Boca Daze

by Steven M. Forman

  “Totally random,” Herb said. “Couldn’t your mother find a job in Miami?”

  “She had a job. She wanted to leave Miami for personal reasons.”

  “Was she a nurse’s aide in Miami, too?” I asked.

  “Yes. In Cuba, she was a registered nurse, but not here. In America, Cuban registered nurses become nurse’s aides, and Cuban doctors become nurses. It’s sad.”

  “What will you do in Boca?” Herb asked.

  “I’ll get a job.”

  “What about school?” Herb asked.

  “We lived with an uncle in Miami so I could afford to go to high school there. But now we are on our own, and I need to make money.”

  “Do you have any friends in this area?” I asked.

  He shook his head no.

  “Do you still like to box?” I asked, thinking of the Boca Police Athletic League program.

  “I haven’t done it in years.” He smiled. “But I loved it.”

  “I’m involved with a boxing program in Boca,” I said. “I could help you get started there and meet some kids your age.”

  “That’s a great idea,” Herb said.

  The kid’s eyes lit up, and he smiled just as the front door crashed open.

  The threat of mortal danger can paralyze people … or energize adrenaline junkies such as me to come alive at death’s door. And death was at the door of Kugel’s: four apparitions, each wearing a black ski mask and brandishing an AA-12 shotgun. They wore short-sleeve shirts showing tattooed arms. They were hiding their faces but not their skin color, letting everyone know that black men were holding the guns.

  “Oh my God,” one of the women at the table of four said. “It’s a robbery.”

  No, it’s not! I thought. Drum-fed, automatic, AA-12 fire-breathing dragons take lives, not money.

  Move, Eddie!

  I rolled off the stool and simultaneously reached behind my back for the Glock nine-millimeter in my waistband.

  Boom! A shotgun erupted before I hit the floor. Someone screamed. Three more explosions, in deliberate succession, rocked the room … three more screams.

  Why single shots? An AA-12 can discharge five twelve-gauge shells per second.

  I heard the sound of gooey splatter hitting walls.

  I knocked over a table and dove behind it with my Glock in hand. One gunman saw me.

  Boom!

  A window shattered above my head. I peeked around the corner of the table, saw the shooter’s thigh, and put a hole in it.

  He screamed, blood spurting through his pants as he went down, shouting, “Some got a gun.”

  The remaining shooters went ballistic, lighting up the restaurant with an awesome display of firepower. I scrambled along the floor like a combat soldier and took cover behind the front counter. I saw Dave, the owner, lying there, dead. He had nearly been decapitated by a blast to the throat. He was a nice guy trying to make a living. Now he was dead.

  When the bombardment stopped, I heard footsteps approaching.

  “Where you at?” a shooter growled.

  He thinks I’m on the floor hiding … or dead. He’ll be looking down.

  I stood up, fired three shots into his ski mask, dropped to the floor again, and rolled toward the kitchen. The two remaining shooters filled the air with shotgun shells and flying glass, but I was already behind a baking oven.

  When the shooting stopped, one of the rattled gunmen said, “I think we got him.”

  “Why don’t you check it out, man,” another said.

  “Why don’t you?”

  “Get me outa here,” the man with the hole in his thigh wailed. “I’m bleedin’ like a pig.”

  “Yeah, let’s go before the cops come,” one shooter warned the others.

  I heard grunting, groaning, and the cracking of glass underfoot. I crawled to the front counter and looked over the top. I saw the limp body of one shooter, his ski mask drenched in blood, being lifted and draped over the shoulder of another shooter, who then stumbled toward the door. A third assassin limped in that direction … clutching his thigh. The fourth killer was covering their retreat, waving his AA-12 wildly. He saw me peeking over the counter and fired automatic bursts in my general direction. I ducked under the counter again. Shattered stainless steel and wood flew over me. Suddenly my forehead was on fire, and I toppled onto my back.

  Don’t pass out or you’re a dead man.

  I struggled to my knees, held the Glock over the counter, kept my head down, and fired in the direction of the front door.

  “Son of a bitch,” the shooter shouted and blew more of the counter to pieces.

  The sound of a siren pierced the air.

  “C’mon, man,” one of them called from outside the store.

  I heard the sound of running … and finally the screeching of tires.

  I stood up, staggered to the door, and saw a car speeding away. I aimed my gun and pulled the trigger. I hit a random car in the lot.

  I collapsed in front of the store, losing my grip on reality without losing consciousness. I saw blue pant legs.

  “This guy took a bunch of shotgun pellets in his forehead,” a voice said.

  “Hey, that’s Eddie Perlmutter,” I heard another voice.

  Do I know you?

  “Body parts all over this goddamn place,” someone shouted from inside the store.

  “Don’t disturb the crime scene,” another cop called out. “Just look for survivors.”

  “I’ve got a live one under a dead one over here,” someone shouted.

  Who?

  I felt myself being lifted and shifted onto a stretcher. A tube was in my arm, and someone was wiping my forehead with something that stung like hell. I squirmed.

  “Relax, Eddie,” a soothing voice said. “Everything will be fine.”

  No, it won’t.

  “You’re okay.”

  No, I’m not.

  I was whisked from the ambulance and wheeled into the hospital.

  “Stay with me, buddy,” an anxious male nurse urged.

  Where would I be going?

  A frazzled doctor shone a light in my eyes, pressed his fingers to my neck, and listened to my heart through a stethoscope. He instructed someone to give me a shot of something and told them I was well enough to be left alone while they checked other victims. His confidence in my survival made me feel better. The painkiller made me feel nothing. I took a nap.

  I woke up vaguely aware of a bright light overhead and someone poking at my forehead.

  Feels like an operating room.

  “He’s got splinters near his eyebrows,” I heard.

  “He’s lucky he didn’t lose his eyes.”

  “He’s lucky to be alive.”

  “More pellets on top of his head.”

  “What a mess.”

  The next thing I knew I was being wheeled again and my forehead was throbbing.

  “Give him another shot and leave him there,” someone directed. “We’ve got incoming.”

  I saw a stretcher whisk by … a bloody face … burned skin …

  Lou?

  Another stretcher with more blood.

  “Her leg looks bad.”

  Joy?

  “What happened?”

  “Home gas explosion.”

  “Get them both up to surgery.”

  I passed out.

  I woke up in a hospital bed. The clock on the wall read 4:00 a.m. It was still dark outside, and I had only slept a few hours.

  My forehead burned, my body ached, and red bubbles were popping in front of my eyes like bloody balloons. I was having an intermittent-explosive-disorder episode without an intermission. The red remained, and my memory was clear. Before pieces of the countertop nearly blew my head off, my IED had been a lightning bolt, a violent explosion that did its damage and was gone. The current feeling was more like a forest fire that spread, intensified, and smoldered but never truly went out. I had never learned to control my old craziness, and now I had a new o
ne to deal with.

  An intravenous needle in my left arm was attached to a tube, attached to a plastic bag hanging from a portable stand next to my bed. An identification tag on the stand told me I was in the intensive care unit. I suddenly had a flashback of bloody bodies on stretchers. Were Joy and Lou in the hospital or had I been hallucinating? Had I heard something about Joy’s leg and Lou’s burns? Did I really hear something about a gas explosion or had I been imagining things? I had to know.

  I pulled the needle from my arm and swung my legs over the side. I sat on the edge of the bed and waited for the room to stop spinning. It didn’t. I stood up but had to sit down again. I waited a minute, stood again, and took a few tentative steps. Eventually, I made it to the door and into the corridor. An identification sign with my name was on the wall next to my room. There would be signs for Dewey and Feely if they were really there. I sidestepped along the tile floor with my back and the palms of my hands pressed against the wall jailbreak style. The corridor was long, and every room had a name tag on the wall next to each door.

  I heard voices and stepped into a darkened room with the name tatum on the door. Two nurses passed, talking about the Florida state legislature being in session for sixty days and doing nothing. They didn’t notice me. Mrs. Tatum coughed, called out an unidentifiable name, and was silent again. I shuffled out of her room.

  Good night, Mrs. Tatum. I hope you find the person you’re looking for.

  I edged around a corner and saw the name dewey on the wall. Across the hall was feely. I hadn’t imagined things. The blood and gore had been real.

  I shuffled into Lou’s room and stood by the bed. He was propped on his right side, and I could see he was burned on the back of his head to the base of his spine. There had been a gas explosion. I swallowed what would have been a sob … if I cried.

  “I’m here, Lou,” I whispered, and touched his shoulder lightly. I moved silently from his room and across the hall to Joy.

  The outline of the sheet covering her body clearly showed that Joy’s right leg was gone below the knee. I swallowed hard again. She was on her back and did not appear to have suffered significant injuries to her face. I noticed her right hand and arm were heavily bandaged, but her left hand and arm were not. I tried piecing the puzzle together.

  The explosion must have originated in the garage from the gas water heater. The master bedroom was at the other end of the house. The junk probably saved their lives. The blast started on the left side of the house meaning the explosion would have traveled from left to right, reaching the master bedroom last.

  I closed my eyes and saw the scene through the red spots and tried to picture the incident.

  Explosion! Flare! Fire! Flames! Joy and Lou are blown out of bed. He is injured on the back of his body and the left side. Her right leg was demolished, and her right hand and arm were badly burned. What did these strange injuries tell me? After a minute they told me everything.

  I’ll be damned. I can’t believe it.

  The overhead lights came on and startled me.

  “What are you doing?” a gruff voice demanded. A tall, bearded orderly was approaching me from the doorway. “You’re not allowed in here.”

  “She’s my friend,” I explained.

  He grabbed my right wrist and looked at my hospital identification bracelet. “And you’re my patient, Mr. Perlmutter. You have to go back to your room.”

  “Let go of me,” I said, twisting my wrist free with expert ease and surprising him. I was vaguely aware of more red dots.

  “Let’s go,” the orderly said, annoyed. He put a firm hand on my shoulder and attempted to guide me away from Joy.

  I raised my right arm quickly, striking the underside of his left arm and forcing his hand off my shoulder. I didn’t want to fight. I just wanted to stay with my friend.

  “Son of a bitch,” the big man snarled and reached for me again.

  Reflexively I pushed the heel of my hand into his chest. He stumbled backward, tripped over his own feet, and fell.

  “Sorry,” I said, dizzy from the exertion.

  “Help in room 754,” the orderly shouted twice as he struggled to his feet. He came toward me again. “Calm down, Mr. Perlmutter.” He extended his hands toward me. Two more orderlies appeared at the door and rushed me. I collapsed in their arms.

  “Give him a sedative,” one of them said.

  Not another one!

  It went black again.

  I opened my eyes and saw the hands of the clock pointing straight up at twelve. Sunlight filtered through the narrow opening of the vertical window blinds. It was noon. I had been sleeping for hours. A burly male nurse sat in a chair next to my bed. I rubbed my eyes. An ocean of red spots was still there, and anger lurked just below the surface like a shark.

  “Welcome back,” the big nurse said, and stood up.

  “Are you guarding me?” I asked with a hoarse voice.

  “I prefer to think I’m protecting you from yourself,” he said, walking to the door. “Perlmutter’s awake,” he announced to whoever was outside my room.

  Police Chief Frank Burke was the first through the door, followed by a young officer I didn’t know.

  “You look like shit,” Frank said, dismissing the male nurse with a polite hand gesture.

  “I was shot in the head with an AA-12 last night.”

  “Fortunately it was loaded with bird shot. If it was lead buckshot, I’d be at your graveside instead of your bedside.”

  “Does Claudette know about this?”

  “Everybody knows,” Frank told me. “The gas explosion at Joy’s house and the shooting at Kugel’s have been all over the news this morning. I called Claudette.”

  “How did she take it?”

  “Bad. I also had to tell her about Lou and Joy. She wanted to come right over, but I told her to wait until I met with you and the other survivor, Teofilo Fernandez. I already got his statement.”

  Teofilo. “How is he?”

  “Hardly a scratch thanks to an old man named Herb Brown,” Frank said. “According to Fernandez, Brown stepped between him and the barrel of an AA-12 and lunged for the gunman. He took a direct blast to the face and was knocked backward into the kid. When they fell, Brown’s body covered Savonna’s and the kid got lost in the shuffle. Herb Brown’s head was blown to bits.”

  “No,” I shouted, unable to see through a wave of red that engulfed me. “You said it was bird shot.”

  “Not all of it apparently. The shooters probably got screwed by their ammo supplier and got a mix-and-match shipment.”

  “Goddamnit,” I screamed, and put my hands over my eyes. I wanted to disappear.

  “Did you know Brown?”

  “He was a friend.”

  “What can you tell me about him?” the chief asked.

  “He was a war hero,” I said in a shaky voice.

  “I’m not surprised. He died like a hero. He saved that boy’s life.”

  I removed my hands from my eyes and looked at Frank. “Herb questioned why he had lived so long when so many around him had died,” I said. “He wondered if his life had a purpose. Last night he found out.”

  I looked away from Burke and took several deep breaths to regain my composure. I don’t cry, but if I did, I would have, right then and there.

  “Have you heard anything about Joy and Lou?” I asked.

  “I looked in on them today. Their injuries are not nearly as extensive as they could have been.”

  I told him about the insulation between the garage and their bedroom.

  “They’re very lucky to be alive and so are you,” Burke said.

  “I don’t feel very lucky right now.”

  “Do you feel well enough to give Officer Vladimir here your statement about last night?”

  “How about tomorrow?” I asked. “I need some time to think.”

  “Sure, and while you’re thinking, think about this. What are the odds of two business partners being involved in two ra
ndom acts of violence against them on the same night in two separate locations?”

  “That’s a good question, and you’re a good cop,” I said.

  “Got a good answer?”

  “Not yet. But I will.”

  The chief and his assistant started for the door as a man dressed in white entered.

  “Mr. Perlmutter, I’m Dr. Levey,” the young man said.

  “Are you the doctor who covered my forehead with Ben-Gay?”

  “No, I wasn’t on duty last night.”

  “We were just leaving,” Frank said to the doctor.

  “Chief, before you go,” I said, “would you authorize a couple of cops to guard Joy’s and Lou’s rooms for the next few days? I’ll pay the overtime.”

  “Does this have something to do with the question I just asked you?”

  “Yes, it does.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Burke said, then departed with Vladimir.

  When we were alone, Dr. Levey shone a bright flashlight in my eyes.

  “So how am I?”

  “You’ve had a concussion. I’m ordering some tests. How are you feeling?”

  “I’m seeing red. Do you know anything about intermittent explosive disorder?”

  “A little but I’m not a neurologist or psychiatrist.”

  “Can I ask you a theoretical question anyway?”

  “Sure, and I’ll give you a theoretical answer.”

  I told him about the changes in my IED and the constant red spots I was seeing and asked if he could explain it.

  “There’s a condition called explosive personality disorder,” he said. “It’s a chronic version of IED.”

  “In English please.”

  “Chronic refers to a persistent condition. Unlike IED, which comes in spurts, EPD is always with you and doesn’t require a major event to set you off. It’s like you’re perpetually on the edge but don’t go over. Does that make any sense to you?”

  “Basically, I got hit in the head and things changed.”

  “Something like that. But you really need to consult a specialist.”

  After he was gone, I looked around my room. There was a television set mounted high on the wall with a remote-control device on a tray next to the bed. My disheveled, bloodstained clothes were on a nightstand in a plastic bag. I reached for the bag and inspected the contents. The police should have taken everything, but with bodies being rushed in and out, I was lost in the shuffle. In one pocket of my pants, I was surprised to find my car keys and wallet. In the other pocket, I found Big Game Hunter’s business card and my cell phone. My Glock wasn’t there, but I had another gun at home if I needed one.