Boca Daze

by Steven M. Forman

  At nine, I went to the lobby for the free continental breakfast. Five glasses of water and three cups of coffee provided some comfort … but the prune Danish was a big mistake. I rushed back to my room.

  Promptly at eleven, Mick called. “Good morning,” he chirped.

  “No, it’s not,” I said in a thick voice. “All I’ve been doing since I woke up is rehydrating and moving my bowels.”

  “Are you sick?”

  “I think John Jameson tried to kill me last night. How are you feeling?”

  “I feel great,” he said with the enthusiasm of an Amway salesman. “I was at the statehouse this morning at nine and set up an appointment with James Field for six this evening. He’s very excited about meeting the Boca Knight.”

  “He’s heard of me?” I asked, rubbing my temples.

  “According to him, everyone in South Florida has heard of you. I think he sees you as a vote getter.”

  “Whatever works.”

  “I’ll pick you up in half hour. We’ll retrieve your oxcart, have lunch, and then you’re on your own till six.”

  “That should give me enough time to kill myself,” I told him.

  Later, when I got into Mick’s white Jeep Wrangler with a soft Bikini top, his first words to me were, “Your eyes are bloodshot.”

  “I’m making progress. A few minutes ago they were bleeding.”

  It was a beautiful March day in Tallahassee, the kind of day that makes you glad to be alive unless you’re so hungover you wish you were dead.

  Mick clutched, shifted, and pulled away from the motel. “Four-wheel drive, five gears on the floor, short wheelbase, narrow frame.”

  I tried to pay attention but I couldn’t. I tried nodding my head but even that hurt.

  My Mini was across the street from the State House Steak House, and it started as sluggishly as I felt. I drove behind Mick a few blocks away to a restaurant named Zaxby’s. On the way, I decided the funky, old Jeep Wrangler was made with Mad Mick Murphy in mind. His shaggy red hair and full beard waved in the wind, and his denim shirt fluttered under his sleeveless, lightweight Windbreaker. His bumper sticker, i’d rather be sailing, was totally believable. Like Joy Feely and Lou Dewey, they were made for each other.

  At Zaxby’s, Mick ordered a Zaxby’s Zenzation Zalad and I chose one of the Big Zax Snax Chicken Fingers with Texas Toast. We both ordered Coke.

  “No Jameson’s?” I asked, rubbing my temples.

  “Later,” he promised.

  “So what did you learn this morning?”

  “Field wants to work with you. A year ago, he was on a House subcommittee that dug up a lot of information on these pain clinics. Unfortunately, the committee wasn’t able to garner much support from his fellow reps. It just wasn’t on the top of anyone’s agenda.”

  “What is on top?” I asked, unhappy.

  “There are 2,500 pieces of legislation in front of the Senate right now and 1,300 bills in the House. It’s a matter of priorities.”

  “You want to talk numbers and priorities? Six or seven Floridians die every day from drugs purchased through pill mills, which is three times more than die from cocaine or heroin. Florida is the number one source of this shit. What legislation is the Senate considering this session that’s more important than saving lives?”

  “Well, today there’s a vote concerning saltwater fisheries-”

  “You must be kidding.” I raised my voice. “Who cares about fish?”

  “Fishermen. And consumers. Seafood is a natural resource that has to be regulated. The legislation today proposes carefully considered rule changes and improved record keeping. There are provisions for stricter penalties and injunctions for violations, state-grant considerations, quality-standards enforcement, tougher licensing requirements, improved conservation programs, updated equipment regulations, more stringent illegal-importation restrictions, and preventative measures against the illegal use of nets. Millions of dollars and thousands of lives will be affected by this bill. It’s actually very important legislation.”

  “Not more important than saving lives,” I said. “What else is on the agenda?”

  “State energy plans, sex offender laws, the state budget, consumer initiatives, statewide insurance, labor laws, and green legislation … all worthy causes.”

  “They’re not any more worthy than mine.”

  “Maybe not, but they’re more politically correct,” he said. “Legislators would rather support ecology and the economy than worry about addicts killing themselves with illicit drugs. I’m not saying every bill being considered is more important than your crusade. I told you about the breastfeeding bill. I say, let women breastfeed whoever they want wherever they want. But, the breast bill has gone through the system for several years and finally made the docket. You just started, and even if you get on the docket someday … there’s no guarantee your bill will pass.”

  “Do you think I’m wasting my time?”

  “No. You’d be wasting your time if you did nothing,” Mick said. “I just wanted you to know that you’re fighting an uphill battle.”

  “I’m good at that.”

  The Zalad and Zax Znax arrived, and we ate with enthusiasm.

  I followed Mick to the statehouse. He got out of his Jeep and approached my car.

  “I have appointments the rest of the afternoon,” he said, leaning down so we were face-to-face. “You’ll have to kill four hours before we meet with Field. You feel like sightseeing?”

  “What’s to see?”

  “The easterly view of the Tallahassee statehouse is one in a million.”

  “What’s so special?”

  “You’ll have to see for yourself. Drive east on Apalachee for about a quarter mile … make a U-turn … and drive back towards the statehouse. You won’t believe what you see. After that, I suggest a tour of both statehouses. The Observation Deck on the twenty-second floor of the new statehouse has a beautiful view of the city. I’ll meet you at quarter to six at the Steak House.”

  I followed Mick’s directions and approached the statehouse from the east on Apalachee. The building was a perfectly vertical, unadorned mini-skyscraper. On either side of the tower were low, domed office wings. As the image took shape, I started to laugh and picked up my cell phone. I punched in Mick’s newly entered speed-dial number.

  “What do you think?” he asked without a greeting.

  “I’ve never seen a pornographic statehouse before.”

  “It’s the only twenty-two-story erection in the world. And the domes at the base on both sides side make it the full package. It’s referred to locally as the the cock-and-balls building.”

  “Thanks for the colorful description,” I said, noting that journalists swore like cops. “Any other phallic symbols I should check out?”

  “No, that’s about it. Don’t forget to visit the old statehouse. It’s interesting.”

  “Where is the old statehouse?”

  “Right in front of the scrotum sack of the new one,” he joked.

  I would have chosen other words to give directions, but he got his point across.

  “Hey, Senator,” Mick said. “Wait a second. I have to talk to you. Eddie, gotta go.”

  “Go get him, reporter,” I said.

  The original statehouse was built in 1845, and changes were made over the years until the $45 million cock-and-balls building opened for business in 1977. The old statehouse was almost torn down, but the city decided to refurbish and open it to tourists like me. Elegant columns lined the entrance, and the Florida State seal hung over the front doors. An impressive stained-glass window in the domed ceiling looked down on the foyer. Rooms filled with artifacts from Florida’s past lined the corridors, and the Rotunda walls were filled with civic awards, including the Congressional Medal of Honor. A display case in one room contained a pair of beat-up hiking boots worn by former governor Lawton Chiles during a 1003-mile march from Pensacola to Key West. He did it to draw attention to his candidacy
for governor. It worked. He won.

  I visited the restored Senate and House chambers, then went outside to the courtyard that separated the past from the present. A replica of the Liberty Bell, crack and all, served as a reminder of how this country started. A plaque affirmed that Florida had fought for the Confederacy, and a statue of Martin Luther King confirmed that things had changed. I entered the phallic symbol’s lobby and took the elevator to the twenty-second floor, where I looked out over downtown Tallahassee. I had seen New York City from the observation deck of the Empire State Building and the Dead Sea from the flat summit of Masada. The view of Tallahassee didn’t impress me … but it didn’t disappoint me either. Everything is relative.

  I returned to earth and sat on a bench in the courtyard, people watching. My first observation: People from Tallahassee were different from people from Boca. Tallahassee people are primarily from Tallahassee. People in Boca are usually from Snow Bird Nation: New York, New Jersey, Philadelphia, Chicago, Detroit, Boston, Hartford, and Toronto. In the winter, Boca becomes a melting pot for frozen Jews from the North, while Tallahassee is always Tallahassee. I decided that the permanent people of the Panhandle and the seasonal citizens of Palm Beach County were not better or worse than each other … just different.

  I’m glad I got that settled.

  With the sun warming the holes in my head, I slouched my butt forward on the seat, rested my head on the back of the bench, crossed my ankles, and fell asleep.

  “Are you all right, mister?” I heard a young woman’s voice ask. I opened my eyes slowly and looked at her. She wore a concerned expression on her freckled face and an oversize Florida state sweatshirt from her shoulders to her knees.

  I rubbed my eyes and sat up straight. “I’m fine.”

  “You didn’t move for so long I was afraid …” She hesitated.

  “That I was dead.”

  “Well, yeah,” she said, embarrassed. “At your age …”

  “How old do you think I am?” I thought I looked pretty good for sixty-one.

  “In your fifties,” she said hesitantly, not wanting to insult me.

  “I’m sixty-one,” I told her proudly.

  “Wow. That’s wicked old.”

  “No, it’s not. Sixty is the new forty-five.”

  “Forty-five is old.”

  I laughed. “How old are you?”

  “Eighteen.”

  Wow. That’s wicked young.

  I was forty-three years older than her. My wife had died before this kid was born. It was like comparing the view from the Empire State Building to the view from the top of the penis building … everything is relative. I glanced at my watch. It was after five. I had been asleep for the blink of an eye, relatively speaking.

  “I gotta go,” I said to the college girl. “There’s no time to waste, remember that.”

  James Field was an energetic, dark-haired man in his late forties, athletically built and handsome. He was in his second term as Monroe County’s state representative and planned to run for the state Senate in the next election. I was impressed by him, and he seemed to be impressed by me. I wanted to talk about pill mills, but he only wanted talk about my anti-Nazi rally two years ago in Palm Beach and the thousands of people who joined my crusade. They were potential votes for him.

  “I hope I can inspire people the way you did that day,” he told me.

  We talked about the low-income clinic I helped establish in Delray, the Russian Mafia I shut down, and the kidnapping case I solved just last year.

  “A lot of people in South Florida respect what you have to say,” he told me. “I’d love to have your support in the next election.”

  “Are you saying you’ll help me if I help you?” I asked skeptically.

  “Not at all.” He held up both hands defensively. “I was involved in a pill mill investigation long before I met you. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to earn your support.”

  Fair enough. “Understood, I’ll consider it.”

  “Excellent. Now let’s talk about the pill mills.”

  I told him everything, and he took notes.

  “Fort Lauderdale is District Ninety-four,” Field said. “Don Diccicio is the rep. Good man. He was on the pill mill committee with me. We gathered a lot of information but not much legislative support. Other issues took priority.”

  “Mick explained how that works.”

  “It’s complicated. Maybe we’re better off focusing on closing down the No Pain-U-Gain Clinic, nailing this doctor, and getting some publicity. Gaining support for legislation will be easier if we raise awareness with a high-profile arrest.”

  “I agree,” I said.

  “I’ll call Diccicio right now and see what he thinks.”

  Field scrolled a list of numbers on his cell phone and pressed a button. Mick winked.

  Connected people push a button and doors fly open.

  “Don … it’s James,” Field said. “Sounds like you’re at a party.” He listened. “That’s where I am, at a booth in the bar. I’m with Mick Murphy and a friend of his, Eddie Perlmutter, the Boca Knight.” Pause. “Yeah, that’s him. I’d like you to join us for a minute. Mr. Perlmutter is looking for our help.” Field closed his phone. “He’s here. He’ll be right over.”

  A minute later Don Diccicio, state representative for Fort Lauderdale, was at our booth, holding out his hand. “Eddie Perlmutter, the Boca Knight,” he said, smiling. “It’s an honor to meet you.” Even in his politician’s blue suit, Diccicio looked like a tough guy and seemed genuinely excited to meet me. I never thought of myself as a celebrity, but I guess I was to some people. Celebrities get special treatment. I needed special treatment. I told him it was an honor to meet him, too. He pulled up a chair, sat down, and asked what he could do for me. I repeated my clinic story for his benefit, finishing up with the No Pain-U-Gain facility.

  “I know that place,” Diccicio said, turning to James Field. “They were part of our original investigation.”

  Field shrugged. “I don’t remember.”

  “How long have you known about this clinic?” I asked.

  “Two years,” Diccicio told me.

  “Why haven’t they been closed down?” I asked, remembering the raid I witnessed on Federal Highway with Fort Lauderdale police officers Antonelli and Curley. It seemed like an eternity ago.

  “Closing them down doesn’t accomplish anything unless there’s a lot of publicity involved,” Field interjected. “Another shop will just open down the road.”

  “James is correct,” Diccicio said. “If we can prove the doctor and the clinic are in a conspiracy to break the law, we can close the place, pull the doctor’s license, and put a bunch of people in jail. Do that enough times, and we can get support for statewide legislation.”

  “What kind of legislation do we need?” I asked.

  “We need a commonsense bill,” Diccicio said. “All these mills sell is drugs. If we pass a bill that says only 50 percent of a clinic’s square footage can be used to sell drugs, we create a problem for illegitimate pharmacies. If we require that all doctors be registered and not have criminal convictions on their records, we’ll eliminate a lot of them. If we have a bill that says doctors cannot work only at pill mills, we could eliminate Twilight Doctors.”

  “What are Twilight Doctors?” I asked.

  “Doctors in their twilight years who want to be busy and earn some serious money,” Diccicio answered. “Pill mills are their only source of income. Without Twilight Doctors, the clinics would have a labor problem. It’s not a solution. It’s just one step. We also need stiffer penalties for violations. We need legitimate examinations to accompany all prescriptions. No more bullshit MRIs that a phony doctor can interpret any way he wants. We need to regulate the number of pills a clinic can issue to one person a day, a week, or a month. And then we need to ban advertising so these places are not so easy to find.”

  “This is beginning to sound like the fishing bill Mick told m
e about this morning,” I said. “The loopholes never end.”

  “Legislation is an imperfect tool to fight crime, but it provides guidelines for enforcement,” Field said.

  “Okay, let’s get back to the Fort Lauderdale clinic,” I said. “What would you need to close it, arrest the doctor, and prosecute everyone involved?”

  “We’d have to catch them in the act of willfully breaking Florida law,” Field said. “Right now they’re working within an unregulated system, and it’s tough to prove anything. They’re always one step ahead of us. The MRIs I mentioned are the biggest loophole. If a patient comes into a clinic with an MRI, the doctor can interpret that MRI any way he sees fit and supply drugs based entirely on his opinion. An MRI interpretation is so subjective it’s impossible to challenge. Plus, the MRI clinics are part of the racket. Some of them open up in trailers behind the clinic.”

  “One-stop shopping,” I said. “Clever. Do you know anything about Patel?”

  “He’s a Twilight Doctor who uses the MRI racket almost exclusively,” Diccicio said. “He’s also a greedy bastard. He writes prescriptions for six clinics owned by a Cuban gang out of Miami. Getting to them is almost impossible with all the protective layers they have from top to bottom. But if we can close enough of their clinics, then pass legislation, we can put them out of business.”

  “Let’s make a deal right now,” I said. “If I can catch a doctor and a clinic deliberately breaking the law, get the clinic closed, the doctor prosecuted, and generate a lot of public attention, you two guarantee to support a new legislative effort.”

  There were nods all around.

  We had a light dinner and said our goodbyes outside the restaurant. The politicians departed, leaving Mick and me alone on the sidewalk.

  “What do you think?” Mick asked.

  “I think I have a lot of work to do,” I said. “I better head back to Boca and get started.”

  “I think you should take some time off and rest. You’ve been through a lot.”

  “I could use the rest. But after you’ve seen the penis building, what’s left to see in Tallahassee?”