The Jefferson brothers walked in front of me and got in my face.
“Damian, you believe this little shit did so much damage?”
“Think I’ll do some damage to him,” Damian said and punched me in the mouth. It was a decent shot, and I felt my teeth loosen and my lips split. He looked surprised when I didn’t go down and startled when I spit blood in his face.
“Tough little mothuh fuckah,” Damian said. “You give it a try, Malcolm.”
“I knock him on his ass,” Malcolm said and threw a left hook at my jaw. I blocked it easily with my right arm and jabbed him with a left to his face.
Malcolm grabbed his bloody nose. “Son of a bitch,” he cursed. “JeMarcus, shoot that mothuh fuckah.”
“I’ll do it,” Damian volunteered and went for the shotgun.
“Your friend Mad Dog gonna be upset when he find you dead on his doorstep,” Damian said, walking toward me.
“I don’t know anyone named Mad Dog.”
“You full of shit, mothuh fuckah,” JeMarcus said and rapped my head hard with his gun. “I was there when you met Juice and told him you know Mad Dog.”
“I never saw you before in my life,” I said.
“Maybe this’ll help you remember.” JeMarcus pistol-whipped the back of my head. I went down on my knees. “You remember me now?”
The Jefferson brothers laughed.
I shook my head. “Never heard of you. And I usually remember assholes.”
JeMarcus kicked my ass, and I fell face forward.
“Don’t make no difference you know Mad Dog or not,” Malcolm said. “We gonna kill that big bastard anyway, and our gang gonna take over his part of Liberty City.”
“All three of you.” I laughed.
“We’re getting new recruits all the time,” Damian said. “We’ll have plenty of shooters.”
“Got an opening for me?” I asked, struggling to my feet so I wouldn’t pass out.
“Yeah, we gonna open a grave for you,” Malcolm said, shouldering the AA-12. “I’m gonna shoot you in the face just like I did to the old man in the coffee shop.”
My red veil caught on fire, and I dove under the shotgun, tackling Malcolm around the waist. I heard two shots go off and waited for the pain. There was none. I knocked Malcolm on his back and pushed the barrel of the AA-12 up against his face and away from mine. I wrapped both hands around the shotgun barrel and pulled it few inches from Malcolm’s face while he pulled in the opposite direction. When I brought it down on his face, I heard a cheekbone crack and an eye socket shatter. I hit him again, and his nose collapsed. Losing consciousness, Malcolm loosened his grip on the gun so I could pull it out of his hands. I lifted AA-12 over my head and crashed the butt down on his mouth. Teeth broke as a red inferno blazed in front of my eyes. I couldn’t understand why I hadn’t been shot dead by JeMarcus or Damian, but I didn’t let that stop me. I was focused on beating Malcolm to death for killing Herb Brown. I hit him with the butt of the gun again and again until the sight of his blood revolted me. I dropped the shotgun and stood up. Then, with adrenaline still humming through my veins, I stared at the damage I had done and was horrified.
I felt a strong hand on my shoulder. Reflexively I grabbed the fingers and twisted. The hand didn’t budge. “Take it easy, little man,” a deep voice said. It was Mad Dog.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, looking around the room. JeMarcus was dead on the floor, the back of his head blown away. Damian was across the room, a hole in his forehead the size of a half-dollar. I knew the exit wound was worse.
“I followed you here,” Mad Dog said. “These mothuh fuckahs was so busy beatin’ the shit outa you, they didn’t hear me come in.”
I noticed he was holding a rifle with an infrared scope. “You shot them with that?” I said, pointing.
He nodded.
“You could have shot them a little earlier.”
“I was busy listening to you deny knowing me,” he said. “Now I trust you.”
“I’m glad.” I slumped down on a storage box. “I can’t believe I beat that man to death.”
“You’ll get over it.”
“I’m no murderer.”
“Self-defense,” Mad Dog said, trying to make me feel better.
“Bullshit. He was unconscious, and I just kept hitting him. I don’t think I can live with that. I’ll have to turn myself in.”
“Well, if you gonna mope around the rest of your life because you think you beat some evil fuck to death, we better make sure he dead.”
“Of course he’s dead. Look at him.”
“Maybe he look worse than he is.” Mad Dog squatted next to Malcolm, pressed fingers into his neck, then looked up at me. “He got a pulse.”
“No way.”
Mad Dog put a hand on Malcolm’s chest. “He got a strong heartbeat, too. You didn’t kill no one, tough guy. You feel better now?”
“Are you sure?”
Mad Dog put his ear against Malcolm’s chest. “Yeah, I’m sure.”
Mad Dog stood up, holding his rifle by his side with one hand, muzzle down. He looked me in the eye. “Yeah, he alive for sure.”
I sighed in relief.
Mad Dog casually blasted two holes in Malcolm’s chest. “And now he daid.”
“What’s the matter with you?” I screamed. “You killed him.”
“Yeah, but I can live with it.”
“Hi, sweetheart,” I said to Claudette when I crawled into bed. It was four in the morning.
She was sitting up in bed waiting for me to come home or for a phone call telling her I wasn’t ever coming home.
“It’s over,” I told her.
She looked at my battered head, then stroked it with her hand. “They must have been tough guys. I’ve never seen you so beat-up.”
“They caught me by surprise.”
“Is this craziness ever going to end for us?” she asked hopefully.
“Maybe. I can’t keep up this pace forever.”
“Maybe you can get involved in less dangerous crusades.”
“I’ll try to find one.”
“Are you still seeing red?” she asked.
“I am. But it doesn’t bother me too much. It’s more like a warning system than an alarm.”
“You’d be better off if you could see all the colors all the time. They’re beautiful.”
“I remember.” I kissed her good-night.
I slept the entire day and woke at dinnertime. I ate with Claudette, gave her biased details of my adventure, and made love to her. It wasn’t mad, passionate love, but it was chemical free and good for both of us. Before I fell asleep again, I thanked Mr. Johnson for being there.
We have some adjustment to make, I told him.
Whatever works, he said.
Are we still best friends?
Forever.
The next morning I went to the office and told Lou Dewey about the demise of the Jefferson family.
“I owe you an apology about Mad Dog,” he said.
“You don’t owe me anything. Mad Dog is a drug dealer and a killer, but thankfully he’s selective.”
“You think you’ll see him again?”
“He gave me his cell number. You never know. I’m just glad to move on.”
“You realize we have no cases now?”
“Yeah, but you said we have a waiting list.”
“Here it is.” Lou tossed me the list. I read the offers.
Community leaders from Osceola Park in Delray had asked us to investigate human smuggling from Haiti. People were dying. I knew we would take the job.
A private citizen’s group in Pompano Beach had hired us to investigate gang violence in their city, which had become ground zero for the nation’s gang violence.
We were hired to investigate a suspected pedophile in Delray.
A victims’ group had hired us to delve into the details of a Boca lawyer’s Ponzi scheme. It was a small case compared to Benjamin Grover’s, but s
till involved millions of dollars and hundreds of investors, dirty politics, and stupid victims. It was our kind of case.
We would turn down all marital cases except for the one involving corpse. A local podiatrist, missing for three years, had been found submerged in his Mercedes at the bottom of a canal on Boca Rio Road. A hole was in his head. We ruled out suicide and got the feeling his merry widow had shot and submerged him … or she knew who did. Lou’s research revealed that 100 cars had been found on one Boca canal, and many contained bodies.
“I don’t think Boca Knights Detective Agency will ever run out of crimes to solve,” I told Lou.
“Cool,” he said.
On a cloudy, windy afternoon in May, Bailey called, frantic. “Pick me up at the Rutherford. It’s life-and-death.”
She was at the entrance when I arrived, jumped in the Mini, threw her three bags in back, and said, “Drive!”
I drove. “Where to?”
“Delray Beach. And step on it.”
I stepped on it, but the Mini’s pickup was a letdown.
“Why Delray?”
“Ecological reasons. Didn’t I tell you to step on it?”
“I did,” I told her. “Whose life or death are we talking about?”
“Sea turtles,” she said nervously. “I overheard two Rutherford bums making plans with a couple of local punks to poach nests today in Delray.”
“Why steal them?”
“For money, of course. They’re worth a lot.”
“Why is this our business?” I asked.
“Sea turtles are endangered. And you know I love animals.”
“Those cats of yours would eat every one of those turtles if they could.”
“That’s the circle of life. Stealing for money is a crime.”
“Is it a felony?” I joked.
“Yes. Class three,” she said seriously. “Those guys left for Delray a half hour ago. They’ll probably raid the nests when it gets dark.”
“How many eggs are we talking about?”
“A hundred to 200 per nest.”
“How many nests?”
“Hard to tell,” she said. “If some nested early, there could be thousands buried there. The older ones will be ready to hatch, the new ones in sixty days. But only one in 1,000 survive. Raccoons attack nests, ants, birds, dogs, cats, and people. Heat kills them during the day, so they normally hatch at night when the birds are off the beach.”
“It’s not safe to be a sea turtle.”
“Especially after they hatch. The instant they hatch, the turtles make a mad dash for the ocean. Hundreds are lost on the way. A footprint or a ridge can stop them. Crabs eat them. It’s carnage.”
“So we may be saving only one sea turtle,” I said.
“Maybe more. We’ll be giving them all a chance.”
“Where do we look for the poachers?”
“We’ll find them,” she said. “They’ll be in a remote area carrying burlap bags.”
We did find them in a quiet section of beach near several rolling sand dunes. Two of the men were digging; two were searching. They were silhouettes against a cloudy sky.
“It’s dark as night,” I said to Bailey. “What if the turtles get confused?”
She didn’t hear me. She was running toward the poachers waving her arms. “Drop those eggs,” Bailey shouted.
“Put those eggs down carefully,” I said.
“Yeah, that’s right,” Bailey said, as she reached a young man dressed in black and tried wresting the bag of eggs from his hand.
“Get the hell outa here,” he snarled and pushed Bailey down in the sand.
My red veil pulsated as I struggled toward him through the sand.
He pointed a finger at me as if he were aiming a gun. “Get out of here before you get hurt.”
I grabbed the young punk’s extended right wrist with my left hand, twisted hard, and forced him to his knees. I put the bottom of my shoe on his chest and shoved him on his back. He scrambled to all fours, but before he could stand, I put my foot on his butt and shoved him facedown into the sand.
“Your poaching days are over,” I told him and shoved his face deeper into the sand with the sole of my shoe.
The other punk started toward me but stopped abruptly when I pointed at him and said, “You’re about to make a bad mistake.”
He believed me. “Can I help my friend up and get out of here?”
I nodded and watched them go.
The two homeless men didn’t need any convincing. They put their bags down carefully and ran away.
“Good work,” Bailey said, brushing sand from her dirty clothes as she approached. Suddenly, we were inundated by a typical Florida tropical downpour, the kind that floods roads and halts traffic in minutes. With no shelter on the beach, Bailey and I were soaked to the skin in seconds. The sheets of rain pounded the sand like an onslaught of body punches.
“Let’s get out of here,” I hollered, holding my arms over my head.
“We have to bury the eggs. Rain or not.”
“Absolutely not.”
A minute later, we were kneeling in the wet sand burying turtle eggs. Just when I thought it might rain forever, it stopped and the beach was quiet again. I heard a scratching sound and saw a shell crack … then another and another. These eggs had been nested early and were hatching prematurely in the cool darkness. I saw a turtle climb over the edge of the nest, paddle through the sand, and waddle toward the beach. A hundred tiny, black turtles followed. I saw one stuck in a rut in the sand.
“Poor little guy.” I bent down to help him.
“Don’t get involved,” Bailey said. “He has to make it on his own.”
I withdrew my hand.
More nests opened and countless sea turtles were scurrying to the sea. It was an amazing sight.
When the black sky turned to gray, the sun peaked through a break in the clouds.
“Damn,” Bailey cursed. “If the sun comes out, the gulls will come back and the turtles won’t stand a chance.”
“What do we do?”
“Nothing. We can’t interfere with nature.”
I looked down for my favorite turtle. I was relieved to see that he had made it over the ridge and was scrambling toward the shoreline. The clouds parted like a dark gray curtain, and the sun came out. It was still relatively cool, but the wind had eased, and the beach was bright. I saw a gull overhead; suddenly there were dozens. They squawked and screamed as they dived for the beach like kamikaze pilots attacking battleships. It was a massacre.
“Bailey, we have to do something.”
“This is the natural progression of things,” she said, tears in her eyes. “They weren’t meant to live.”
“They weren’t meant to be dug up by people and replanted either,” I called over the din of screeching birds. I was grateful that sea turtles couldn’t scream.
“Stay out of it,” she warned.
I watched the slaughter until I couldn’t stand it any longer. I stood up and pulled out my Cobra.
“You can’t shoot the gulls,” Bailey shouted.
“I’m not going to shoot anything.”
I could still identify my favorite turtle, struggling behind the others. I got close to him and fired a shot in the air, away from the circling birds. They scattered, and the sea turtles marched on. When the dive-bombing gulls returned, I fired again. They flew off momentarily but returned in force. I felt a splat on my head, followed by two more. I touched my head, and my fingers came away white and black.
Bird shit. This is war. Fire at will.
“You’re slow as a turtle,” I shouted at my little friend as he made painfully slow progress toward the ocean. I fired four shots in a row.
Take that.
Splat … splat!
Bastards.
Boom … boom!
A gull dive-bombed and made me duck. Emboldened, more followed, and soon, I was engulfed in gulls pecking and shitting.
Sons of bitches.<
br />
I saw my turtle at the shoreline was about to become a target. I fired another shot, scattering the birds and giving my little guy time to get in the water.
Finally, he made it, only to be washed ashore by a wave.
Dummy. Get out of here.
I fired another shot.
Move your slow turtle ass.
He went under the next wave and bobbed to the surface.
Get down.
A gull dove for him. I aimed at the bird but stopped.
“Enough,” I said to myself. “You’ve done enough. You can’t control everything.”
The gull hit the water, and my turtle went under simultaneously. When the bird resurfaced squawking loudly, I closed my eyes and lowered my head.
Bailey gently touched my arm. “Did you know that some turtles live to be eighty years old,” she said softly.
“Great. Mine died at birth.”
“Not necessarily. A gull can’t squawk with his beak filled with food.”
Really? I didn’t know that. What if my favorite turtle is still alive? What if he’s still alive fifty years after I’m gone and he’s the one who saves his species from extinction? What if—
“I told you not to get involved,” Bailey said, pointing at me.
I smiled at her. What if I didn’t get involved with you, Bailey? What if I didn’t get involved with Weary Willie, Benjamin Grover, Doc Hurwitz, the Florida legislature, Mad Mick Murphy, Jerry Small, Mad Dog Walken, Father Vinnie, and the Jefferson brothers? What if I just looked the other way?
“What are you thinking?” Bailey asked.
“I’m thinking that I’m glad I get involved and try to make things better.”
“But look at you. You’re covered with shit.”
“Sometimes that happens to people who get involved.”
I walked to the shoreline and looked at the ocean. The red veil slowly lifted, and I could see all the colors again. Claudette had been right. They were beautiful.
Author’s Note - February 2011
Drug agents raided eleven pain clinics from Miami to West Palm Beach, arresting twenty-three people and seizing $2.5 million in cash and large amounts of personal property. It was the second-biggest strike against pill mills in Florida’s history. Physicians were arrested, and the owner of four clinics was taken into custody. The raids were made by more than 400 federal, state, and local officers. Boxes of documents were seized.
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