“You pay! You die!” There it was again.
Well fuck you, I said to myself, because I still couldn’t speak. I’m not going to lie here and wait for you two assholes to kill me!
With all the strength I could muster I sat upright, threw my legs over the side of the bed, and lunged for the two guys. The intravenous tubes were torn from my arms, and the oxygen tube flew out of my nose. I felt the catheter rip out of Mr. Johnson.
What the fuck? I heard Mr. Johnson scream.
I felt something hard and sharp against my head. I stumbled and fell forward. I heard that deep voice tell me again, “You die,” and this time I agreed with him. At least I had gone down fighting like Barney Ross. Tommy Bigelow and the Pugilist Professor would be proud of me. Goodbye, everyone, I thought. Goodbye, Mr. Johnson, I said to my best friend. Everything went black.
I opened my eyes and felt so much pain I knew I wasn’t dead. Dead doesn’t hurt. My arms ached, and my nose felt broken. I didn’t even want to think about peeing. The sun told me it was daytime. But I still didn’t have a clue what day it was. My bed was surrounded by concerned people. The two nurses looked concerned. The doctor holding the stethoscope to my chest looked concerned. Barry Anson and Matt McGrady looked concerned, and so did Tommy Bigelow. Mikey Tees was there as well.
“Welcome back,” Mikey said. “You had us worried.”
“Did you catch those bastards?” I asked.
“What bastards?” Matt McGrady asked.
“The two bastards in my room last night.”
“Mr. Perlmutter,” the chubby nurse said, smiling, “I was the first one in your room last night after you fell. I didn’t see anyone. I just saw you on the floor.”
“You didn’t hear those two men?”
“No,” the nurse said.
“There were two guys right there.” I pointed to the end of the bed. “One was telling me I was going to pay, and I was going to die.”
“You must have been dreaming,” Mike tried to convince me.
“Dreaming, my ass,” I snapped. “I could see and hear them, just like I’m seeing and hearing you now. I jumped out of bed and went after them.”
The doctor was wrapping a blood pressure cuff around my bicep. “Well, you’re not going to pay, and you’re not going to die,” the doctor announced.
“How do you know that?” I asked.
“Your insurance will cover everything, so you don’t have to pay. And you’re not going to die because you’re in surprisingly good health for a man who was shot last night and then fell out of bed.”
“I’ve only been here overnight?” I was surprised.
“That’s it,” the doctor confirmed. “The officer and his friend brought you in an ambulance last night. If they weren’t so fast getting you here, after some pretty decent first aid, you could have bled to death.”
I smiled gratefully at Barry and Matt.
“As soon as we refilled your tank, you were out of danger,” the young doctor continued. “How old are you, Mr. Perlmutter?” I told him I was sixty. “You’re in remarkable shape for your age; probably helped save your life.”
“How old are you, Doctor?”
“Thirty-four,” he told me.
I laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“The first time I got shot, you were in diapers.”
“Pampers,” he corrected me. He removed the blood pressure cuff. “Anyway, you’re going to be very sore. You tore all the tubes out of your body when you fell out of bed. I can’t imagine how your penis must be feeling right now.”
You got that right, Mr. Johnson groaned.
“And I didn’t fall out of bed,” I insisted. “I got out of bed to go after those two guys.”
“If you say so.” He patted my shoulder. “Anyway, you’re a famous man now.”
“Famous for what?”
“I’ll let your friends tell you all about it.” He shook my hand. “Nice job last night,” he congratulated me, and left.
I looked at my new friends. “Okay, famous for what?” I asked.
Mikey Tees said, “Well, I can guarantee you it’s not for falling out of bed and nearly tearing your pecker off.” He snickered, and everyone joined him, including the kid.
Mikey handed me a copy of the local Palm Beach County News. An old picture of me with the complete story of the bust on Second Avenue was front-page news.
“How did they get the story and that picture of me?” I was numb.
“Modern technology. This was a pretty big bust, Eddie,” Matt interjected.
“It was? I thought we just caught a momski-and-popski operation.”
“Nope.” Matt shook his head. “These guys were part of Russian organized crime.”
“Oh shit,” I blurted out.
“What’s the problem?” Matt wanted to know.
“I’m supposed to be retired.”
“Well, you’re a retired hero now,” Matt said.
“It’s just a local story isn’t it?” I asked.
“I’m afraid not,” Matt said. “The Associated Press has the story. By tomorrow afternoon you’ll be in newspapers all around the country.”
“Goddamn,” I said.
“It’s starting already,” Mike said. “Togo called me this morning and said you had made the front page of the Globe”
“Goddamn.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
EX-COP BUSTS ECSTASY & CONTERFEIT RING RETIRED BOSTON POLICE OFFICER WOUNDED IN SHOOT-OUT
The Palm Beach County News headline sensationalized the events on Second Avenue using terms like “brilliant police work” and “decisive and fearless action.” A legend had been born in Boca. The article also contained a summary of my career on the Boston police force, including a list of the medals and awards I had received.
The article told how I saved a baby girl who had been accidentally locked in a car by her mother on a hot summer day in the North End. I couldn’t pick the door lock, and I was afraid to smash a window, fearing flying glass might hurt the baby. I knew I had to act fast. Pacing around the car, I remembered that I had seen a windshield removed from a police car at the department’s repair shop not too long ago. I pictured what the mechanic did, proceeded to remove the windshield, and removed the baby in a matter of minutes. I won a medal for merit. That was twenty-five years ago, and the baby I saved was now an unwed mother living on welfare in East Boston. Her sad, old story, however, would be a new “feel good” story for Palm Beach County News readers today.
“They got everything about me in here,” I said to the group.
“It’s the information age,” Matt said.
My visitors departed within an hour and the gorgeous, brown-skinned nurse arrived to take my vital signs.
“Would you do me a favor?” I asked her.
“If I can.”
“Would you make sure I don’t get any more calls today?” I knew that a barrage of unwanted phone calls from favorite friends, rabid reporters, annoying agents, and crass cranks would be coming soon. I had been the center of sensational situations before and I wasn’t feeling well enough to face that level of frenzied attention.
“I’ll see what I can do,” she said. “Now let’s get you moving.”
She helped me out of bed and guided me carefully to a comfortable chair. It felt good to move. I looked at her name tag: Claudette Premice - Haiti.
“Thank you, Claudette.” I looked out the window at the lake eight floors below. “How long ago did you leave Haiti?” I was making conversation.
“Twenty-five years ago,” she told me.
“You were only a kid.”
“I’m not as young as I look,” Claudette said. “I’m forty-five years old.”
“You’re kidding?”
“What woman would lie about her age by telling you she’s older than she is?”
“Especially in Boca,” I conceded. “Well, you look much younger.”
“Thank you,” she said.
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“Do you have any family here?”
“Just my grandmother.”
“No siblings?”
“I had a younger sister,” she said. “But she died four years ago.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Was she ill?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Claudette said. “She was a drug addict and she OD’d.”
“What about your parents?”
“They never got out of Haiti.”
“Are they still alive?”
“They were murdered a long time ago.”
“That’s terrible,” I said. “How did it happen?”
“My father was a white diplomat from London. My mother was a black Haitian schoolteacher. They were political people. They were killed for political reasons.”
“Who was in power in Haiti at the time?”
“I’d rather not talk about it.”
“Okay,” I said. “How did you get off the island?”
“I’d rather not talk about that, either.”
“Okay, no problem,” I said. “How old is your grandmother?”
“She claims to be ninety-three,” she said. “But no one knows for sure. All her papers were left behind.”
“Is she well?”
“Very well,” Claudette said. “She just started using a walker, but aside from that she’s fine. She lives in Delray near me. Her name’s Queen. She claims to be a descendant of Henri Christophe, the one and only king of Haiti.”
“Is she?”
“Maybe. Who knows?” We smiled at each other. “That little boy who visited you today thinks you’re a hero.”
“Actually, I remind him of someone who was a hero of his,” I said.
“I read about you in the paper, Eddie Perlmutter,” Claudette said. “A boy could choose a worse hero.”
“Thanks.” I changed the subject. “Did anyone ever tell you that you look just like - ”
“Halle Berry,” she interrupted me.
“I guess you’ve heard that before.”
“Only from patients on painkillers.”
“That’s not fair,” I protested. “You do look like her.”
“I guess,” she said. “We’re both half black and half English.”
“Obviously a good combination,” I commented.
“Barack Obama is half Kenyan and half European-American.”
“I think you’re much prettier than him.”
She laughed. “Booker T. Washington was half African and half white.”
“He’s not my type.”
“How about Vin Diesel?” she tried. “He’s Italian, Scottish, Irish, and African-American.”
“You’re still my favorite formula.”
“What about all-white Germans?” she asked.
“Actually, my ancestors were white Russians . . . without the alcohol.”
“Perlmutter is a German name.”
“Yes. It means ‘white pearl’ in German. But we’re Russians. I’m sure of that.”
“Can you trace your heritage back to Russia?”
“I knew my paternal grandparents,” I said. “My mother’s mother died from cancer. Her father was murdered in the old country.”
“Why was he murdered?”
“For religious reasons,” I said.
“How sad,” she said.
“Sad and pointless,” I agreed.
I saw two pretty young women peeking into my room. They waved to me shyly. I waved back. Claudette Premice turned to the door.
“Hello, ladies,” Claudette greeted them pleasantly.
“You’re Eddie Perlmutter, aren’t you?” the taller brunette asked me as she ventured a few steps into the room.
“Guilty,” I said with a smile. She had a dazzling smile of her own. “What can I do for you?”
Claudette rolled her eyes and left the room.
“Bye, Claudette,” I called after her, and she waved without looking back.
“A nurse told us you were here. We thought we’d just take a peek. We’re here to visit our father in the room next door.”
I relaxed. “Nothing serious I hope.”
“Very serious,” she answered sadly. “He has leukemia.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. What kind?”
“A very bad kind, I’m afraid. Do you know much about leukemia?” she asked.
“I know a little,” I said. “My mother died of leukemia a long time ago. She had multiple myeloma.”
“My father has myeloid leukemia,” she told me.
“I’ve never heard of that,” I said. “It sounds nasty.”
“Nasty is the right word for it,” she said, advancing into the room until she was standing next to me. She held out her hand. “I’m Debbie Aiello,” she introduced herself, “and this is my sister Lisa Becker.” Their handshakes were confident.
“Eddie Perlmutter,” I introduced myself. “What’s your father’s name?”
“Dominick Amici,” Debbie told me.
“Well, someone thought a lot of him,” I commented.
“Why do you say that?”
“The name Dominick means a ‘child of God’.”
“We know.” Lisa spoke for the first time. “Do you speak Italian?”
“No. Just a few words and sentences,” I said. “I was a cop in an Italian neighborhood.”
“His middle name is Manfredi,” Debbie told me. “Do you know what that means?”
“Sure. Manfredi means ‘peace and friendship.’ What a great name. Dominick Manfredi Amici: child of God, man of peace, and good friend.”
“He’s all of those things,” Lisa said proudly and sadly. “It’s just not fair for him to be so sick.”
“Life’s not fair,” I agreed.
They both nodded.
“So, Officer Perlmutter.” Debbie changed the subject. “Tell us what happened to you yesterday.”
“I’d rather talk about your father.”
A pleasant-looking middle-aged woman appeared at my door. She was holding a copy of the Palm Beach County News under her arm. She knew who I was, and I didn’t have to ask who she was. The resemblance between mother and daughters was very strong.
“I was wondering where you two had gone,” she said to the girls. “I should have known you’d be in here with the local hero.”
“Is Dad okay?” Debbie asked.
“He’s sleeping,” she told them. She looked at me. “Are they bothering you?”
“Beautiful women never bother me, Mrs. Amici. Please come in.”
“Call me Carol,” she said, entering the room. “I suppose they’ve asked you all kinds of questions already?”
“No, they haven’t.” I defended the sisters. “As a matter of fact, they were just about to tell me a story about a good friend of theirs.”
“And who might that be?”
“Their father,” I said.
She looked at her daughters affectionately. “Mind if I listen in?” Carol Amici asked as she sat in a chair near mine. Her daughters found chairs, and we formed a circle. “Who’s first?” I asked.
Dominick Amici’s women took turns telling me about his life, and their year-long battle to save it. Angelina Polcari Amici, Dominick’s diminutive mother, had enjoyed good health and passed away in her sleep at the age of 104.
Unfortunately, her youngest son, sixty-six-year-old Dominick, didn’t inherit enough of her extraordinary genes. Two years after she died, Dom collapsed while playing golf. Extensive testing showed that Dominick had myeloid leukemia, a virulent form of blood cancer.
The family’s first reaction was denial.
Dominick can’t be sick.
Look at him.
He’s six foot five inches tall and 250 pounds.
He’s immortal.
More doctors and more tests confirmed the original diagnosis.
The family raged against the injustice of it all.
Why him?
Why us?
It’s not fair!
O
utrage was replaced by determination and Amici’s Army attacked myeloid leukemia head on. They learned early in the battle that myeloid leukemia was a deadly enemy that showed no mercy and took no prisoners. In the orderly process of life, old cells died and new cells replaced them. Myeloid leukemia changed the order. Abnormal blood cells randomly appeared when they were not needed. They multiplied faster than normal cells and killed them. Inevitably the body’s immune system crashed and the patient died.
“I remember with my mother’s multiple myeloma,” I said, “she got terrible tumors from all the bad cells collecting in her system.”
“There are no tumors with myeloid leukemia,” Carol told me. “But the results are the same. The cancer destroys everything.”
“My mother died twenty years ago. There must be new treatments by now.”
Carol sighed. “There are a lot of new methods. They just didn’t work for Dominick.”
They told me about their twelve-month ordeal with stem cell and umbilical cord blood cell transplants. They had taken Dominick to the Shands Hospital in Gainesville, Florida, which specializes in these transplants. Dominick’s treatment started with massive doses of chemotherapy intended to kill the abnormal blood cells. These treatments also kill normal cells, and left Dominick extremely susceptible to infection. He was kept in isolation for months to prevent him from catching something. Carol spoke of the loneliness and frustration she and Dominick experienced during those months.
The doctors could not find a suitable stem cell donor for Dominick, and without a transplant the chemotherapy would actually hasten his death. Finally, they were able to locate umbilical cord blood cells that had enough of the compatible components to be effective for Dominick. They performed the transplant, put Dominick in isolation again, and waited for the results. The transplant failed. The doctors at Shands told the Amicis there was nothing more they could do for him. By this time, Dominick was so weakened by the treatments that the doctors doubted he had enough strength to survive the ambulance ride back to Boca.
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