Boca Daze

by Steven M. Forman

“I don’t understand.”

  “Check out the history of Overtown,” the giant said. “You’ll understand.”

  “You going to let me live so I can check it out?”

  “Yeah, you let my nephew live.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “What’s your name?”

  “Why you care?”

  “I make it a practice to know the names of everyone who saves my life.”

  “I’m Mad Dog Walken.”

  “What are you mad about?”

  “Everything.”

  The following morning, I had breakfast with Claudette and told her I had taken a long ride south while she worked late. I didn’t mention Liberty City or Mad Dog Walken’s last words to me.

  “You come here again, I can’t guarantee your safety,” he had shouted from his Buick after leading me to the I-95 North ramp.

  I also didn’t tell her the last words I said to Mad Dog: “I come here again, I can’t guarantee your safety either.” I heard him laugh as I rode out of sight.

  After Claudette finished her light breakfast, I gave her something heavy to digest. I put a Viagra pill on the table. We both stared at the blue diamond.

  “Is that what I think it is?”

  “If you’re thinking it’s an erector set … you’re right,” I told her.

  “How do you feel?”

  “I haven’t taken a pill yet.”

  “No, I mean how do you feel about needing a pill?”

  “Great … I feel great,” I said sarcastically. “I can’t wait till I need dentures and a hip replacement.”

  Claudette rubbed my shoulder affectionately. “Want to try a pill tonight?”

  “I guess,” I mumbled morosely.

  “You don’t sound very enthusiastic.”

  “What if it doesn’t work?”

  “Mr. Johnson is tired, Eddie. He’s not dead.”

  “We’ll see,” I mumbled.

  I got a stress headache driving to the office. I took two aspirin and asked Lou Dewey to do some research on Overtown.

  We met for lunch at my desk, unwrapping tuna sandwiches from Subway.

  “Tell me about Overtown,” I said.

  “It was a first-class black community a long time ago,” he said. “Jackie Robinson vacationed there. Ray Charles made his first record there. Now it’s a ghost town … dead and buried under I-95.”

  “Overtown was built under a highway?”

  “No, a highway was built over Overtown.”

  “Whose brilliant idea was that?”

  “White politicians in the sixties,” Lou said.

  “Didn’t they care about the residents?”

  “Actually … no. They built highways right through the heart of the place and displaced thousands of people.”

  “Where did all those people go?”

  “Liberty City … mostly,” Lou said.

  I thought about Mad Dog’s words about Overtown: It’s a symbol.

  “Why are you interested in that place?” Lou asked.

  I told him about my adventure in Liberty City with the Overtown Outlaws.

  “You tangled with Mad Dog Walken?” Lou sounded impressed.

  “You’ve heard of him?”

  “Only from today’s research. He’s a drug-dealing gang leader.”

  “That sounds right.”

  “A stone-cold killer,” Lou added.

  “That sounds wrong.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m still alive.”

  “He didn’t kill you because you didn’t shoot his nephew and you stood up to those white-power skinheads last year.”

  “A stone-cold killer wouldn’t care about that,” I said. “They live to kill. I’m guessing Mad Dog kills to live.”

  “So do animals.”

  “He’s no animal,” I insisted. “Animals don’t need reasons. Mad Dog uses reason.”

  “Are you trying to justify him?”

  “He can’t be justified any more than the people who built a highway over him.”

  “You sound like a social worker,” Lou said.

  “You can’t bury a community under steel beams and concrete highways and expect something good to grow there.”

  “Now you sound like a farmer.”

  “I can use your opinion as fertilizer,” I said.

  Lou scowled at my joke. “Let’s change the subject. Did you see Jerry Small’s article about you and Willie in the paper this morning?”

  “No. What did he write?”

  “About how South Florida tops the national list for attacks on the homeless-”

  “That’s old news,” I interrupted.

  “It was an introduction to the Boca Knight’s new crusade on behalf of the homeless.”

  “With reference to his exclusive rights to my story, no doubt.”

  “No doubt.”

  “What did he say about Willie?”

  “He said he was in a coma but stable,” Lou told me. “What are his chances of waking up, by the way?”

  “Not good.”

  “Why didn’t Jerry report that?”

  “I asked him not to,” I said. “Whoever attacked Willie thought they left a dead man in the sand. Let them worry about Willie waking up. Worry leads to mistakes.”

  “Sometimes you amaze me, Eddie.” Lou sounded sincere.

  “Sometimes I amaze myself.”

  I decided to visit my comatose client at the Boca Hospital. He was on life support in intensive care. I showed the nurse my detective’s card.

  “I saw your name in the paper,” she said, smiling. “He’s in room 321.”

  I opened the door to Willie’s room and saw a raggedy, old woman in a long black coat leaning over his bed. She was holding what looked like a pencil in one hand and a jar of something in the other. I immediately thought of a needle and a deadly poison.

  I hurried across the room and wrested the objects from the startled, frail woman’s hands. She had been holding an artist’s paintbrush and a small jar of paint.

  I glanced at the man in the bed. The back of his head was swathed in a serious white bandage, but a silly red ball was on his nose, and his mouth was partially outlined with white paint.

  “I’m fixing his makeup,” she explained.

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  “Three Bag Bailey.” She pointed to a backpack and two dirty canvas bags on the floor.

  “What’s in the bags?”

  “Everything I need,” she told me.

  “In just three bags?”

  “Don’t need much.”

  Fair enough. “What are you doing here?” I asked. “How did you get in?”

  “I snuck in. Been doing it every day since he got here. I found Willie on the Rutherford beach the other night.”

  “What were you doing at Rutherford in the middle of the night?”

  “I live there.”

  Okay. “What did you do when you found him?”

  “I called 211 on my cell phone.”

  “You have a cell phone?” I asked, recognizing the emergency number for the homeless.

  She nodded. “My sister gave it to me.”

  “You have a sister?”

  She nodded. “She lives here in Boca.”

  “In a house?”

  She nodded.

  “Why don’t you live with her?”

  “Don’t want to. I’m more at home homeless.”

  Okay. “Do you know what happened to him?”

  “Are you a cop?”

  “I’m a private detective working on Willie’s case.”

  “Who hired you?”

  “Jerry Small, a local newspaper reporter.”

  “The guy who wrote nice things about Willie?”

  “Yes,” I said. “He wants me to find what happened to him. Can you tell me anything that might help?”

  “Are you gonna tell the cops?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Then I ain’t talking. I’m afraid of cops.”

  “O
kay,” I said, deciding to obstruct justice rather than pass a lead. “I won’t tell them.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  “I know Willie wasn’t attacked in the park,” she said.

  “How do you know?”

  “He hated the place … stopped going there a long time ago.”

  “You think Willie was attacked elsewhere, then moved to the park?”

  She nodded. “Make people think he was mugged in a homeless park by another homeless person.”

  That’s exactly what I thought.

  She nodded and turned to the man in the bed. “Can I finish his makeup?”

  I handed her the brush and paint.

  “When you’re done, you want to do lunch?” I asked, thinking I might get more information for my case.

  “If you’re buying.”

  I drove to the Bagel Barn on Glades Road near the hospital. The little deli was aflutter with a flock of squawking Early Birds. Over a thousand endangered species live in South Florida. The Early Bird is not one of them.

  Bailey held her hands to her ears. “It’s so noisy.”

  “Feeding time,” I answered, finding two empty seats at the counter. Bailey sat next to me, still holding her hands over her ears.

  A fat lady wearing stained, fully stretched stretch pants patted her helmet hair and looked down her nose at my raggedy friend. Bailey wasn’t much to look at with her scraggly hair, random teeth, tattered clothes, and wrinkled, rutted skin. I wondered why the fat lady was looking down her nose at someone else’s appearance. Did she think she looked better because someone else looked worse?

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Bailey stuff a fistful of artificial-sweetener packets into her pocket. The waitress behind the counter scowled.

  “I’ll take care of it,” I promised.

  She nodded. “What’ll you have?”

  “I don’t like tuna fish,” Bailey said, squinting at the menu.

  “Don’t order it,” I told her.

  “What’s an Early-Bird Special?”

  “A discounted meal if you eat between certain hours,” I explained.

  “What if you’re not hungry during those hours?”

  “Hunger has nothing to do with it,” I told her.

  “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “Order something,” I told her, not wanting to discuss South Florida traditions.

  “I’ll have a tuna fish sandwich.”

  What? “You just said you didn’t like tuna.”

  “I did not,” Bailey said seriously.

  A little mental illness goes a long way.

  Bailey ate like a bird, a condor. She hunkered over her plate and didn’t surface until the pickles, chips, and tuna were gone.

  “The free lunch at Missionary Church is better than this,” she decided, stealing regular-sugar packets.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I told her.

  “Guess what we had for lunch yesterday?”

  “Osso buco,” I joked smugly.

  “Who told you?”

  “C’mon, Bailey. Who serves braised veal shanks in a soup kitchen?”

  “Boca.” She used half the city’s name as a full explanation.

  I thought her answer had merit. “Where does this fancy food come from?”

  “Publix and Whole Foods donate a lot,” she said, naming two supermarket chains. “So do other restaurants in the area … way better than this.”

  She pinched her nose for emphasis.

  “You ate everything on your plate,” I reminded her.

  “Beggars can’t be choosers.”

  Good point. “Who cooks at the soup kitchen?”

  “Volunteers from Boca.”

  “I heard the homeless aren’t welcome in Boca.”

  “We’re not welcome anywhere,” Bailey sighed. “Most people look away from us … but some look after us.”

  “No one looked after Willie the other night,” I said, getting up from the counter and paying the bill. “Do you have any idea where Willie might have been attacked before getting dumped at the park.”

  “I heard through the grapevine he liked to sleep at the bottom of the stairs behind St. Mary’s Church. Maybe he was there.”

  “What time did you find him in the park?” I asked, walking outside.

  “Exactly two thirty in the morning. I saw the time on my cell when I called 211.”

  “Was he conscious?”

  She shook her head.

  “How fast did the police get there?”

  “Fast.”

  “Did you talk to them?”

  “No, I don’t talk to the police, I told you,” she said. “I hid in the banyans and watched the hospital ambulance take him away. I waited a few hours, called the hospital, found out he was alone, and headed over.”

  “How far is the hospital from the park?”

  “Rutherford’s off A1A north of Mizner.”

  “That’s miles away,” I said. “How did you get here?”

  “Walked some … borrowed a bike.”

  “You mean you stole a bike.”

  “I’ll return it. I left it behind the hospital in a safe place.”

  I drove Bailey to the back of the hospital. No bike.

  “Some son of a bitch took it,” she said, sounding surprised. “Can’t trust anyone these days.”

  “I’ll drive you home,” I volunteered.

  “I’m homeless.”

  Duh, Eddie. “Where to then?”

  “Rutherford Park.”

  Bailey led me along the elevated boardwalk that cut through the tropical vegetation of the park and ended at a locked gate. Beyond the gate, a flight of stairs led down to the shore of Lake Boca; across the water tall apartment buildings promised excellent views. For the people living low in the weeds of Rutherford Park, I imagined those apartments must have seemed as far away as the twilight moon overhead.

  “This is where I found him.” Bailey pointed down at the sand about eight feet below us. “Facedown, back of his head busted open … barely breathing.”

  She looked as if she would cry.

  Don’t cry. I hate when women cry. Why do they do that?

  “How do you get under the boardwalk with the gate locked?” I asked.

  “I can pick locks. It’s a good skill to have if you’re homeless.”

  Bailey shuffled to the gate, removed a small wire from her oversize overcoat, fiddled with the gate lock briefly, and it popped open. We walked down the stairs.

  It was dark and damp under the boardwalk.

  “You sleep here?” I asked.

  She nodded.

  “Alone?”

  “Who would want to sleep with me?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “I usetabe good-looking,” she told me.

  Everybody used to be something.

  It was growing dark, and I heard rustling in the woods around us.

  “Are you okay staying here alone?” I asked.

  “I’m a survivor.”

  “I’m sure you are. How long have you been living in the street?”

  “Maybe thirty years.”

  “Where are you from?”

  She shrugged, indicating she’d rather not say.

  I changed the subject. “If Willie was attacked somewhere else and driven here, that means someone strong had to carry him from a car down this long boardwalk. It was probably two guys.”

  I looked up at the boardwalk and pictured Willie slung over someone’s shoulder, then propped up on the railing and shoved off. He would have flipped over once on the way down and landed face-first in the sand.

  “Thank you for all your help, Bailey. How can I get in touch with you?”

  “Call me on my cell.” She gave me the number.

  Wireless in Boca. Cool.

  Claudette was working late at the clinic again, so the apartment was empty when I arrived home. My Viagra erector set would remain untested for another night. I was relieved … a
nd depressed because I was relieved.

  I didn’t sleep well, and at four-thirty, I drove in predawn darkness to Second Avenue in search of St. Mary’s. The Mini didn’t have GPS, but when I saw a ten-foot-high cross perched on a peaked roof, silhouetted against a predawn sky, I said, “You have arrived at your destination.”

  I turned off my headlights and turned into the parking lot. The white church was dark. God was closed. I drove behind the building, shut off the engine, and took my ND Hyperbeam flashlight from my glove compartment. I went to the staircase Bailey had described and descended the twelve concrete steps below ground level to a locked metal door.

  Add breaking and entering to obstruction of justice.

  I picked the uncomplicated Tylo lock using an equally uncomplicated kit I carried in my wallet.

  The door opened inward, and I beamed light around a storage room filled with stacked boxes. I tiptoed across the room to a door secured with a standard Schlage lock. It was easy pickings, and I entered an adjoining office. My flashlight revealed two antique desks facing one another, cluttered with papers. Computer screens were on each desk, and several filing cabinets were against the walls … nothing unusual. Suddenly the beam illuminated the bloodstained, lifeless face of a bearded man. I retreated two startled steps, caught the calves of my legs on a chair behind me, and fell hard on my back. I rolled over professionally and stood up reaching for the Glock nine-millimeter in the back of my waistband. I aimed the gun and the light in the direction of the dead man. He was still there … motionless like a statue … head slumped on his shoulder.

  I’ve seen this man before.

  I illuminated one section at a time until I got the total picture.

  “Jesus Christ,” I sighed, and that’s exactly who it was … hanging on the wall.

  This is a Catholic church … dummy. He belongs here. You don’t.

  I approached one of the desks and debated picking the lock of the center drawer. Concluding that Willie’s head had been shattered and his body moved for a reason, I decided to break and enter again.

  “Follow the money,” I said to myself and picked the lock. I found a ledger in the middle drawer, removed it, and flipped through the pages. Columns of numbers, both large and small, filled the ledger. A dollar sign preceding each sum. It represented a lot of money from a poor box, even for Boca.

  I glanced at my watch. I had been there long enough. I returned the ledger and locked the drawer. I exited the way I entered, locking each door I had opened. I hobbled up the steps, got in the Mini, and drove off.