Boca Daze

by Steven M. Forman

  I felt dizzy and lay back on the pillow. My mind was racing, and red spots were popping in my head like corn kernels in a microwave. I closed my eyes and watched the fireworks. The spots began clinging to one another, expanding into one oozing blob … seeping into the corners of my mind, until I was looking at the world through a blood-red veil.

  In ancient mythology, the gods would unleash a Norse monster called the kraken on their enemies. The beast had enormous tentacles that could reach anywhere and crush anything. Grover, the Jewish God of Fraud, apparently had a kraken, too, and unleashed it on Lou and me. Now it was our turn.

  I am going to kick your kraken’s ass, Benjamin.

  I got out of bed and put on my bloodstained clothes, looking like a train-wreck survivor. I wanted to leave the hospital, but I couldn’t call Claudette. She would never help me check myself out. Besides, I didn’t want her involved with my new red curtain of rage and psychopaths with AA-12 shotguns. Whom could I call who was crazy enough to get involved with me right now?

  Think.

  Jerry Small, my newspaper friend, would risk anything for a good story … and I could trust him. I called him.

  “Eddie, how are you?” he asked with concern.

  “I need you to pick me up at the hospital.”

  “Have you been discharged already?”

  “I’m discharging myself.”

  “You can’t do that.”

  “I’m doing it.”

  “What if I don’t want to aid and abet an idiot?”

  “What if I told you there was an exclusive story in it for you?”

  “I’ll be there in a half hour.”

  I exited intensive care through a rear staircase, walked down a flight, and took the elevator the rest of the way to the lobby. Jerry Small was waiting for me outside in his SUV. Jerry was a twenty-eight-year-old star reporter for the South Florida News. When I broke the Russian Mafia’s counterfeit and drug ring a couple of years ago and everyone wanted my story, I impulsively gave Jerry an exclusive. I thought he was a nice kid suffering in a dead-end job for a dying local paper, so I plucked him out of obscurity and made him a hero. We’d been friends ever since.

  “Hey, Eddie,” he greeted me when I got into his SUV. “You look terrible. You have holes in your head.”

  “You’re very observant. Now drive before they realize I’m gone.”

  When we were on a main road, he asked, “So what’s the story you have for me?”

  “It has to be off-the-record.”

  “That’s not a story,” he protested. “That’s a secret. I’m a reporter. I expose secrets.”

  “I need you to keep this confidential until I straighten a few things out or you don’t get the story.”

  “This sucks.”

  “Do I have your word?”

  “You know you do.”

  “The shooting at Kugel’s and the explosion at Joy’s house were related incidents.”

  “Holy shit,” he said. “Someone was trying to kill you both?”

  I nodded.

  “Who?”

  “I can’t tell you that either.”

  “You’re killing me,” Small moaned.

  “Sorry. But it will be worth the wait. Trust me.”

  “I trust you. But what can you tell me on the record? Can we at least talk about the shoot-out? What happened?”

  “You know what happened. It’s been in all the papers.”

  “Very funny,” he said sarcastically. “I like to uncover news stories … not read them in a competitor’s newspaper.”

  “It wasn’t as if I could have tipped you off. It was a sneak attack.”

  “You can make it up to me with an exclusive interview about the shoot-out.” He pulled into a parking lot and shut off the motor. He took out a pen and pad of paper. “Go ahead … in your own words.”

  Why not? “I was sitting at the counter at Kugel’s last night a little after nine when four guys wearing black ski masks, carrying AA-12 shotguns, marched in and started shooting.”

  “No warning?”

  I shook my head.

  “How did you have time to get your gun out and return fire?”

  “I was looking in the direction of the front door when they came in,” I said.

  “But the counter stools face the other way,” he pointed out professionally.

  “The seats swivel. I was looking at the other patrons in the store with my friend Herb Brown and a kid we just met named Teofilo.”

  “Teofilo Fernandez is the kid who survived,” Jerry said. “Brown is the ex-marine who got shot in the face, right?”

  I grimaced and nodded.

  “Did you see it happen?”

  “No, I was a little busy at the time. Fernandez told the chief that Brown stepped in front of the kid and took the bullet meant for him.”

  “He saved Fernandez’s life,” Jerry said with enthusiasm as he scribbled in his notebook. “Do you know anything about him?”

  “Yes, and I want you to write about him. He was a US marine in World War II. He survived the invasion of Tarawa, in the Pacific. He won a Purple Heart and lived another sixty years to become a husband and father. Last night he died a hero saving a young man’s life.”

  “Can I quote you?”

  “Yeah, you can quote me.”

  “So let’s go back to the shooting,” Jerry said professionally. “The four guys came in blasting. Were you able to get a look at them?”

  “They were black-”

  “You said they were wearing masks,” Jerry said skeptically.

  “Yeah, and short-sleeved shirts.”

  “You are so cool,” he said, scribbling. “What happened next?”

  “Their AA-12s alerted me right away that they were there to shoot. I dove off the stool the instant I saw them and rolled for cover before they fired their first shot. I stayed covered through most of the attack.”

  I told Jerry about the gunman I shot in the thigh and the one who took three in the ski mask. I explained how steel bird shot saved my life. “Be sure to write about the bird shot,” I said. “I want the gunmen to get pissed off at their ammo supplier and fight with them.”

  Jerry nodded. “What else?”

  “That’s all for now,” I said, rubbing my eyes. “I’m tired.”

  “What about Joy and Lou?”

  “Later.”

  He started the car again. “I’ll take you home so you can get some rest.”

  “No … take me to Kugel’s. The Mini doesn’t stand out. Maybe the police didn’t see it.”

  “You intend to drive in your condition?”

  “I’m in better condition than most drivers in Boca.”

  The Mini was in the Kugel’s lot fifty yards from the entrance. The right-front headlight was blown out, and two side windows were shattered. I had done it myself when I fired at the departing shooters. “Son of a bitch,” I said, getting out of the car.

  “You and your car need repairs,” Jerry said.

  “You’re right. I have no headlights or windows. I’ll take the Mini to the dealer in Fort Lauderdale and get a loaner. I have too much to do to be without a car.”

  “What about Claudette’s car? Does she even know you checked yourself out of the hospital?”

  “No. She would have had me strapped to my bed. I’m too dangerous to be around anyway.”

  I told him about IED and EPD, the strange red veil and people trying to kill me.

  “I can’t believe you have brain damage and you’re in mortal danger and you call me?” Jerry said, shaking his head.

  “It’s a great story.”

  “In that case, call me anytime,” he said and drove away.

  I was about to start the car when a thought occurred to me. How did Grover’s shooters know where to find me? I would have noticed being followed. I got out of the Mini, knelt, and looked under the car.

  Damn!

  The guy in the green shirt had washed bugs off my windshield and put one under
the car.

  I detached the transmitter and stood up. It was a ProTrak GPS. I disconnected the wires and put the device in my back pocket.

  I’m doing the tracking from now on.

  I drove to the Lauderdale Mini dealer. They gave me a loaner in blue.

  “You want tinted windows when I replace them?” Tony, in the repair shop, asked. “You’re a detective, you should have privacy.”

  “Tint the windows.”

  “We’ll make the car look like new.”

  “Can you make me look like new?”

  “Too late for that.”

  I was relieved Claudette’s car wasn’t in the lot when I got home. I needed to be alone.

  As I got out of the car, it occurred to me that Grover might try a second attack. He couldn’t get to Lou, and he didn’t know where I was now that the tracker was disconnected. The odds were I was safe for now, but I couldn’t help being a little paranoid.

  I checked the lock on my apartment door and was satisfied no one had tampered with it. I entered the apartment and went directly to a closet in the second bedroom. I slid two shoe boxes out from under two larger boxes on the closet shelf and carried them to the kitchen. I put the boxes on the table, flipped the lid off one, and removed a handsome handgun made of high-grade carbon steel with a brightly polished blue finish. The Colt King Cobra was a gun for all reasons. It could fire .38-caliber bullets with decent stopping power or discharge high-powered .357 Magnum rounds … capable of “blowing your head clean off” according to Dirty Harry, a movie cop. I’d purchased the Colt on a whim in 1982 and hadn’t used it much over the years. But I kept it well-oiled and ready to use. I figured the police were holding my Glock and the bad guys were holding AA-12 cannons. Now was as good a time as any to give the old Cobra a shot.

  In the second shoe box were dozens of rounds of each caliber. I chose Mr. Magnum’s deadliest version and slipped one into each of the six chambers of the Colt. I gave the loaded cylinder a spin for good luck.

  I stepped onto my balcony overlooking the golf course and thought of the red planet of Mars. The Boca Heights fairways were green, but they looked vermilion to me, and the four golfers approaching the tee were all dressed in red, in my eyes. I wondered if I would spend the rest of my life seeing the world through rose-colored glasses.

  I used my cell to call Claudette and hoped she wouldn’t answer. I got her voice mail and talked at the beep.

  “Hi, Claudette,” I began, clearing my throat. “I don’t know any easy way to say this so here goes. I checked myself out of the hospital. Last night’s shooting and explosion weren’t accidents. Grover sent assassins to kill us, and Joy was collateral damage. I don’t want that to happen to you. It’s not safe around me right now. I took a risk and went to the apartment, but I don’t want you to go there. Don’t visit Lou and Joy at the hospital until I think it’s safe. Stay with your grandmother. I’ll let you know when this is over.”

  I disconnected without telling her I loved her. My mind just wasn’t working that way. I was focused on survival, justice, and revenge. As I turned to reenter the apartment, I heard a loud, angry scream …

  “Muthah fuckah!”

  I figured it was one of the three surviving shooters from Kugel’s. The hanging clay pot above my head exploded, and pieces flew into my living room. I hit the deck. I hadn’t heard a gunshot, but it had to have come from the golf course.

  Rifle, silencer, I thought.

  I reached for the Cobra in my waistband, got up, and fired a warning shot in the air to let the bastards know I was armed. There was no return fire. I fanned my gun in all directions. I looked down on the tee and saw four golfers lying facedown, motionless.

  Not again. Enough people had already died because of me.

  One of the golfers shouted, “Don’t shoot, okay?” and stood up slowly, his hands above his head.

  What’s going on?

  “My name’s Al Shapiro,” the golfer called to me. “I’m a member here. It was an accident. Honest.”

  The other three got up slowly, holding their hands in the air.

  “It was the damnedest thing I ever saw.” Shapiro pointed. “Unger over there hit his drive into that rock over there, and the ball ricocheted onto your balcony and broke the pot.”

  I lowered the gun, and the four of them put their hands down.

  “Nothing personal, man,” Unger shouted. “But you should try an anger-management class.”

  I shook my head and was walking back into my living room when Unger called to me.

  “Hey, man, I think my ball went in your living room. Could you throw it back?”

  I turned and took aim. “Forget it,” Unger said and ran to his cart. I watched them drive away.

  Pottery shards littered the living-room rug. I picked up a golf ball on the coffee table. It was a TiTech, forty-five-cent ball with the name barry unger stamped on it.

  “Damn golfers,” I muttered and tossed the ball in the trash.

  I cleaned up, changed clothes, grabbed a box of ammunition, put my Cobra back in my pants, and drove to my office.

  I went to Lou’s room, retrieved the Big Game Investments folder, and took it to my office. I sat behind my desk, leaned back, and opened the Hunter file. An eight-by-ten, computer-generated photo of Hunter was on top. He was leaning against a classic ‘56 Corvette convertible, arms folded in front of him, legs crossed casually at the ankles. He was wearing tan pants and a royal-blue golf shirt. A sweater was draped casually over the back of his shoulders, long sleeves tied stylishly across his chest. His wavy, black hair was slick like a matador’s. He looked confident and relaxed, not at all like the rattled, despondent person I had seen at Grover’s estate. I set the picture aside and read.

  James Jeffrey Hunter, born in New York City in 1950, went to Erasmus High School in Brooklyn, where he was voted Most Handsome his senior year. It was his only honor. He was a below-average student with below-average ambition, content to get by on his good looks and easygoing manner. Despite his showing no academic aptitude, Jim’s father, a city ward politician, was able to get his son admitted to CCNY and avoid the Vietnam War. The crowning moment of Hunter’s college career was appearing as an extra in the movie Love Story during a Harvard graduation scene filmed, for some reason, on the CCNY campus. After graduating at the bottom of his class from the Harvard of 135th Street, Hunter got a series of inconsequential jobs. His employment usually lasted as long as it took his employers to learn he was not nearly as good as he looked. It was the same with impressionable women. They tended to love him at first sight but leave him after a second look. Some women didn’t see through him soon enough, and he got three rich ones to marry him. Each marriage ended with a disillusioned wife willing to pay Hunter to leave. During the death throes of his third marriage, he met Benjamin Grover at a cocktail party. Grover was introduced to Hunter as the shrewdest investment man on Wall Street, and thus began a relationship that lasted longer than any of Jimmy’s marriages.

  I dropped the folder on the desk. Grover and Hunter were meant for each other. One was fascinatingly enigmatic. The other was superficially charismatic. One lied. The other sold those lies to people who should have known better. Euphoric investors told friends about Grover’s unbelievable returns, and those friends told their friends. Soon everyone believed the unbelievable and wanted to be admitted into B.I.G. land. Perhaps the most unbelievable thing of all was that Big Game Hunter was accepted as a gatekeeper to Grover’s Magic Kingdom. Hunter, who had never made a decent living in his life, was growing rich taking other people’s money and giving it to a fraud.

  My overall impression was that Hunter wasn’t evil. I didn’t think he fully understood the consequences of his actions. He was a remora … riding on the back of a whale … going places he could never have gone on his own. Hunter became rich and respected in his world, but I knew he was the most vulnerable target for a counterattack on Grover’s evil empire.

  It was late afternoon when I call
ed Hunter’s cell phone.

  “Jim Hunter,” he answered,

  “Eddie Perlmutter.”

  Hunter cleared his throat. “I’m a little surprised to hear from you.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “We had a rather unpleasant meeting as I’m sure you’ll agree. Then this morning on the news I heard you had been involved in a horrible shooting and were in intensive care.”

  “Don’t believe everything you hear on the news. I’m fine.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” he said, sounding sincere. “But why are you calling me and why so late.”

  “You’re close to Grover,” I said, flattering him, “and this couldn’t wait.”

  “I understand. What can I do for you?”

  “I want you to tell Grover that I got his message last night. Tell him I understood it completely.”

  “What message?”

  “He’ll know, ask him,” I said evasively. “Tell him there’s no need for a follow-up message. We have no further interest in pursuing the investigation.”

  Is lying to a liar really lying?

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I’m glad you reached an understanding,” Hunter said.

  “There’s more,” I said, starting to believe that Hunter was clueless about the attacks. “Be sure to let him know that if decides to send further messages, I’ll answer him in person. If I’m unable to do that for any reason, tell him I’ll respond through the mail with all the information I have.”

  “Will he understand you?”

  “You better hope he does, Jim. It’s very important to both of you.”

  “That sounds ominous. What does this have to do with me?”

  “Ask Grover when you give him the message,” I said and disconnected.