Boca Daze

by Steven M. Forman

  “Mick’s the journalist from Key West I told you about,” I said.

  “He’s perfect,” Lou said.

  “My mother always thought so,” Mick said. “My three wives disagreed.”

  It was a Thursday, and Lou wanted to work his sting on a Friday. He figured the mills would be busiest on a Friday because of all the weekend parties.

  “Do you think you can be prepared for Patel in one day, Mick?” Lou asked.

  “Tell me what I have to do, and I’ll tell you if I can do it.”

  Lou and I talked, Mick listened. When we were done, Mick said, “I can do it.”

  “Are you sure?” Lou asked.

  “I’m an Irish writer. Trust me.”

  “I trust him,” I said.

  We decided to go after Dr. Patel the next afternoon at lunch.

  Mick stayed with Lou at the Embassy Suites, and I went home to Claudette. We got into bed, and she pointed at me pointing at her.

  “You’re doing something dangerous tomorrow, aren’t you?”

  The next morning I drove to Embassy Suites and had coffee in the lobby with Lou and Mick. Lou was looking better every day. Mick looked hungover.

  “Are you sick?” I asked.

  “I stayed up late with Mr. Jameson.”

  “Can you still get the job done?” I asked.

  “Better. Consider my red eyes and bad breath a disguise. I look more like an addict when I have a hangover.”

  “He actually does,” Lou said.

  Mick followed me to Fort Lauderdale in his Wrangler so we wouldn’t be seen together in the area. I drove by Roxie’s to give Mick the lay of the land. Patel was not at his table, but the RESERVED sign was there. I doubled back, found a parking space across the street from the diner, and waited for Patel. Mick parked two blocks away and waited for my call. Promptly at noon, Patel shuffled to his table and sat down. He was a small Indian man as brown as a berry. He walked bent forward at the waist and couldn’t have weighed more than 120 pounds. A waiter looked in his direction. Patel held up an open palm, signaling, Not now. Five minutes later, a man with a briefcase arrived. I aimed the Intruder from inside my newly tinted window.

  “Hola, Doc,” the man said with a Spanish accent.

  “What have you got, Jorge?” Doc asked with an Indian accent.

  Folders and prescription pads came out of the briefcase, and a signing began. I phoned Mick.

  “I’m ready,” he answered.

  “The first act just started.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Jorge was replaced by a second man with a briefcase, and they were doing business when Mick walked past their table and entered the Roxie. He sat at the counter where he could see Doc’s table. He ordered coffee.

  So far so good.

  The man with Patel said, “See you, Doc,” rising and closing his briefcase.

  Patel didn’t look up when he said, “Goodbye, Alex.”

  Four more men arrived, and the transactions were quick and repetitive. It took slightly more than an hour to complete six meetings. When the sixth man departed, Patel signaled the waiter. He ordered a tuna sandwich and a cup of coffee. Mick got up from the counter, paid his bill, and walked outside. Without hesitating, he sat at Patel’s table with his briefcase on his lap.

  Patel was startled. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Mick McGwire, and I’m here to do business,” Murphy said calmly.

  “I don’t do business with strangers.”

  “I’m not exactly a stranger.” Mick opened his briefcase and removed the prescription slips Doc Hurwitz had taken from his granddaughter’s dead body. I had written Shoshanna’s name in the blank space at the top of each.

  Dr. Patel looked at each slip. “Where did you get these?”

  “From a young kid. Her name’s on the top.”

  “Never heard of her,” Patel said quickly.

  Damn.

  “Bitch,” Mick said, sounding angry. “She told me she knew you.” He took the slips from Patel and stood up. “I’m going to kick her ass.”

  Mick, what are you doing?

  “It’s no problem,” Patel said. “You can get those prescriptions filled nearby.”

  “I know that,” Mick responded. “I had bigger plans than just filling Shoshanna’s prescriptions.”

  “What kind of plans?”

  “Forget it. I don’t do business with strangers either. This broad told me she knew you. She lied, and I’m outa here.”

  Mick, don’t push too hard.

  “Actually her name rings a bell,” Patel said.

  “The Hunchback of Notre Dame rings bells. You either know her, or you don’t.”

  “I know her. She was a patient of mine a while ago.”

  “Describe her,” Mick said.

  “Small and skinny with dark, reddish hair. She told me her grandfather was a gangster in Boston a long time ago.”

  Bingo!

  “When’s the last time you saw her?” Mick persisted.

  “Not for weeks. She stopped coming by for prescriptions.”

  “That’s because she’s in Key West.”

  He’s good.

  “Why Key West?” Patel asked.

  “Her grandfather wanted to send her to rehab, and she didn’t want to go,” Mick lied seamlessly. “I met her there, and she told me about you. I wanted to meet you.”

  “For your bigger plans?”

  “That’s right.”

  “How did you find me here?” Patel asked. “Shoshanna didn’t know about this place.”

  “I’m a resourceful guy. I followed you a few times. I know where you live.”

  “I’m impressed. Well, now that we’re not strangers, do you want to talk to me about your plans?”

  “Why not?” Mick removed Lou’s MRIs from the briefcase. “Check these out.”

  My heart rate quickened. Those phony MRIs won’t fool anyone.

  Patel barely glanced at the readings. “I know this lab. They have several offices around the state. They do excellent work.”

  So does Lou Dewey.

  “I can give you prescriptions for all these MRIs,” Patel said.

  “I only brought 5,000 with me,” Mick said.

  “Pay what you can and come back.”

  “You guys are better than Walgreens.”

  Mick selected three MRIs. Patel wrote on them and filled out three prescriptions for enough OxyContin to kill a gorilla.

  “I don’t have the cash on me,” Mick said. “I’ll have to get it and meet you again.”

  “You don’t pay me anyway,” Patel said quickly. “Take these MRIs and prescriptions to any of six labs in the area.” He handed Mick a business card. “Here’s a list of them.”

  “Do you recommend one in particular?”

  Mick, you are an artist.

  “No Pain-U-Gain is closest,” Patel told him. “That’s where Shoshanna always went.”

  Thank you.

  “How does this work?” Mick asked.

  “It’s pretty basic. You bring me MRIs that I analyze. I write an opinion on the MRI and a prescription for an ample amount. You take the prescriptions and the MRIs to one of our six labs. They keep the MRIs on file and fill the prescriptions. When your prescriptions expire, you come back for a refill.”

  “That sounds like a lot of traveling.”

  “Not really. My prescription amounts are quite liberal. You buy them as you need them, or, like Shoshanna, you send someone to pick them up. All we require is the prescription, a name, and cash.”

  Mick stood up and shook Patel’s hand. “It’s a pleasure doing business with you, Dr. Patel.”

  “Give my regards to Shoshanna. How is she by the way?”

  “Her health could be better.”

  “Well, that’s not our problem, is it, Mr. McGwire?”

  I called Doc Hurwitz immediately to make an appointment. He told me to come right over. When I got there, he was lying on his living room sofa, propped
up on pillows. He was inhaling oxygen from a breathing tube attached to a tank. His skin was gray, his face skeletal, and his sunken eyes dim. The shades were drawn, and the apartment was dark on a sunny day. I heard motor-boats on the Intracoastal as life went on.

  Doc told me he was in his third year of lung cancer, and when Shoshanna died, he stopped treatment.

  “I’m fading faster than I expected.”

  “How long do they give you?” I asked.

  “A few months maybe. I just want enough time to settle with Patel.”

  “I got the proof you wanted.”

  His eyes brightened. “I knew you would.”

  I placed a small recorder on the coffee table next to the sofa.

  “It’s all here. The Indian accent is Patel’s. The other voice is a friend of mine. Are you sure you want to hear this? It’s upsetting.”

  “Play it.”

  I played it, and he got upset. “Scumbag,” he said, grimacing. “What’s next?”

  “I’m getting a search warrant for Patel’s office and home.”

  “Why bother? All you’ll find are bullshit MRIs with his self-serving diagnoses. And it’s all legal in Florida.”

  “Today Patel issued OxyContin and Percocet prescriptions to a gorilla, a cadaver, and one of a Cro-Magnon man. That’s not legal anywhere.”

  “That’s what your man gave him?”

  I nodded.

  “And he signed them?”

  “That’s right. He never even looked at them,” I said. “We can bring him down, Doc.”

  “How long will it take? Time is a problem for me.”

  “I know. It could take more time than you have.”

  “That’s what I figured.” Doc sighed.

  “I’ll see it through for you, Doc,” I promised.

  “Thanks, Eddie. I appreciate all you’ve done.” He closed his eyes. “I’m a little tired now.”

  “See ya, Doc.”

  “See ya, Eddie,” he said in a barely audible voice.

  I never saw Doc alive again, but I did hear from him after he died.

  My cell phone buzzed at three that same morning, and I answered it, expecting bad news. No one calls at that hour with good news.

  It was Frank Burke. “Eddie, sorry to wake you. There’s been a fire in Fort Lauderdale, and I wanted to tell you. Shit, I’ve got another call… . I’ll call you back.”

  Claudette was awake. “What’s the matter?”

  “That was Chief Burke. He said something about a fire.”

  “Why is he calling you?”

  “I don’t know. He got another call and hung up.”

  My phone buzzed again. It was Frank. “Correction. There’s been two fires in Fort Lauderdale tonight.”

  “Frank, you’re the chief of police, not a fireman,” I reminded him. “Why is anyone calling you about a Fort Lauderdale fire … and why are you calling me?”

  “The No Pain-U-Gain Clinic burned down.”

  Oh, shit! Doc!

  “The Fort Lauderdale police knew about your investigation of the clinic,” Frank said. “They’re checking all leads. They want to talk to you tomorrow.”

  “No problem. Anyone hurt?”

  “No. The strip mall had three stores. Only the clinic burned and no one was there.”

  “You said there were two fires,” I said.

  “A house in Fort Lauderdale. Dr. Venu Patel, age seventy-two. Burned to a crisp by a flash fire in his bedroom.”

  “I’m predicting five more fires tonight.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Call me if you hear anything.”

  He called an hour later. “Okay, five fires, what’s up?”

  “Let me guess. All clinics … no injuries?”

  “Correct. Tell me what you know.”

  “I know who’s responsible,” I said. “He’s an old associate of mine.”

  “Give me an address, and I’ll have the Lauderdale police pick him up.”

  I gave him the information.

  “Is he armed?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said. “He’ll be dead by the time you get there.”

  I went to the kitchen and made coffee knowing there would be more calls. An hour later the phone rang. It was Frank.

  “Right again, Eddie. Hurwitz was on the sofa … dead as a doornail. He had empty Oxy bottles on the floor next to him. He left one note addressed to you and one to the Fort Lauderdale police.”

  “What did they say?”

  “I’d rather you hear it from the detective in charge,” Frank said. “His name is Palley. He was first on the scene, and he’s got the letter. I gave him your cell.”

  Detective Warren Palley called a few minutes later.

  “Was Doc Hurwitz a friend of yours?” he asked after a brief introduction.

  “You know the old saying ‘with friends like him I don’t need enemies’?”

  Palley chuckled. “Would you mind coming to police headquarters and answering a few questions for me?”

  “Not at all. Would you mind reading me the letters?”

  “I was going to give you copies.”

  “I’d like to hear it now.”

  Palley read slowly. The first one was addressed to the Fort Lauderdale police.

  Ft. Lauderdale Police

  To Whom It May Concern:

  I confess to setting seven fires tonight at six pill mills and one private residence in Ft. Lauderdale. I set fire to the mills to bring attention to these outlets of death. Using remote control, I deliberately killed Dr. Venu Patel by igniting a small amount of napalm hidden in the pillow under his head while he slept. Patel was a drug dealer responsible for the death of my granddaughter. I acted alone. I then killed myself with an overdose of drugs.

  I have a criminal past and have given false testimony many times in my life. But this is a deathbed confession, and it’s all true. You have my word.

  Solomon Hurwitz

  I smiled when Palley stopped reading. Doc always gave his word when he was lying. When he said, “I guarantee it,” he was telling the truth. It was a Boston code.

  “He did our job for us,” the detective said.

  “He certainly did,” I replied, still smiling. “What does my letter say?”

  Palley read to me again.

  Eddie, sorry but I didn’t have time to wait for the court system to work. I couldn’t die in peace with Patel still alive, so I took the law into my own hands. I wanted revenge. You want reform. Now it’s your turn. You have all the proof you need. Change the laws or change the legislators. You’re the Boca Knight. Lead the crusade.

  I’m dying, a weak old man, but I know you remember when I commanded lightning. Those days are over now, and you don’t have to worry about lightning striking the same place.

  I guarantee it.

  Doc

  “What does that mean?” Palley asked.

  “It’s personal,” I said, realizing that Doc was still conning people after his death.

  “Can you explain how a sick old man set seven fires in one night by remote control? There had to be a triggering device in each location. Who planted them?”

  “Doc was getting around pretty good until recently. It’s possible he could have planted them himself when he was well enough.” Anything is possible.

  “Was he an arson expert?”

  “When he was a young man, he knew people in that business,” I said.

  Apparently, he still did. Doc’s second message to me about how he once commanded lightning referred to Cunio Lightning. He was telling me that his personal arsonist from Boston, Fabio “the Fireman” Cunio, was alive and had set the Fort Lauderdale fires for him. He also told me Fabio was out of my life forever by writing lightning doesn’t strike twice in the same place and guaranteeing it.

  “I guess it doesn’t matter anymore,” Palley said. “We have a deathbed confession.”

  I had the right to remain silent, so I did.

  When the s
un came up, I made a conference call to Mad Mick Murphy and Jerry Small regarding Doc’s letter. Once again, Jerry’s paper was first to publish the breaking news story. In an article entitled “Two Executioners,” Jerry went into the lives of Doc Hurwitz and Dr. Patel and how they intersected. Mad Mick had every magazine on the East Coast clamoring for his follow-up magazine article.

  I received a conference call from legislators Field and Diccicio that afternoon.

  Field began, “You don’t do things in a small way, do you?”

  “What a breakthrough,” Diccicio added. “Our names are on record for going after these clinics two years ago. Now everyone is calling us to help. We’re heroes.”

  “Good. Now do whatever it takes to get the job done,” I said.

  “What can we do for you?” Field asked. “We owe you big-time for getting us involved.”

  “You don’t owe me anything. That’s not how I operate. But you could do me a personal favor.”

  I told them what I wanted, and they told me to consider it done.

  I received a return call from Jerry Small moments later.

  “Weary Willie just died, Eddie.”

  I didn’t know the man at all, but I was saddened by his passing. “Does Bailey know?”

  “She was with him,” Jerry said. “I heard she took it pretty hard. She cried a lot and kept telling him she was sorry. When they took his body away, she disappeared. I’m going to write an article about his death. Do you want to be quoted?”

  “No, and I don’t want you to report his death either.”

  “I have to do my job, Eddie, and Willie is news.”

  “I need your help on this, Jerry.”

  “I have to print something, and I don’t want to lie.”

  “No lies,” I said. “I’ll e-mail you my ideas for a story.”

  “This I gotta see,” Jerry said.

  WEARY WILLIE MOVED FROM INTENSIVE CARE

  BY JERRY SMALL

  Weary Willie, the unidentified sad-faced clown who was attacked and left for dead in Rutherford Park, has been moved from the intensive care ward at Boca Community Hospital. Details have not been released, but I have been informed by a reliable source that there has been a dramatic change in his condition.

  “You call this a news report?” Jerry said over the phone.

  “I didn’t lie, did I?”

  “No, but-”

  “No buts about it. I need some time.”