Boca Daze

by Steven M. Forman

  “It’s okay. You’re good,” Steve conceded. “I hope you join the club.”

  They touched gloves and got out of the ring. A cut was above Steve’s eye.

  “Where you from?” I heard Steve ask Teofilo as they walked to the water cooler.

  “That kid has the makings of a champion,” Barry said.

  “He’s got good genes,” I said. “He’s a natural-born fighter.”

  “Where did you find him?”

  “At a gunfight.”

  “He’s the kid who survived that night?” Anson asked.

  I nodded.

  “This was meant to be,” Barry said.

  Not that again.

  The sun goes down in Boca between six and seven during the month of April. Bailey and I sat in the Mini a safe distance from the rectory and waited for dark.

  “You look good,” she said.

  “You, too.”

  I was wearing Willie’s clothes, and Bailey had done a great job painting both of us to look like him. She didn’t have a clown costume, but she wore a hat, and in the dark, no one would notice.

  “Checklist,” I suggested. “Flashlight?”

  “Check.”

  “Intruder … recorder … camera … walkie-talkie?”

  “Check … check … check … check.”

  “Two rocks?”

  “Check.”

  “Any questions?” I asked.

  “What if you get in trouble? Can I come to your rescue?”

  “You have my permission to save my life.”

  “Check.”

  “Ready?”

  “Ready!”

  We walked toward the house in the shadow of the trees and prepared to attack. The moon was behind thin clouds and gave off little light. Bailey moved silently to the back of the house while I remained in front. I waited until I felt certain she had reached the rear.

  Now.

  I hurled one of my two rocks through the front window. Glass shattered, and Father Vincent was at the window in a fat man’s flash, frantically looking around. I stepped out of the shadows, shone my flashlight from my chest up to my face, and stared at him. “I’ll call the cops,” he shouted, but I knew he wouldn’t. The last thing he needed was the police near the church. Then the back window exploded.

  Perfect timing, Bailey.

  Father Vincent ran in the direction of the new sound, and I shut off my flashlight and moved to the left-hand side of the house. By now, he was staring at Bailey’s version of Weary Willie’s face, illuminated from her chin up by her flashlight. More holy terror, I hoped.

  My second rock broke a side window. Father Vincent appeared at that window and saw me in the spotlight again. “What do you want?” he screamed, just as the window on the opposite side exploded. I saw the priest reach for a phone.

  “Bailey,” I said in a harsh whisper into the walkie-talkie. “He’s making a call. Use the Intruder and make sure he’s calling his cousins.”

  “Check,” she said.

  I dashed around the house and found Bailey. She had already removed the Intruder from its case and was aiming it at the house.

  “There’s some clown throwing rocks through my window,” we heard Father Vincent say through the Intruder.

  Pause.

  “What kind of clown?” he asked, responding to a question. “A sad-faced clown, for chrissakes.”

  Pause.

  “What do you mean you thought you got rid of him?”

  Pause.

  “The homeless guy sleeping in the storage room? You said you put him on a bus out of town.”

  Pause.

  “There was a complication,” Father Vinnie shouted. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Pause.

  “You didn’t want to worry me,” he screamed. “Great. Well, I’m worried now. You’re lucky he’s been released and not dead.” He listened again. “It was an accident until you moved his body. Get over here right away.”

  Bingo!

  “Now the going gets tough,” I said to Bailey when the Intruder went silent.

  “Don’t we have enough evidence taped already?”

  “No. We only heard half of a two-way conversation.”

  She nodded.

  “Stay calm and get good videos,” I said.

  She nodded again and was gone.

  I was impressed by her calmness under fire and her clarity of thought.

  I jogged from the rectory to the church, holding my derby in place. I struggled down the killer staircase, picked the new lock on the door, and entered the church. I moved quickly to the church office, nodding along the way to the statue of Jesus. I picked the second lock and entered. Nothing had changed since I last broke in. I picked the desk lock and found the ledger. I retraced my steps, not bothering to close doors or drawers or put out the lights. This was supposed to look like a breakin when Father Vincent and his cousins arrived.

  “A car just pulled up in front of the rectory,” Bailey warned me through the walkie-talkie. “Moose one and two just went inside.”

  “Right on schedule.”

  I removed my cell phone from Willie’s pants and dialed Frank Burke’s cell. I had given him the twenty-four hours notice I promised, and he was now waiting at a doughnut shop in Fort Lauderdale as agreed. He knew he was there to arrest Father Vincent’s girlfriend. He had a warrant.

  “Frank,” I whispered. “Arrest her now.”

  “Okay, then what?”

  “Bring her to St. Mary’s Church in Boca.” I disconnected before he could ask any more questions.

  “They’re coming,” Bailey said into the walkie-talkie. “The priest just pointed at the light in the basement. The other two guys are running toward you now. This infrared stuff is cool.”

  I stood at the open doorway at the bottom of the stairs, the light from inside illuminating me. I pressed the remote-control button for the camera I had affixed to the light above the door. I looked up at the lens and saw the red light flash.

  Lights, camera, action!

  Gino and Anthony appeared at the top of the stairs and saw me dressed as Weary Willie. I was holding the two ledgers by my right side where they could see them. I glanced up under the brim of my derby the way they do in spaghetti westerns.

  “He picked the new lock,” Gino told Anthony.

  “He’s got the ledgers,” Anthony told Gino.

  Father Vincent came up behind them, breathing heavily. “Good Lord,” he intoned.

  “Hey, bum,” Anthony called down the stairs. “What are you doing with those books?”

  I decided to answer. To maintain my hobo image, I thought I needed a homeless voice that sounded as if my throat were ruined by whiskey and encrusted street grit. It had to be the voice of a man who lived outside in jungle rain, dust-bowl wind, Sahara heat, and arctic cold.

  Who the hell sounded like that?

  Clint Eastwood!

  I tried to remember his voice in The Outlaw Josey Wales, High Plains Drifter, Dirty Harry, Heartbreak Ridge, and Unforgiven.

  I lifted my right arm and held up the ledgers. “You mean these books?” I rasped without looking up.

  “Yeah, those books,” Gino said. “Bring them up here.”

  “Come down and get them,” I said like Clint.

  “If I have to come down there, I’m gonna split your head wide-open,” Anthony threatened.

  “Like the last time?” I rasped.

  Father Vincent stepped between his cousins and said, “You down there, what is it you want?”

  I held up the ledgers again. “Money,” I said, sounding as if my throat had been sandpapered. “The money you’re stealing from the church.”

  “We’re not stealing any money. The church has none,” the priest lied.

  Come on … I need a confession here.

  “The widow’s money,” I growled. “The 4 million.”

  “He knows everything, Vinnie,” Gino said.

  Thank you, Gino.

  “We can wor
k something out,” Father Vincent said calmly. “There’s plenty for everyone. How much do you want?”

  Thank you, Father. “All of it,” I said to provoke them.

  “No way,” Anthony snapped. He rumbled down the stairs while I stood motionless and let him come. When he was standing one step above me, I made a feeble effort to defend myself, but he brushed me back like a gnat. He grabbed my shirt collar and pulled. “You little fuck. I’m going to throw you down these fuckin’ stairs again, and this time you won’t wake up.”

  Thank you, thank you, thank you.

  I let him drag me up the stairs. When we were standing together, Gino tore the books from my hand. “You son of a bitch,” he said, kicking me in the ass. Willie’s pants were a little baggy, and my Colt slid down my pant leg, clanging on the ground. Gino grabbed it before I could turn around and aimed it at me.

  “Don’t shoot him,” Anthony said. “We’re not murderers.”

  “We have to get rid of him. He’s got enough information to put us in jail,” Gino said. “We can make it look like he tried to break in Father Vinnie’s house and got shot by his own gun in a scuffle.”

  “That’s still murder,” Anthony said.

  “Wait a second,” the priest said. “What’s a bum doing with a big, fancy gun like that? We’re going too fast. This whole thing doesn’t make sense.”

  Uh-oh!

  “Think about it,” Vinnie said. “Why did he break my windows?”

  Good question.

  “To scare you?” Gino asked.

  “Why scare me?”

  Another good question.

  “So you would call us,” Anthony said.

  “Right … to get us all here together,” the priest concluded. “Jesus Christ. This is some kind of setup.”

  Bailey. Are you there, Bailey?

  “You got that right, dummies,” Bailey screamed from the woods, and everyone turned in her direction. She stepped out of the darkness into the dim light of the moon. She was still aiming the Intruder. “Smile, morons … you’re on candid camera.”

  “Good God,” Father Vincent said. “Anthony, get her.”

  Run, Bailey.

  Bailey ran.

  “Get her,” Gino shouted encouragement, distracted by the activity.

  Now is as good a time as any.

  I grabbed Gino’s right hand near the wrist and twisted it violently, counterclockwise. I heard a bone break and Gino scream. The gun hit the pavement, and Gino crumbled. His shoulder landed on the top step, and he tumbled down the staircase. When he hit bottom, he groaned.

  I picked up the Cobra and aimed it at Father Vincent. He stood there wide-eyed and petrified, too fat to fight.

  “It’s over,” I said.

  He nodded, went down on his knees, and started praying.

  “Pray you don’t get a cellmate named Bubba,” I said.

  Behind the priest, I saw Bailey playing catch-me-if-you-can with Anthony by circling around the Dumpster. Anthony was totally unaware of what had happened to his partners, and he kept chasing Bailey futilely from one side of the garbage bin to the other. If he caught her, he’d crush her, but he would never catch her.

  “I got the gun, Bailey,” I said into the walkie-talkie. “You can stop now.”

  “Cool,” she said, dashing around a corner of the Dumpster, enjoying herself.

  Anthony stopped chasing her, bent over, and put his hands on his knees trying to catch his breath.

  Bailey stopped but remained a safe distance away. “Hey, dummy. You want the camera?”

  He looked up at her and nodded.

  She tossed it into the Dumpster. “It’s all yours.”

  Bailey! What are you doing?

  She ran into the darkness.

  “You better run,” Anthony called before turning his attention to the garbage container.

  He sighed, put his hands over the edge, pulled himself up, and went over the top … into the garbage. A moment later, I heard him scream, “Get off of me.”

  He was still screaming when Frank Burke pulled up in his cruiser, followed by two more patrol cars with flashing lights. I directed the police to Father Vincent, who was still praying for his soul and a good cellmate. “There’s another one at the bottom of the stairs.” I pointed. “He’s got a broken wrist.”

  “What’s that screaming in the Dumpster?” Frank asked me, checking out my clown costume.

  “That would be Anthony Pestrito interacting with a raccoon.”

  We all turned toward the bin in time to see a raccoon fly out of the blue bin and land on the pavement. We watched it get up, hiss at us, and run off into the woods.

  A moment later, Anthony emerged from the garbage, bloody and torn. “I got the camera,” he said before the police surrounded him with drawn guns. “When did you guys get here?”

  Bailey came out of the bushes. “You got the carrying case, genius,” she said, taking Vinnie’s picture. “I got the camera.”

  Anthony crumpled to the ground and started to cry.

  “Take him to the Baker center on Boca Rio Road,” I told one of the cops. “They know how to treat rabies.”

  I gave Bailey a big hug and explained her role to Chief Burke. She didn’t say a word.

  “She’s afraid of the police,” I explained.

  “I’m afraid of her.” Frank walked to one of the cruisers and opened the back door. A stylish, dark-haired woman stepped out. “This is Maria Lopez,” Frank said. “Father Vinnie’s girlfriend. I think she’s willing to cooperate.”

  “I remember her,” I said, picturing Father Vincent’s hand on her butt. “We got so much material here we may not need her, but you decide.”

  “May I talk to Vincent?” she asked.

  “Not in private,” Frank said.

  “That’s fine.”

  We approached the kneeling priest together.

  The future defrocked felon looked up and saw Maria. He struggled to his feet.

  “I’m sorry,” he told her, opening his arms for a holy hug.

  She brushed him off. “Does this mean I lose my condo?”

  He nodded. “I’m sorry,” he said sadly. She kicked him in the balls, and he fell to his knees again.

  Gino Pestrito and his cousin Vinnie were in holding cells at the Boca police station awaiting transfer to the Palm Beach Sheriff’s Office. Anthony was running a high fever at the Baker clinic, where he received rabies shots and fifty-four stitches. I gave a statement to two Boca detectives, but Bailey continued her tradition of not talking to the police. When we were released, it was late, and I took Bailey directly to Rutherford Park.

  “You did great, Bailey. I’m proud of you.”

  “Don’t be proud of me,” she said. “Just be my friend.”

  I understood. She didn’t want expectations from me because she didn’t want to let me down. “You got it, friend,” I said.

  The Pestrito boys became front-page news in Palm Beach County. Lou did some extensive research on them at his leisure. As kids, they were known in Bay Ridge as Fuckin’ Vinnie and Fuckin’ Anthony and Gino.

  “Fuckin’ Vinnie, how you doin’?”

  “There’s Fuckin’ Anthony and Gino.”

  Their lifestyle was characterized in a 1977 movie called Saturday Night Fever. They idolized gangsters such as Crazy Joe Gallo and Kid Blast. Their gang was immortalized in Jimmy Breslin’s book The Gang That Couldn’t Shoot Straight. They were familiar with Jimmy Burke and Henry Hill, who were in turn glamorized in Good Fellas, starring Ray Liotta and Robert De Niro. They belonged to a gang named the Dukes of Brooklyn and were arrested in a violent gang war with the Turbans. The Pestritos already had police records that included assault and battery, petty theft, and a couple of small-time felonies. An imaginative liberal judge had given the boys a choice: go to jail, the Marines, or the seminary. The Pestrito brothers chose jail, and Vinnie told the judge he’d always wanted to be a priest. So be it. He was sent off to the seminary, where he was never caught
violating a rule, which was a miracle because he never stopped sinning. He was especially prolific at consorting with women, many of whom thought it would be kinky to be the one who seduced him into breaking his vows. Many succeeded.

  “I’m getting laid more now than I was as a gang member,” Vinnie told his cousins when they got out of jail and resumed their criminal ways. “This religion thing is a racket.”

  “You should have become a televangelist,” Gino had told him. “Those guys make a fortune and get laid.”

  “Good things come to those who wait,” Fuckin’ Vinnie said.

  There would be no imaginative judges this time for the Pestritos. After they were booked at Boca police headquarters, Vincent and Gino were sent to the sheriff’s facility on Gun Club Road, while Anthony remained under guard at the Baker clinic. The day after their arrest, the state attorney filed two separate Basis of Information forms with the South Branch of the Fifteenth Judicial Circuit Court in Delray. A motion for pretrial detention was filed at their first appearance and was granted by a Catholic judge, who was upset with Father Vincent.

  I attended the legal proceedings that day, and after the hearing, I talked to the state’s attorney, Mike Bernstein.

  “We’ll have a tough time with the manslaughter charge or a wrongful-death proceeding against the Pestritos,” he said. “Willie fell down the stairs, according to everyone who was there. It will be very difficult to prove he was pushed.”

  “I understand,” I said. “What about moving the body and the embezzlement charge?”

  “We’ll get them for that, and they’ll go away for a long time. You guys did a hell of a job.”

  I stood outside the Delray courthouse on Atlantic Avenue and admired the beautiful April afternoon. I decided to go for a walk and enjoy the weather.

  I crossed Atlantic and peered inside the Delray Tennis Center. The 8,000 seats were empty this time of year, but in season, they were often filled for professional and pro-am events. I turned east toward the center of town and the freight train crossing. The train system in Delray made no sense. Freight trains roared through the busy downtown area at too many miles per hour, with no scheduled stop in the city. Conversely, the Tri-Rail commuter trains that brought people to the city stopped a bus ride west of the city’s most popular attractions. I remember having dinner with Claudette one night at a downtown, “hip” restaurant next to the tracks. We had just been seated when my water glass started vibrating, signaling the imminent arrival of a freight train. Our corner table near the patio wasn’t thirty yards from the tracks when a seventy-car hurricane roared past, alerting me that derailment and dismemberment were only a loose rail away. The other diners seemed too hip to care, so I swallowed my apprehension with a dinner roll and waited for the rolling thunder to pass. Eventually, it was quiet again, and the waiter took our order while he could hear it. Apparently, I was the only person worried about restaurants, hair salons, art stores, and condos being adjacent to the Cannon Ball Express. Party on!