Boca Daze Read online

  “Do you have a suspect?”

  “Yes.”

  “Give us the information, and we’ll look into it,” Mack said without enthusiasm. “But don’t expect speedy action. A Boca lawyer was just arrested for a smaller Ponzi scheme than Grover’s, but similar. We’ve closed his office and put a lot of manpower on the investigation.”

  “On top of that,” Agent Sloan interjected, “we’ve been ordered to open an investigation into another investment banker in Palm Beach. He was Grover’s neighbor. This could be even bigger than B.I.G.”

  “So I guess you’re really busy,” I said.

  “Look around our office,” Sloan said. “There’s no one here. Everyone is out working on new business. Grover is old news already. But send us what you’ve got, and we’ll get to it when we can.”

  “I have a better idea. Call me when you’re ready.”

  “That is a better idea,” Mack said. “Don’t call us … we’ll call you.”

  The Boca Knights Detective Agency was in bigger demand than ever thanks to Jerry Small and Mad Mick Murphy. Praise in the press is magical, and the phones at our office were constantly ringing. We were offered more cases than we could handle and even received an inquiry about a television series. Lou Dewey said he wanted to play himself. I was less than enthusiastic. My depression returned and with it a need for Viagra.

  “The danger level is down, but you’re not up,” Claudette said. “Take a pill.”

  I took a pill, got an erection, a headache, a blocked nose, and an unfulfilled feeling.

  “It wasn’t good for you, was it?” Claudette said with her head on my chest.

  “This is going to take a lot of adjusting on my part.”

  “Practice makes perfect. And besides, I didn’t fall in love with Superman. I fell in love with a special man. Let’s both be patient and go with the flow.”

  “Or the lack of a flow,” I said, appreciating her more each day.

  The day of Teofilo Fernandez’s first Golden Gloves bout, Claudette and I picked up his mother, Alana Fernandez, at their apartment on Dixie Highway. A good-looking woman in her late thirties, she smiled easily but talked little. The first bout had already begun when we arrived, and over 200 people were in the cavernous gym. Ten bouts were scheduled between twenty boxers from South Florida. In the ring were two small black kids with more enthusiasm than skill, but the crowd loved them and cheered their efforts. Barry Anson saw us standing at the door and waved us over to three ringside seats he had reserved for us. I introduced him to Alana.

  “Thank you for training my son,” she said. “He says you are a wonderful teacher.”

  Barry smiled. “He’s the one who’s wonderful. He already knew so much I only had to refresh his memory.”

  “His father was his first teacher,” she said proudly.

  “He did a great job.” Barry turned his attention to me. “I had to move him up to a tougher division, Eddie. He was too good for the novices.”

  “I hope you didn’t overmatch him,” I said warily. “Who is he fighting?”

  “Lebron Lewis. He’s about ten pounds heavier than our boy and stronger.”

  “How many fights has Lewis had?” I asked.

  “Six.”

  “How many has he won?”

  “Six,” Anson said. “I’ve seen him fight. Tough kid.”

  “It sounds like a mismatch to me,” I said, concerned.

  “I don’t think so.”

  When Lewis and Teofilo entered the ring, I saw they were almost the same height, but Teofilo looked like a brown feather next to a black block of marble. I was nervous. Teofilo seemed calm. He stood motionless, listening to the referee’s instructions while Lewis huffed, puffed, and pounded his gloves together. His angry face glowered at Teofilo, who seemed unconcerned and relaxed. They returned to their corners, and Teofilo covered his face with his gloves and appeared to be praying. At that moment I noticed the initials on the bottom of his trunks: hb.

  The bell rang, and Lewis charged from his corner like a bull and started a left hook as soon as they were within reach of each other.

  Bam! Teofilo beat him to the punch with a quick straight jab to the nose.

  Bam! Bam! Two more blows found their mark. The crowd roared and continued cheering throughout the three rounds of boxing. Teofilo was an artist and painted Lewis’s face with jabs, hooks, and uppercuts. Lewis was a tough kid and kept coming forward, but it was like a bull charging a matador. The matador was always in control. I was enthralled by the kid Herb Brown had saved. At one point, I turned to his mother to see her reaction. She was crying, tears streaming down her face, her trembling hands covering her lips.

  “Are you all right?” I asked when the last round ended. “Is something wrong?”

  “It was like watching a ghost. Teofilo is so much his father’s son. His movements, his punching, everything. I was overcome with emotion.”

  Teofilo was announced the winner by unanimous decision, winning every round. He was surrounded by his teammates, who pounded his back and embraced him.

  “He’ll be busy for a few minutes,” Barry said. “I told him we would wait for him outside.”

  Mrs. Fernandez, Barry, Claudette, and I walked outside before the next bout began.

  “That was amazing,” Claudette said. “He was beautiful.”

  “He certainly was,” I said. “He has the makings of a champion.”

  Teofilo joined us a few minutes later.

  “Your father would have been so proud of you today,” his mother said, hugging him. “Were you thinking of him?”

  “Yes, of course. But I also thought of Mr. Brown before the fight and said a prayer for him. I wouldn’t be here today if not for him.”

  Alana released her son from her embrace and turned to us. “Teofilo asked me to sew Mr. Brown’s initials on his trunks. We will never forget him.”

  I couldn’t help pondering the strange workings of fate: Sixty-two years ago, a helmet fell off a GI’s head on a beach in the central Pacific, and the world changed.

  The shooters at Kugel’s, the bombers of Joy Feely’s house, and the eight victims haunted my dreams. I had to find the animals responsible and get them off the streets before I could move on with my life. The most likely place to start was Miami.

  “I’m going to look for Mad Dog,” I told Lou.

  “You should go to the Miami police, not the Miami criminals.”

  “I don’t want police help on this one.”

  “I already told you how I feel about that son of a bitch,” Lou said. “There’s nothing more for me to say.”

  The first time I met Mad Dog was by accident. I got lost in Liberty City. This time I intentionally got off I-95 at Seventy-Ninth Street and trusted my sense of direction from there. I was lost after three turns.

  Stopped at a red light, I heard tapping on my driver’s window. I turned my head and looked into the barrel of a handgun.

  A scowling, black teenage kid was pointing a .38 at my eyebrows. I watched three more scowling black kids take positions in front of the Mini, blocking my escape.

  This neighborhood sucks.

  I rolled down my window. “Is it hunting season already, Officer?”

  “Yeah,” the young man said, and smiled, showing a full grill of silver teeth. “Maybe you’d like to buy a huntin’ license.”

  “Sure, how much?” I smiled back, wishing I had some silver to show.

  “How much you got?” He touched my cheek with the tip of the gun.

  “Can I check my wallet?” I asked, slowly reaching for my back pocket.

  “You got a gun in that wallet?” He pressed the .38 against my skin.

  “Yeah. I got a King Cobra thirty-eight loaded with Magnum forty-five shells. It will blow your head clean off.”

  The kid laughed, stood up, and looked at his friends. He took his gun with him. “White boy say he Dirty Harry.”

  “Mothuh fuckin’ Dirty Harry,” another boy said in a high-pit
ched voice and high-fived the kid next to him. While they laughed and exchanged hand slaps, I got a grip on the Cobra’s handle.

  “Hey, Clint Eastwood,” the kid said, still performing for his friends, “you find your mothuh fuckin’ wallet?”

  “Got it.”

  When his head appeared in the window again, the head of the Cobra fit nicely between his eyes.

  “Mothuh fuckah,” the kid said.

  “Drop your gun on the ground.” He dropped it with a clatter.

  “What’s wrong, Juice?” one of his men shouted from behind him.

  “Dirty Harry here got a gun between my eyes, JeMarcus.”

  “We got three guns on him,” JeMarcus announced. “We fill his white ass with holes.”

  “One hole in his ass enough,” Juice said. “And I don’t need one in my head.”

  I whispered in Juice’s ear, “Is JeMarcus your number two man?”

  “Yeah, how you know?” Juice asked in a low voice.

  “I think he wants to be number one,” I said, still whispering.

  “Over my dead mothuh fuckin’ dead body,” Juice hissed.

  “I think that’s what he has in mind.”

  Juice’s eyes opened wide, and he nodded. “Drop your mothuh fuckin’ guns,” he ordered.

  I heard the sound of two handguns hitting the pavement.

  “JeMarcus, drop your mothuh fuckin’ gun,” Juice ordered.

  We heard the third gun clatter.

  “You better watch out for him,” I advised Juice confidentially. He nodded again.

  “Okay, Tarzan,” Juice said loudly. “You king of the jungle now. What you want?”

  “I want to see Mad Dog Walken.”

  Juice laughed. “Yeah, and I want to see the mothuh fuckin’ Prince of Wales.”

  I cocked the hammer of the Colt. “I’m serious. I know the man. You know where to find him?”

  “Who … Mad Dog or the Prince?”

  I rapped Juice’s forehead with the tip of the gun.

  “Hey, I ain’t no piñata.”

  “Then get serious.”

  “Okay, man,” he said, rubbing his head. “I know Dog, but I can’t just take you to him. He the T. rex of this here Jurassic Park. You don’t just walk in unannounced.”

  “What then?”

  “I can call him and ask if he wants to see your white ass.”

  “Call him.”

  “Now listen carefully, Pops,” Juice said. “I’m going to take a phone out of my pocket, nice and slow, so don’t go Son of Sam on me. Okay?”

  I nodded.

  Juice eased a phone out of his pocket and showed it to me. “See, no trigger.”

  I nodded again, and he punched in a number. We waited. I heard someone answer. “Yo, Ice, I got a crazy, old white man here with an antique gun restin’ on my nose,” Juice said. “Says he knows Mad Dog and wants to see him.” Juice paused, then looked at me. “What’s your name?” I told him. “Says his name Eddie Perlmutter.” Juice listened. “Mad Dog wants to know what you want.”

  “Shooters and bombers.”

  “Say what?” Juice said to me.

  “Just tell him.”

  “Say he want shooters and bombers,” Juice said into the phone.

  He waited … said, “Okay,” and disconnected.

  “What he say?” JeMarcus wanted to know.

  “Dog wants me to walk Mr. Perlmutter over to his block,” Juice said, looking at me with new respect. “You must be a special Perlmuttah, mothuh fuckah.”

  “Why are we walking?” I asked.

  “He’s around the corner,” Juice told me.

  “That’s cool. But I don’t want to leave my Mini here.”

  “No one gonna touch that piece of shit,” Juice guaranteed.

  I followed Juice into an alley and didn’t feel afraid.

  This is crazy.

  After a few twists and turns, we exited onto a street that looked familiar. Fifty yards away was the old, four-door Buick I had seen the night I met Mad Dog. I saw gang members malingering around the car just as before, but this time, Mad Dog was standing with them.

  “You on your own,” Juice said and disappeared into the alley. I took a deep breath and walked toward the Overtown Outlaws while they stood motionless, watching me approach. I had seen some of their sullen black faces before. Ladanlian stood next to his mountainous uncle.

  “How you doing, Ladanlian?” I asked, trying to sound more confident than I was.

  The kid nodded but said nothing.

  “What you want, Mr. Boca Knight?” Mad Dog asked with no expression on his face.

  “I told you. I want those four shooters and the bombers.”

  “I know who you want. I asked what you want.”

  “I want justice.”

  “Ain’t no such thing,” Mad Dog said. “And why should I help you against my black brothers?”

  “You tell me. You agreed to meet.”

  “You smart for a white boy. Those shooters ain’t really my brothers. They stone-cold killers.”

  “Some people say that about you,” I said.

  “I kill to survive. The boys you looking for kill for money. The night they shot up Boca, they were working for a white dude in Palm Beach who paid them big money.”

  “They shot a black college student that night, too. Blew his head off.”

  “I know,” Mad Dog said.

  “They shot an old white man in the face when he tried to save a brown Cuban kid.”

  “The only color those guys see is green.” Mad Dog spit. “The police were here asking questions. They figured we had something to do with it. That’s bad for business.”

  “I want to put the shooters and bombers out of business.”

  “There was only one bomber and he dead. Blew hisself up makin’ a bomb to kill his ammunition supplier. What’s that shit about?”

  “Their supplier sold them some bird shot along with their buckshot.”

  “How you know?”

  “I got hit with the bird shot,” I said. “The dead people got the buckshot.”

  Mad Dog nodded. “There was four brothers and one cousin that night. Cousin was the bomber. Two shooters were killed at the restaurant.”

  “I killed one. I shot him in the face. I shot another one in the leg, but he got away.”

  “He didn’t get nowhere. He bled to death on the way to Miami. You hit a big vein.”

  The femoral artery.

  “Okay, I’ll take the two left,” I said.

  “You tough enough to take them?” Roach challenged me.

  “You wanna find out for yourself?” I said as the red veil darkened in front of my eyes.

  “You little shit,” Roach snarled and grabbed my shoulder.

  I drew the Cobra, whipped it around from my back, and pressed it against Roach’s crotch. A chorus of “Mothuh fuckah” followed.

  “Stop,” Mad Dog growled, and we froze in place.

  “Take that gun off my balls,” Roach told me.

  It was a reasonable request, so I complied.

  “Listen to me.” Mad Dog pointed a long, thick finger in my face. “No matter what happens, you can’t tell nobody you know me. Got it?”

  I nodded. “What about your own people here?”

  “I trust my people. They won’t say nothin’. I ain’t so sure about you.”

  “Don’t worry about me. Now, where am I going?”

  “The four Jefferson brothers lived in the back of the Jefferson Storage Warehouse, an old building their grandfather owned,” Mad Dog told me. “Now only two live there. It’s a big place filled with a bunch of abandoned shit. Plenty of places to hide.”

  “How do I find it?”

  “Ladanlian will walk you back to your car and tell you how to get there.”

  Ladanlian took me through the alley to my car. Juice and his boys were gone. Ladanlian gave me directions to the Jefferson warehouse on the southwest corner of Sixty-Seventh and Sixth. I was getting
in my car when Ladanlian said, “I owe you for not killing me the last time we met.”

  “We’re even,” I told him. “But if you keep hanging out with your uncle and his gang, someone will kill you sooner or later.”

  “I’d be dead already without Mad Dog. This ain’t like no place you ever lived. Mad Dog keeps me safe. He makes me go to school.”

  “He’s a drug dealer and a dangerous man.”

  “He’s more than that,” Ladanlian said. “That’s why he’s helping you. Them Jefferson boys are pure evil. He wants them gone.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Good luck,” the young man said, and walked away without looking back.

  The Jefferson Warehouse looked like a 20,000-square-foot outhouse of rotting wood and metal. I picked the rusty front lock easily and entered silently. Piles of junk were everywhere, covered with dust from the last century. It was a musty hot box in the warehouse despite the clear, mild air of a May night. In the summer, it would be unbearable. I removed the Cobra from my belt and moved slowly toward a dim light on the opposite end of the floor. As I got closer to the one-room office, I could see a black man sitting at a desk wiping down an AA-12 shotgun. Another black man was watching him from across the desk.

  The man with the gun put it down behind him. “Fuckin’ thing a masterpiece, little brother.”

  “Damn near perfect, Malcolm,” little brother said.

  I stepped into the office holding the Cobra in both hands.

  “Freeze,” I shouted.

  Something was wrong. The two men didn’t move and smiled as if they were expecting me.

  “Look who’s here, Damian,” Malcolm said to his little brother.

  I’ve been set up. I couldn’t believe Mad Dog would do that. But, then again, why not?

  I felt something cold press against the back of my head, and I knew it wasn’t a bottle of beer.

  “Welcome to the jungle, Tarzan,” a familiar voice said.

  It was JeMarcus, the kid who wanted to be number one. He must have been following me from the beginning.

  “You was right, JeMarcus,” Malcolm said. “We owe you.”

  “And don’ you forget it like Juice did,” JeMarcus said.

  “You the man,” Malcolm told him.

  “Now drop your gun,” JeMarcus said to me. “Or drop dead.”

  Malcolm reached back for the AA-12 and aimed it at me as he got up. I dropped my gun.