“OH MY GOD!” Alicia Fine prayed responsively.
Mr. Johnson and I had dreamed of lying next to Alicia since the moment we first saw her. This time we weren’t dreaming. She was there in the flesh, and we were luxuriating in the afterglow of a passionate duet. It was a classic recital played by two passionate, slightly out-of-practice musicians who had never performed together before.
What we lacked in finesse, we made up for with enthusiasm. After a tentative start, we began matching each other note for note. Mr. Johnson gave Alicia a standing ovation, and she agreed to an encore.
After a fifteen-minute intermission, the conductor’s baton was raised again and we began again. The grand finale was far more subdued than the overture. When the piece was finished, the two artists embraced.
“Bravo, Maestro.”
“Brava, Diva.”
Alicia’s head rested on my right arm.
“Thank you, Jesus,” I said.
“You’re Jewish.” She giggled. “Why are you thanking Jesus?”
“I’m thanking everyone,” I confessed. “I can’t believe I’m here with you.”
Alicia had phoned me the same day I met with Ely Samuels. I hadn’t talked to her since she visited me in the hospital almost three weeks before. I thought of her often and so did Mr. Johnson. But I didn’t think I belonged in Alicia Fine’s world. She was a prom queen and a Long Island princess. I was a gym rat and an ex-cop.
“How are you feeling?” she asked nervously over the phone. “I expected to hear from you.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ve been busy.” I felt like a real loser.
“I understand,” she said softly. “Are you feeling better?”
“Yeah, I’m okay,” I said. My heart was racing. An awkward silence followed, and I used the opportunity to think of myself as the consummate schmuck.
“Well, all right then,” she sounded embarrassed. “I guess I’ll be seeing you around.”
“Yeah, sure,” I said unconvincingly.
We exchanged goodbyes. My throat hurt from the pounding of my heart, and my head ached.
You asshole, I said to myself. What’s the matter with you? I picked up the phone and punched in her number.
“Hi, this is Alicia.” A recorded message greeted me. “I can’t come to the phone right now, but leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.” “BEEP!”
Where the hell could she have gone in five seconds?
“Alicia Fine.” I don’t know why I used her last name. “This is Eddie Perlmutter.” I was rushing the words. “Just wanted you to know that I really appreciated your visit in the hospital, and I’m sorry I fell asleep during your story . . . and thanks for calling.” I hung up.
“Fuckin’ imbecile.” I hit redial and got the answering machine again.
“It’s me again.” I sounded like an idiot. “To tell you the truth, I think about you all the time. I think you’re beautiful and nice and sexy and - ” I heard a click at the other end of the line.
“Eddie?” Alicia said.
“Have you been listening all this time?”
“Yes,” she admitted. “Thank you for saying such nice things.”
“It’s easy to say nice things about you.”
“Would you like to see me again?”
“I would love to see you again,” I said. “When?”
“Now.”
“Now? I’m all dirty and sweaty. I just finished teaching a boxing class at the Police Athletic League.”
“You can shower here,” she said.
LET’S GO! Mr. Johnson cheered.
And that’s how I became a player in the band.
I received a phone call from Chief Burke on my cell phone at Alicia Fine’s house a couple of days later.
“I’ve been calling your apartment all morning,” he said.
“I’m not there,” I told him.
“Care to tell me where you’ve been?”
“No.”
“Do you know anything about the Buford house being vandalized early this morning?”
“I know I’m not surprised.”
“Four windows were broken, and a Star of David was painted on the house.”
“There was only one Jewish star?” I asked like I was annoyed.
“Where were you at three o’clock this morning?” Frank ignored my attempt at humor.
“Am I a suspect?”
“Maybe,” Burke said.
“Why?”
“You’ve got a reputation for some pretty aggressive behavior during your career,” Burke told me.
“I’m retired.”
“That’s what I heard,” Burke said. “But shortly after Ely Samuels told you about the Bufords, the Buford house was vandalized.”
“Thank you for recommending me to the CMA by the way,” I said.
“I didn’t recommend you,” Burke said.
“Then how did you know I met with Ely Samuels?”
“I’d hate to think you were involved with this vandalism, Eddie.” Frank ignored my question.
“Then don’t think about it.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Frank Burke said.
“Warn the Bufords,” I advised him.
“Are you working on the Goldenblatt case?” Burke changed the subject.
“Now how would you know that?”
“Lucky guess.”
“I have a meeting with Dominick Amici tonight at the hospital,” I told him.
“Tough case,” he said. “Let me know if I can help you with anything,” Frank offered.
“How are you at breaking windows and painting?”
“Smart-ass,” he said, and hung up.
Alicia sat next to me on her sofa. “Who was that?”
“The Boca chief of police,” I told her.
“What did he want?”
“He wanted to know if I had anything to do with the Buford house being vandalized this morning.”
“Do you? You left my house at two this morning.”
“You were awake?” I was surprised.
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I was afraid to ask why you were leaving,” she said. “Now I know why you were leaving, and I’m still afraid.”
“There’s nothing for you to be afraid of,” I assured her.
“I’m afraid of violence, Eddie,” she said. “I hope you got it out of your system.”
“Alicia, this is my system,” I explained, “I attack whatever I find threatening.”
“The Bufords didn’t threaten you,” Alicia said.
“Yes, they did,” I disagreed. “When someone says Hitler didn’t kill enough Jews, that’s a threat to all Jewish people.”
“The Bufords aren’t Hitler,” she persisted.
“If Hitler were alive today” - I raised my voice - ”people like the Bufords would be the first in line to put Jews in ovens. I’d just as soon bake them first.”
She hugged herself. “You’re frightening me, Eddie.” She shivered.
“The Bufords should frighten you.”
“I’m not sure I can condone your actions,” she said.
I saw a red spot, and it surprised me. Alicia had pushed the wrong button. I got up from the sofa. “I’m not asking you to condone anything,” I said as I headed for the door.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“Home,” I said, opening the door.
“Can’t we talk about this?” she tried.
“No,” I said, closing the door behind me.
There are some things I just can’t talk about.
Dominick Amici was awake when I entered his hospital room at seven-thirty that evening. His skin was a sickly shade of yellow but there was a smile on his drawn face. Carol Amici was there, and she introduced us.
“Hey, super-cop,” he said in a North End voice. “How you doin’?”
His handshake was firm but boney. I sat by his right side.
“You mind sittin’ on my left side? I got a glass eye in the right.”
“No problem,” I said, moving instantly.
“Did you lose your eye to cancer?” I asked.
“No. To a BB gun when I was eleven years old. My older brother was fuckin’ around with it,” he explained.
“Sorry,” I said.
“Forget about it,” Dom said like a wiseguy, and he laughed. Then he coughed until he was short of breath. He drank some water through a straw then put on an oxygen mask. He gradually began breathing easier. He removed the mask when he spoke. “So, I understand you want to talk to me.”
“Well, first I wanted to meet you. Your wife and daughters have told me so much about you.”
“Sorry,” he said, “but the guy they told you about ain’t here no more.”
“I heard you were a great entrepreneur,” I said, trying to lighten the mood. “And you built a chain of photo film development stores that was the biggest on Long Island.”
“Yeah,” he smiled, “and I sold it to big city schmucks who ruined it.”
“Timing is everything,” I confirmed.
“Yeah.” He nodded sadly. “Did they tell you about my potato chip company I started after I left the film business?”
“No, I didn’t hear about that,” I said as Carol laughed in the background.
Dom laughed, too. “My potato chip factory used to stink up the whole town with the smells from all the flavors I tried.”
“Why potato chips?” I asked.
He thought for a moment. “Why not?”
I liked Dominick immediately and wished he wasn’t sick. I wished the Bufords were sick instead.
“So, you took the Goldenblatt case,” Dominick said bluntly.
“Yeah,” I answered. “Why not?”
We shared a laugh.
“So, let’s get right down to the basics,” I said like a cop. “Did you kill Robert Goldenblatt?”
“You got me, copper,” Dom laughed. “I hit the little fucker on the head with a golf club after making sure everyone in his neighborhood knew I was there to kill him.”
“Stop joking,” Carol reprimanded her husband.
“It doesn’t matter,” Dom insisted. “I’m too sick to go on trial, and this whole case will die when I do.”
“Why are you the prime suspect?” I asked.
“It’s a long story.”
“I have time.”
“Can’t you think of a better way to spend your time?” Dom asked.
“Not if I can prove you’re innocent,” I told him.
“Who cares?” Dom sounded frustrated.
“I care,” Carol interrupted. “And the girls care.”
“How many years have you two been married?” I asked.
“We’ll be married forty-one years next week,” Carol said.
“I didn’t get you a present,” Dom told her. Carol got up from her chair, walked to his bedside, took off his oxygen mask, and kissed his dry lips. “You’re my present,” she told him gently.
“I know,” he whispered, and I saw a tear in his good eye.
“Now, Dominick, you tell Eddie Perlmutter what happened that night,” Carol told him.
“You really want to hear all this?” Dom turned to me. “Yes, I do,” I said.
“I already told the police the whole story.” “Tell me,” I said. “I’m a good listener.”
Dom gave me permission to tape-record his version of the Goldenblatt incident. He wheezed and coughed frequently, and it took over an hour. When he was finished, he fell asleep.
I looked at Carol. “What a story,” I said.
She shook her head slowly. “I know,” she said sadly. “What do you think? Can you help us?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “About the only thing I feel certain about is that your husband didn’t kill Robert Goldenblatt. I just can’t see him bashing in anyone’s head with a golf club.”
“I’m glad someone else feels that way,” she said.
“The evidence against him is all circumstantial,” I commented.
“Well, circumstantial evidence has a lot of people believing that Dom is a murderer.” Carol was frustrated.
“A lot of people believe in God, too.”
“I think that’s a bad comparison,” she said defensively. “We believe in God. We’re very religious.”
“I’m not talking about religion, Carol. I’m talking about circumstantial evidence. Someone once said that everything written in the Bible was based on circumstantial evidence.”
“Thomas Paine said that,” Carol said dismissively, and she didn’t sound happy with Thomas Paine or me. “I find it offensive.”
“I appreciate how you feel, Carol,” I said sympathetically. I didn’t want religion to become the issue. “Legally speaking, however, circumstantial evidence is not from a witness who saw or heard anything. Circumstantial evidence is a fact that is inferred from another fact. Do you know anyone who can testify that the Bible is totally accurate as written?”
“Of course not,” Carol conceded. “But I believe the Bible.”
“And some people believe Dom’s guilty,” I said.
She looked sad and I felt bad.
“I see your point,” she conceded. “And without a trial these people will always believe that Dom is a murderer.”
“I’m afraid so,” I said honestly.
“Maybe he’ll get well,” she said, “and have his day in court.”
I didn’t respond. There was no need. Dom was not going to get well.
“I don’t want him to be remembered like this,” Carol said.
“Neither do I,” I told her. “I’ll do everything I can.”
Carol kissed me on the cheek and said, “Thank you.”
Dominick felt that in order for me to understand the circumstances surrounding the death of Robert Goldenblatt, I needed to understand the development of Boca Heights. So he gave me a history lesson on Boca real estate development. When I drove back to my apartment and saw three familiar Arvida signs on the drive, the name finally meant something to me.
Arthur Vining Davis was born in 1867 in Sharon, Massachusetts, a small town south of Boston. Davis, a pioneer of the aluminum industry, founded Alcoa Aluminum in 1907. In 1958, when he was a mere ninety-one years old, Davis began looking for new frontiers. He chose South Florida real estate and founded Arvida Development Company - ARthur VIning DAvis, get it? – “to set aesthetic precedence for future commercial and residential development in Boca Raton.” Davis died in 1962 at the age of ninety-five but his dream lived on.
In 1966, IBM bought 550 acres of land from Arvida on Yamato Road in Boca Raton for the construction of a massive manufacturing and marketing facility. In 1975, fifteen years before IBM developed their first personal computer, Arvida built the Arvida Financial Park of Commerce on Yamato Road. To accommodate IBM executives and wealthy residents, Arvida built a private golf course several miles west of Commerce Park and named it Boca Heights Golf Course. They built a second private course nearer to IBM and called it Broken Sound Golf Course.
In the mid-eighties demand for land and housing in Boca Raton boomed. Arvida took advantage of the opportunity and started building two new residential communities near their two golf courses. They named one community Boca Heights Country Club and the other was named Broken Sound Country Club.
Arvida built and sold the houses at both communities faster than planned. Eventually, 2,000 acres of the former farmland became the site of two gated communities with nearly 3,000 houses and condos. The amenities at both clubs included two golf courses, more than twenty tennis courts, a clubhouse, a health club, a dining room, meeting rooms, and card rooms.
By the mid-nineties when all housing development in Boca Heights and Broken Sound was completed, IBM made the decision to move out of Boca Raton. Arvida had to be more aggressive in marketing their two new gated communities in order to compete with the fast-growing competition. A unique golf membership st
ructure provided prospective home buyers at the two communities with an option. They could join one course for one fee or both courses for a higher fee. It seemed like a good idea at the time.
The people who bought homes at Boca Heights and joined both courses had a “Two Course membership.” The homeowners who opted to belong to only one course were known as “One Course members” and they were all assigned to the same course. Broken Sound developed a similar system and used its own terminology for their membership categories. The golf amenities at the two communities were basically the same.
After the construction of all the home sites was complete, Boca Heights Country Club members were entitled to assume management of the club. Arvida, however, was not anxious to give up the profitable management of the club and this led to a lawsuit.
Accusations flew. Members accused Arvida of all sorts of things and Arvida denied everything. Arvida had a force of in-house, wannabe-great attorneys and Boca Heights had a cadre of usetabe-great attorneys. A long, drawn-out war was inevitable.
On October 16, 1995, a lawsuit against Arvida was filed.
I read the complaint. It was a class action suit, alleging that Arvida had engaged in various acts of misconduct. Arvida was charged with misconduct in the establishment, operation, management, and marketing of the golf course and recreational facilities, as well as the alleged improper failure to turn over the facilities to the homeowners on a timely basis.
In the complaint the lawyers were seeking forty-five million dollars and other unspecified compensatory damages, the right to seek punitive damages, treble damages, prejudgment interest, and attorneys’ fees and costs. The whole nine yards.
The case dragged on for years and cost both sides millions of dollars. The result was an unsatisfying financial settlement on behalf of the community members in 2001. Arvida was out of the community with a profit to show for their efforts. The members won a Pyrrhic victory.
Arvida’s departure had an impact similar to when the British left Jerusalem in 1948. The inhabitants went to war with each other. The One Course members and the Two Course members attacked each other with long lists of grievances.
According to Dominick, e-mails flew through the air like mortar shells. Both sides suffered casualties, and their books ran red with ink. Withering surcharges, referred to as assessments, incited neighbor to turn against neighbor. Civil behavior ended, and civil war began.
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