local connections, Mick arranged a three-day rental of an isolated, sparsely furnished one-bedroom cabin with a water view, a dock, and cell phone service courtesy of the many politicians who visited the area. I bought provisions in a general store nearby, and by midday, I was settled. I walked to the end of the twenty-foot-long, low-slung boardwalk and sat on the edge. I dangled my feet in the warm water, squinted at the sun, and asked myself what I was doing in the middle of nowhere, Florida. It was all so random.

  I called Lou Dewey.

  “Where the hell are you?” he asked, sounding annoyed. “I was worried.”

  I told him where I’d been, what I’d done, and where I was.

  “I’m glad you took a break,” he said.

  “I had to. How are you and Joy?”

  “Still in the hospital. She’s a rehabilitating maniac … works out all day. My burns hurt but I’m okay. We’ve been spending a lot of time going through magazines looking at wedding dresses and artificial legs.”

  “Find anything?”

  “We picked out a dress no problem,” he said.

  “The leg?”

  “Pending.”

  “Are you planning a big wedding?”

  “No, but she insists on a wedding dress even if there’s only the four of us,” he told me. “Claudette hasn’t been around to visit, so Joy hasn’t asked her about the maid-of-honor thing.”

  “I told Claudette not to visit until I was comfortable with the Grover situation.”

  “Okay, no problem. I’ll tell Joy.”

  “I’ll be back in Boca in a couple of days,” I said. “When I get there, I’m going all out on every case we have. You up to it?”

  “I can’t handle any physical stuff.”

  “You never could.”

  “True, so I guess we’re all set,” Lou said. “What about Claudette?”

  “I’m going to call her right now.”

  Claudette sounded happy to hear from me. “Where are you now?”

  I told her.

  “Never heard of it,” she said.

  “It’s a very remote place. I’m just relaxing and getting my strength back. What have you been doing?”

  “Queen and I made a voodoo doll of Grover, and we’ve been sticking pins in it.”

  “I appreciate that,” I said. “Stick one in his ass for Lou.”

  “Do you think he’s planning to come after you again?”

  “I don’t know. I sent him a pretty strong message through one of his cohorts which should have slowed him down. And I don’t think he wants this to turn into a shoot-out. He had his chance to make it look like an accident, and he blew it. He has to be more cautious now.”

  “When will I be able to see you?” she asked.

  “Soon.”

  “Not soon enough.”

  After I hung up, I noticed a flimsy lawn chair lounger on the shore near the cottage. I retrieved it, carried it halfway down the dock, set it up, and lay down. I closed my eyes and let the sun work its magic. I fell into a deep sleep and had a troubling dream about the nine people killed at Kugel’s because of me: the African-American college kid, the happy foursome sharing a desert, the unhappy elderly couple, Herb Brown. I was dreaming about bloody faces when I jolted awake. The sun was going down.

  “Bastards,” I shouted. “You don’t have to come after me. I’m coming after you.”

  Two days later I was on the road again, feeling better, driving east through the Panhandle before turning south toward Boca. I used the long ride to plan a series of showdowns. After I met with Lou, I would know where to start.

  I drove for seven hours and got to the Boca Raton Community Hospital midafternoon. Joy and Lou had been moved from intensive care to rehabilitation. The nurse at the reception desk told me they were in the exercise room and pointed to two policemen at the door. I shook hands with the two officers and looked at Joy and Lou through the window. Joy was in a wheelchair with a light blanket on her lap. Lou sat in a straight-backed chair, pounding away at his laptop. They didn’t look happy.

  I opened the door. “You aren’t even married yet, and you’re arguing already.”

  “Eddie,” Joy said and held out her arms to me. I bent down and slid into her embrace. She squeezed me hard.

  A good sign.

  “I missed you,” she told me.

  “I missed you, too,” I said.

  “Don’t I get a hug?” Lou grumbled.

  “No … you’re giving my girl a hard time.”

  “Oh, hug him,” Joy said with a sigh. “He’s very sensitive.”

  Lou stood up, and we hugged the way friends do. “Don’t pat my back,” he cautioned. “My burns.” He sat down, and I pulled over a chair.

  “What are you arguing about?”

  “Joy’s wooden leg,” Lou said.

  “Prosthesis, for the thousandth time,” she said, rolling her eyes.

  “Okay, prosthesis.” Lou sighed. “She wants a simple, practical one.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” I asked.

  “It’s a metal pole in an ugly shoe.”

  “Athletes use them,” I pointed out.

  “Joy wouldn’t be an athlete if they gave her a nuclear leg,” Lou said. “She got tennis elbow watching a match on television.”

  “That only happened once,” Joy said.

  “What kind of prosthesis do you want, Lou?” I asked.

  “Wait a minute,” Joy protested. “It’s my leg.”

  “It’s no one’s leg yet, and I’m entitled to an opinion,” Lou said. “I’ve been doing research.”

  “I’d like to hear what he has to say,” I told Joy.

  She shrugged.

  “Okay. Listen. Joy had a transtibial amputation, which means it was below the knee,” he explained. “She has total use of her regular knee and only needs to replace her lower leg and foot. I want her to have an energy-storing prosthetic foot.”

  “And what is that, Dr. Dewey?” I asked.

  “It stores and absorbs energy, adjusts to ground variances, and rotates to change direction. It does everything a normal foot does.”

  “I’m impressed with his knowledge,” I said to Joy.

  “Hey, this is my fiancée we’re talking about,” Lou said. “I’m trying to learn everything.”

  Joy touched Lou’s knee affectionately. They smiled at each other.

  “The best material to use is lightweight, sturdy carbon-graphite,” Lou continued. “But without cosmesis - cosmetics for artificial limbs - it will still look like a metal pole in an ugly shoe.”

  “With cosmesis?”

  “An artificial limb looks like the real thing,” he said. “Doctors rubberize a shaped prosthesis with silicone, then apply a pigment that makes the artificial limb look exactly like the real one right down to freckles and hair.”

  “Are you saying I have hairy legs?” Joy joked.

  “So Joy will have this beautiful leg that matches her other beautiful leg,” Lou said. “Which is then attached to her beautiful knee with a suction suspense system, and that’s inserted into a beautiful replica of her former right foot, toes and all.”

  “Sounds unbelievable,” I commented.

  “It is,” Lou said. “And I saved the best part for last. The artificial foot is adjustable, up and down at the heel.”

  “Why is that so important?” Joy asked.

  “So you can wear those high heels you love,” Lou said with a big smile.

  Joy started to cry the way women do when they’re happy. “How much is all thi
s going to cost?” She sniffled.

  “I don’t care,” Lou told her. “Every time you look at your beautiful leg, I want you to remember how much I love you.”

  That did it. She was bawling like a baby. “I’m so lucky to have you,” Joy sputtered.

  “I’m so lucky to have you,” Lou replied.

  “I’ll be lucky if I don’t have diabetes with all this sweetness,” I said. “The truth is, you’re both lucky to be alive. If your garage hadn’t been filled with stacks of clothes, stuffed boxes, computer equipment, two old mattresses, and four worn tires … and if you hadn’t been having sex at the time … you wouldn’t be here talking about saving money on body parts.”

  Lou and Joy were startled.

  “How do you know we were having sex?” Joy asked, spooked.

  “The nature of your injuries. Lou was burned on the crown of his head and down his back. His left arm was burned. Therefore he had to be on his stomach because the blast traveled from left to the right, from the garage to the bedroom. Joy had burns to her right arm, and her right leg was so badly damaged she lost it. Neither of you suffered facial injuries.”

  “I still don’t understand your logic,” Joy said.

  “First of all, you guys have sex all the time. So it was a logical assumption. Secondly, your wounds clearly show that Lou was on top whispering something in your right ear-”

  “He was nibbling,” she told me. “He’s a big nibbler.”

  “Okay … so he was nibbling on your right ear. You have your right leg wrapped around his back. Your right hand was rubbing his right shoulder when, boom … the flash explosion hits whatever parts of your bodies were exposed. Of course, the blast was greatly diminished going through all the junk in the garage and all the stuff between the garage and the bedroom, otherwise you’d both be toast, literally.”

  “You’re amazing,” Joy said.

  “You two are amazing having sex at two in the morning,” I said.

  “We actually started at two-fifteen,” she said.

  Did you hear that, MJ?

  “Enough about our sex life,” Lou said. “Can we talk about Grover now?”

  “What do you want to do about him?” I asked.

  “I want to go after him immediately,” Lou said.

  I looked at Joy. She nodded. “Me, too.”

  “Okay, but you two are in no condition to go after anyone,” I said. “I’ll handle it.”

  “You can’t do it alone,” Joy said.

  “Yeah, you need us,” Lou argued.

  “No, I don’t,” I told them. “The three of us almost got killed, and nine people were killed because I let Lou influence my judgment. I’m not doing that again. You two just focus on getting better and let me handle Grover. That’s what I do best. I’ll let you know when I need you.”

  I went to my office and reviewed Lou’s files on Grover. Harry Chan’s mathematical equation of trades made was still the most damning evidence. I copied the files I deemed necessary and fell asleep reading them on the office couch, my Cobra in my lap.

  I called Chief Frank Burke the next morning and told him I was ready to talk. He didn’t ask any questions and agreed to have lunch with me at Mizner Park. We met at Mendy’s Grille and sat at a table outside. The mid-March air was delightful. I gave him the details of the Grover case. Frank listened intently, and when I was done, he said, “This is huge. Fraud and attempted murder. I think Grover’s involvement in the violence could be tough to prove. In the interest of time, the fraud case should come first.”

  I agreed.

  “It’s a federal crime,” he said. “We need to get the FBI involved.”

  “I don’t want any bureaucratic delays.”

  “These things take time,” he insisted.

  “This has already taken too much time. The SEC was told about Grover’s fraud years ago and did nothing. Thousands of people have been sucked into this Ponzi scheme since then, and they’ll be financially ruined when it blows. There’s nothing we can do for them now, but I’m not going to let it keep happening to other people.”

  “Assuming the FBI will do anything, what do you want?” Frank asked.

  “Search warrants for B.I.G.’s trading tickets and stock certificates. According to Lou, these documents either don’t exist or they’re forgeries. If he’s right, Grover’s empire will collapse overnight. We might even find organized crime involved.”

  “Russians?”

  “I don’t know,” I told Frank. “Maybe Cubans. Maybe no one.”

  “A search warrant requires cooperation between the FBI, the DA’s office, and a federal judge. That won’t be easy or fast.”

  “You must know someone in the FBI,” I said.

  “I know a special agent in their Miami Field Office. He might do me a favor.”

  “Can you call him?

  “I’ll call him in the morning.”

  “Call him now,” I said. “People are getting sucked in every day. Maybe some phony financial consultant is trying to sell the B.I.G. fund to your uncle Brian right now.”

  “I don’t have an Uncle Brian.”

  “Your hypothetical Uncle Brian.”

  “Oh, him.” Frank laughed. “Eddie, I told you I didn’t want to join your crusade.”

  “I’m not asking you to join. I’m asking you to help jump-start the process. Come on. I’ll buy lunch.”

  He smiled, nodded his head, and picked up his menu. “I’ll call him after lunch.”

  “Thank you, Frank. By the way, you can’t tell the FBI the name of the company I’m talking about. It has to be kept confidential until they agree to participate.”

  “Okay.”

  Our waiter came to the table. “What can I get you two gentlemen?”

  “Nothing for me,” I said, getting up. “I’m too busy.” I put down a $20 bill on the table. “When he’s spent this much, shut him off.”

  “You’re a piece of work,” Frank called after me, and I heard him laugh.

  I was at my office late that afternoon studying Big Game Hunter’s file when the chief called.

  “I spoke to Special Agent Tyler Sloan,” he said. “He’s willing to meet with you.”

  “That was fast.”

  “I can’t take credit. Your name is magic in South Florida.”

  “Which name … Eddie Perlmutter or the Boca Knight?”

  “Both,” Frank told me. “When he heard you were involved, he jumped right on it and promised to contact you. Unfortunately, he’s going on a two-week fishing trip with his buddies.”

  “I can’t wait two weeks. Can you find me another agent.”

  “Sloan’s the best.

  “Can I talk to him?”

  “Be my guest.” Frank gave me the number.

  I pressed a series of buttons until Special Agent Tyler Sloan came on the line. I introduced myself.

  He responded enthusiastically, “Eddie Perlmutter! I just talked to Frank Burke, a mutual friend of ours. I told him I’d call you when I got back from vacation.”

  “Yes, I know, but that time frame is unacceptable.”

  “Excuse me?” Sloan said, surprised.

  “Didn’t Frank tell you this was an urgent matter?”

  “He said it was a large fraud case.”

  “That’s like saying King Kong was a monkey,” I said. “I’m talking about the largest Ponzi scheme in US history.”

  “How long has it been going on?”

  “Twenty years or more.”

  “That doesn’t sound like an emergency.”

  “It should have been stopped a long time ago,” I told Sloan. “I just picked it up … and I’m trying to make up for lost time.”

  “Why is this so important to you?”

  “I’m sure you heard about the shootings at the deli in Boca.”

  “Sure, it was a big news story. Nine dead, two survivors-”

  “I was the target and one of the two survivors. Nine people died because of me, and it’s eating me up
alive. It’s all connected.

  “When can you get here?”

  “I’d say I can be there in a little over an hour,” I guessed. “Who should I ask for?”

  “Ask for me.”

  “What about your vacation?”

  “I’m not going anywhere until I meet with you,” the G-man said.

  “Thank you, Agent Sloan.”

  I grabbed my briefcase filled with Lou Dewey’s files and was out the door. I checked my cell phone for messages on the drive to Miami. I hadn’t checked in for a while.

  I had ten new messages. beep.

  “Hi, Eddie, it’s Claudette. I just called to say I love you.” Beep.

  “Eddie, it’s me … Bailey. Call me.” Beep.

  “Bailey again. My sister is feeling better. I had my stitches out. Hey, I saw roadkill on Federal yesterday that looked like the raccoon who attacked me. I hope it was the little bastard.” Beep.

  “Eddie, Doc Hurwitz. Call me.” Beep.

  “Eddie, Jerry Small. Remember me … your favorite newspaper reporter? Where’s my story? Call me.” Beep.

  “Having a Jameson’s and thinking of you pal. William says hi.” Beep.

  “Eddie, I think we found just the right wooden leg-”

  “Louie, it’s a prosthesis,” I heard Joy in the background.

  “Right, sorry. Anyway, it’s a beauty, wait till you see it.” Beep.

  “Eddie, Chief Burke … how did it go with Agent Sloan? Thanks for lunch.” Beep.

  “Mr. Perlmutter, it’s Teofilo Fernandez. I’m just calling to see if you’re feeling okay. I’ll call again.” Beep.

  “Mr. Perlmutter, this is Isabella from CVS. The Viagra prescription for your father is ready.” I heard her giggle before the beep.

  I had no more messages.

  The last one was enough.

  Special Agent Tyler Sloan looked like a recruiting poster for the FBI—big, rugged, and clean-cut. I estimated he was at least six foot five, 230, and somewhere in his thirties. His handshake was firm but not painful. His smile looked genuine.

  “It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Perlmutter.” I believed he meant it. “That rally you led a couple of years ago against the skinheads was an inspiration for me.”

  “I hope I can inspire you again,” I said.

  “You’re a man who obviously won’t take no for an answer.”

  “This is too important, Agent Sloan.”