Boca Daze

by Steven M. Forman

  When he was standing next to me again, he said, “I couldn’t resist. What a show. Lou should be here.”

  “You’re right.” I called Lou on my cell. “We got Grover, Lou. The FBI raided the mansion this morning with a search warrant.”

  “No way,” Lou shouted and repeated my words to Joy.

  “Way to go, Eddie,” I heard her say in the background.

  “The FBI is leading him away in cuffs as we speak,” I continued.

  “How’s he look?” Lou asked.

  “Terrible.”

  “Fabulous,” Lou crowed. “I wish I was there.”

  “You are here, Lou. Your research nailed this bastard.”

  “Yeah, and almost got us killed.”

  A hyper-thin woman with a surgically enhanced face was being escorted from the house, screaming, “Do you know who I am?” at two agents holding her arms.

  “I think they just took Mrs. Grover away,” I told Lou.

  “You think our names will be mentioned on television?”

  “I asked that the FBI keep our names out of it. We don’t need the publicity, do we?”

  After a moment’s hesitation Lou said, “No, we don’t.”

  Live and learn.

  I watched as the boko of Wall Street was loaded into the backseat of a government sedan. I was witnessing history: the end of Wall Street Wonderland; the mythical place at the bottom of the rabbit hole also known as the Bottomless Pit.

  The search of Grover’s mansion went on for hours with agents carrying box after box from the house. I had no idea what the cartons contained, but I knew it wasn’t good news for Grover or his investors.

  Special Agent Mack approached me. “I received a call from the agents in New York City. The raid on B.I.G. headquarters will take much longer than this. There are two floors of records to cart away.”

  “What about the warehouse with the stock certificates and trading tickets?” I asked.

  “That search is still ongoing, but from what I’m hearing, it’s a farce. They’ve opened a few hundred out of maybe a thousand boxes. All they’ve found so far are old records from the auto supply company that owned the warehouse before Grover rented it. The records go back to the 1980s but have nothing to do with Grover’s businesses. Interestingly enough, all the boxes are stenciled B.I.G.”

  “Grover was hoping no one would ever open the boxes,” I said. “It reminds me of the Tino De Angelis scam of the early sixties.”

  “I remember that. De Angelis filled empty salad-oil tanks with water and used them as proof of assets. He topped the water off with a slick of salad oil, and the authorities never checked below the surface. The guy stole millions before they caught him.”

  “The world will always have suckers,” I said. “Any news on the raid on Hunter’s office?”

  “All I know is Hunter collapsed, claiming he was having a heart attack. He was rushed to the hospital.”

  “He’s faking it. I hope the search continued?”

  “We didn’t miss a beat. This is going to be one hell of a story. You sure you don’t want any credit?”

  “You can have it,” I told Mack. “I want to stay anonymous until I find the shooters and bombers.”

  “I’ll do some checking for you through our records. See if we have anyone on file with that kind of MO.”

  “Thanks, but I doubt these guys will be on file. Speaking of shooters, what were those gunshots I heard?”

  “Grover tried to escape in his helicopter,” Mack said. “He was in his pajamas and bathrobe running across the back lawn. When the pilot started the engine, one of our guys fired a warning shot in the air. Grover dove for the ground and the pilot jumped out of the copter with his hands up.”

  “Why the second shot?”

  “The pilot forgot to shut off the engine. The empty copter was in gear and starting to rise. The agent blasted the rotors to keep the damn thing grounded.”

  “If Grover was trying to escape in pajamas, why was he wearing shorts when he came out of the house?”

  “His pajama bottoms got stained in all the excitement. We let him change.”

  We both laughed and started walking away, then Mack asked, “What’s with the Rolls against the wall?”

  “It looks like an accident to me.”

  He looked at the unconscious man in the driver’s seat. “You know this man?”

  “Yeah, he washed cars for Grover and planted a transmitter under my Mini.”

  I told Mack the story and that I still had the tracking device.

  “His prints are probably still on it,” Mack figured. “When can I have it?”

  “Now. It’s in my car.”

  “Let’s get it,” he said, looking in the Rolls’s window again. “This guy looks pretty bad.”

  “He’ll live.”

  We went to my car and got the transmitter. Agent Mack shook my hand. “It was a pleasure working with the Boca Knight.”

  “It was an honor working with the FBI.”

  I walked to my car and turned the key in the ignition. The little engine sprang to life like a power lawn mower. Jerry joined me. “Let’s go home, ace reporter,” I said,

  “Don’t forget my car at Kraus,” Jerry said.

  “Did you have a good time,” I asked as he got into his car.

  “You’re the best.”

  We drove to Boca in a downpour.

  I went directly to the hospital to celebrate with Joy and Lou. They looked much better. Joy’s face glowed like my red veil, and Lou looked like himself again, a skinny version of Elvis with braces on his teeth.

  We exchanged hugs and stories. I got the biggest laugh with Grover’s pajamas.

  “Have you called Claudette?” Joy asked.

  “Not yet,” I said. “I’m evaluating the fallout.”

  “I think it’s safe,” Lou said. “The damage is done. Grover is finished. Our names weren’t mentioned, and the FBI is taking credit.”

  “I’ll wait until the story comes out,” I decided. “Leave the TV on for any special bulletins.”

  “It’s only been a couple of hours,” Lou said.

  “In a digital world that’s a lifetime,” Joy pointed out, and Lou nodded.

  A few minutes later, a bulletin began scrolling across the bottom of the screen: SPECIAL REPORT - THE OFFICES AND HOMES OF B. I. GROVER WERE RAIDED TODAY BY THE FBI. MORE TO FOLLOW.

  “Armageddon has begun,” Lou said.

  “It’s Steve Coleman,” I said, looking at my caller ID.

  “To the lifeboats,” Lou said. “Women, children, and morons first.”

  “Eddie, did you hear the news about Grover?” Steve asked when I answered.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know what happened?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me,” Steve insisted.

  “I told you already.”

  “Is it as bad as it sounds?”

  “Wait for the details.” I disconnected and looked at Lou. “I feel terrible.”

  “You did what you could for him,” Lou said.

  “He’ll lose a lot of money.”

  “He’ll survive. A lot of people won’t.”

  At five that afternoon, the shit hit the fan and splattered in the face of the international financial world.

  “At nine this morning,” a television newsman announced, “FBI agents in New York and Florida, armed with federal search warrants, raided the offices and homes of B. I. Grover, founder and CEO of B.I.G. Investments … the largest hedge fund in the world.”

  Pictures of B.I.G. headquarters in Manhattan and Grover’s mansion in Palm Beach flashed on the screen. A video showing FBI agents swarming into a New York City office building came next.

  “FBI agents swept into the Commerce Building offices of B.I.G. and shut the company down. Employees were ordered to leave while agents confiscated printed records and computer hard drives. The process could take days.”

  Videos of employees leaving the building and F
BI agents lugging cartons out the front door filled the screen for a few seconds, followed by an obligatory flash of palm trees and a sign that read welcome to palm beach. Great footage showed the front gates being run down. A voice droned over the action, “In Palm Beach, agents had to force entry into the Grover mansion when no one in the house responded to repeated requests from the FBI.”

  “I was there,” I told Joy and Lou. “I didn’t see anyone shooting a video.”

  “B. I. Grover was removed from the premises in cuffs after attempting to flee in a helicopter.”

  A brief shot of the helicopter was followed by Grover being led away in cuffs … wearing rumpled shorts and a pajama top.

  “There’s Jerry Small.” Joy pointed, and there he was, snapping pictures and giving a thumbs-up.

  “FBI sources told FLN News that the raid was the culmination of a ten-year investigation started by the late forensic mathematician Harry Chan. The FBI believes that Grover’s financial empire is nothing more than a multibillion-dollar Ponzi scheme. More news when it happens.”

  “The FBI source must have been Tom Mack,” I said. “Good man.”

  “Call Claudette right now,” Joy said. “She deserves to share this moment with us.”

  I punched in her mobile number. No answer. “Call me,” I said to the answering machine and disconnected, disappointed.

  The phone rang five minutes later, but it wasn’t Claudette. It was Dr. Glenn Kessler.

  “What’s up, Doc?” I asked, knowing that everything was down.

  “I just saw Grover on the news. What can you tell me?”

  “I could tell you … I told you so. But I won’t.”

  “Do you think I’ll lose everything?”

  “Ask your financial adviser.”

  “Hunter’s in the hospital … under arrest,” Kessler told me.

  “Maybe you should ask someone else.”

  “Anything you can do to help me?”

  “I tried,” I reminded him. “Now it’s too late.”

  My call waiting vibrated again. “I’ve got another call.” I clicked off.

  “Eddie, Steve Coleman again. What can you tell me?”

  “I told you before, but you wouldn’t listen.”

  “I’m listening now,” he said. “My group stands to lose about 7 million bucks.”

  “You only invested 5 million.”

  “We made almost 2 million in only a few months.”

  A blast of red flashed in my head, and my cheeks burned. It felt as if I were holding a hair blower two inches from my face. “What is the matter with you?” I raised my voice. “You didn’t make any profit.”

  “Yes, we did. I have all the statements. I’m the group treasurer.”

  “The statements are all false. Don’t you get it?”

  “They are not. I accounted for all the trades,” Steve defended himself. “I checked them.”

  “It was a fraud, Steve. All of it.”

  “How could he do this to us?” Steve asked, reluctantly getting the picture

  “Because you let him.” I disconnected. I turned to Lou again. “How stupid can people get?”

  “The sky’s the limit,” the former con man said.

  The phone rang a half hour later. It was Claudette. “Where were you?” I said, sounding like a little kid.

  “Surgery,” she said breathlessly.

  “Guess what?”

  “I’ll be home in an hour,” she said without waiting for an explanation.

  We met at the apartment within the hour. It was awesome.

  “Wow,” Claudette panted. “What a pill.”

  “I didn’t take a pill.” I told her about Mr. Johnson’s two impromptu visits. “I guess he got stimulated when he realized I was going to nail the world’s biggest fraud.”

  “Foreplay is less dangerous.”

  “Maybe I need the excitement.”

  “Were you bored with me?” she asked.

  “No, I was bored with me. I went into an ‘Is that all there is?’ funk… . I felt irrelevant.”

  “You are the most relevant man I ever met.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “But feeling irrelevant doesn’t require a unanimous vote.”

  “You’re an aging rock star like Mick Jagger.”

  “The Girl Scout who sells me Viagra thinks I’m a dirty old man.”

  “You are. Thank God.”

  “Maybe, but I can’t depend on life-threatening events to give me erections.”

  “That would be too stressful,” she agreed. “Do you think you’re okay now?”

  “I’m okay for now. I can’t say how long this feeling will last.”

  “No one knows how long anything will last. Let’s just enjoy what we have now.”

  Grover Mania spread like a virus.

  The day after the raid the Post’s front-page headline shrieked:

  BEND-OVER-GROVER

  Three days later, the cover of Money Matters magazine proclaimed:

  GROVER IS OVER

  But the best headline was the first one, published the afternoon of the raid in a special edition of the South Florida News under Jerry Small’s byline:

  B.I.G. - P.I.G.

  A photo of Grover staring blankly at the camera was splashed across the front page. He was in cuffs, having a bad-hair day, wearing wrinkled shorts, maroon velour slippers, and a silky, flowered pajama top. Sales of the South Florida News tripled.

  A Grover-thon followed with new revelations daily: securities fraud, wire fraud, mail fraud, money laundering, perjury, false statements, looted employee funds, obstruction of justice, and false filings with the SEC and IRS.

  Rumors were rampant:

  Thousands of investors lose billions of dollars.

  B.I.G. feeder funds knew it was a fraud.

  Many charities close.

  It was an international disaster. Distraught women wailed on television, “We’ve lost everything.”

  Angry men gritted their teeth and growled, “If that rat bastard was here right now, I’d kick him in the balls.”

  Pitiful couples looked into the cameras moaning, “How could Benjamin do this to us? We were friends.”

  Sadness replaced smugness.

  “I’ve been had” replaced “I’ve been blessed.”

  I watched the carnage with a mixture of sadness and sadism.

  I’m sorry you lost your money, but what the hell did you expect?

  Two weeks after the raid, Lou was released from the hospital. I picked him up midafternoon and drove him to a nearby Embassy Suites Hotel. I had rented a standard suite for him customized with new computer equipment installed by Boca Nerds, a local group of high-tech geeks. I filled the refrigerator with Lou’s favorite foods, and the closet contained little Elvis-style outfits I’d selected. I helped him get acclimated and checked his bandages when I was ready to leave. I handed him a business card with the name and number of a limousine service. “They’re on call for you twenty-four hours a day. They need fifteen minutes’ notice.”

  “Thank you,” he said, and we hugged carefully. “I’ll get to work on the pain clinics right away.”

  “Take your time. Regain your strength and be there for Joy.”

  “I’m your man.”

  I went to the office and checked the phone messages. Bailey wanted to do lunch. Steve Coleman and Glenn Kessler had each called five times in two days. Their calls were always the same: What could I do for them? Neither asked how I was feeling. They had lost their money. I had only been shot in the head.

  Most people only think about themselves. Friends shouldn’t do that.

  Frank Burke left a message asking for an update. I returned his call and told him everything. He congratulated me on bowling over Grover, and I thanked him for his help with the FBI.

  “What’s next?” he asked.

  “Weary Willie. How are you guys doing with that?”

  “Not good. You?”

  “I’ve got a few things going,” I s
aid.

  “I’ll say a prayer for you tomorrow at Sunday mass.”

  Click! “Do you go to St. Mary’s in Boca?”

  “I used to go there but switched to St. Katherine’s in Delray a few years ago,” Frank said.

  “Why?”

  “I lost faith in Father Vincent Pestrito shortly after he transferred here from Brooklyn. St. Mary’s got into big financial trouble after he took over.”

  “Do you think he’s dishonest?”

  “I’d prefer to think he’s disorganized,” Frank said. “But I do know that St. Mary’s would have closed if a wealthy widow hadn’t died and left the church $4 million.”

  Click! Click! Click! The tumblers fell into place and the secret of St. Mary’s was revealed.

  Follow the money.

  “Why your sudden interest in local Catholicism?” Frank asked. “You’re Jewish.”

  “I’m flexible.”

  I called Three Bag Bailey and invited her to Sunday brunch.

  “Tomorrow’s Tuesday,” she insisted.

  I convinced her it was Sunday by counting the days since Harold Trager last served osso buco at the soup kitchen.

  “I want to go to IHOP for pancakes,” she said.

  “Okay, but we’re going to morning mass first.”

  “No way. I don’t do God.”

  “We’re going to St. Mary’s to check out the priest and pray for Willie,” I said. “If you know what I mean.”

  To my surprise she understood me. “What should I wear?”

  We sat in the last row of the sanctuary. Father Vincent took the pulpit in flowing white robes. He reminded me of a middle-aged Pillsbury Doughboy - round, plump, and soft. He had two chins, the lower one bigger than the upper one, and both jiggled when he talked. I watched him raise his hands in prayer, clean a wineglass, give Communion, and deliver a sermon. He sounded good to me and pious as hell.

  At the end of his sermon and after the last prayer, he raised his arms to the congregation. “Peace be with you.”

  “And also with you,” the worshippers responded.

  The mass concluded and we were the first ones out the door.

  “Did you like the service?”

  “I was asleep at amen,” Bailey said. “I want blueberry pancakes.”

  “No problem.”

  I watched Father Vincent interact with his flock at the front door, and everything looked normal on the surface. But I knew there were bogus books in the basement, blood on the building, and big bucks in the bank.