Boca Knights

by Steven M. Forman

  I showered and dressed quickly in my black stakeout clothing. I stuffed my Glock in the waistband at the back of my pants and hid it under a Windbreaker. As I opened the door to my apartment, I had second thoughts and removed the gun from my pants and put it away. I knew if it was too convenient I would be tempted to shoot a Goth. Unarmed, I drove my Mini Cooper to the Boca Mall. I put on the radio to 91.5 CLASSY. It played great soft hits for all ages. “Mockingbird” by Nino Tempo and April Stevens was just ending and a commercial came through loud and clear.

  “You buy, you pay. You die, we pay!”

  Definition: Goth: “One who is rude, uncivilized, a barbarian, a rude ignorant person.”

  Origin: “East Germanic, Teutonic tribe that sacked Rome in the early fifth century.”

  I had been following Randolph Buford for a week and he was consistent. He would park on the south side of the mall, where he would meet four fellow night crawlers. There were two gangly white males and two fat, homely white females. They all had bad skin. For nonconformists, the Goths looked remarkably alike. They wore baggy black clothes, cheap trinkets, streaked hair and tattoos, with jewelry in their noses, lips, eyebrows, and ears.

  The Goths wandered aimlessly through the mall, poking fun at shoppers and occasionally bumping into some undersized, old person for laughs. The presence of the mall security kept these idiots subdued inside the mall.

  The trouble took place when Randolph and his Goth friends were outside. In the remote areas of the parking lot, I observed them slashing car tires and bending radio antennas. Last night I watched as they carved swastikas on the sides of a new four-door, black Mercedes sedan. I saw a few red spots, but I didn’t act. I wanted to bust these bastards for something more felonious than anti-Semitic key carvings. Maybe tonight would be my lucky night.

  Out of the shadows of the parking lot lights, I saw the silhouettes of two chunky girls, two wispy teenage boys, and squat Randolph Buford. The five of them stopped at an old, rusty Buick and punctured all four tires. I wanted to beat the shit out of all five of them, but not over four rubber wheels. While they were doing their carvings in the fading gray of the car doors, I saw two figures slowly approaching. A young brown woman was aiding an older black woman who was using a walker. When the young woman saw what Randolph and his boys had done to her car, she walked ahead of the older woman and started screaming at the group. I couldn’t make out her words, but I saw her waving her arms and shouting. Then all hell broke loose. Randolph punched the defiant woman in the face, knocking her to the ground. I saw the fat girls laugh and poke each other. One of the male Goths shoved the old lady to the ground and kicked away her walker. I was out of my car and running toward the mayhem as fast as I could. My right knee was angry with me, but I ignored the pain. I saw the third male kick at the old woman who tried to fend him off with upraised hands. She received a boot to her side.

  “Bastard,” she screamed, and moved her own frail leg in a feeble attempt to kick her attacker.

  The Goth who had knocked the elderly woman down was drawing back his foot slowly, looking for a good place to kick the fragile old woman again. I got there while the Goth’s foot was still drawn back. Using a soccer-style sweeping motion, I kicked the attacker’s upraised foot out from under him and pushed him forward so that he crashed face-first on the pavement with a splattering sound. The fat girls stopped giggling. They gawked like witnesses to an auto accident. Randolph was too busy tearing at the younger woman’s blouse and bra to pay much attention to the smashing-pumpkin sound his friend’s face made.

  The boy who had punctured the tires turned toward me with his knife in his hand. I guessed the blade was about three-inches long. It was no kinjal, but it had enough length to puncture something more life-supporting than an old tire. The sight of the knife didn’t stop me from moving forward. I was doing what I had been born and trained to do: Attack!

  The boy crouched and pointed the knife toward me. I crouched and held my hands out to my sides, waiting for him to make the first move. We stared at each other. He looked familiar. The nose ring gave him away.

  “You never shoulda left the cash register at Publix,” I said to him.

  With a quick slapping motion of my right hand, I grabbed the loop of the ring on the bottom of his nose and tore it from the flesh that separated his nostrils. That kid sure could scream. Both hands went to his bloody nose, and one of the lard-ass girls said, “Ewww, gross. Let’s split.”

  “You son of a bitch,” the injured Goth cursed. “I’ll kill you.”

  He took his knife hand away from his gushing nose, just long enough for me to grab his wrist and pull it toward me. I ducked under his arm like I was doing the lady’s part of a Lindy dance step. I was behind the bleeding checkout clerk as fast as a sixty-year-old gimp could perform a sophisticated karate move, and I twisted his arm as I moved. Eventually, I got into a position where I could jam the knife he was still holding in his hand into his right butt cheek. Man, that Goth could howl. I let the kid fall to his knees, his hand still clutching the knife handle that protruded from his ass. I threw a right hand at the Goth’s face but maneuvered my fist past the target and hit him with my right elbow instead. The kid fell forward, unconscious. I turned quickly and saw that I had Randolph’s attention. He stood up, leaving the hysterical woman on the ground, and I expected him to charge me. Instead, the little Nazi seemed frozen in place.

  “I know you,” he managed to croak hoarsely.

  “No, you don’t,” I said, approaching him cautiously. “You’ve seen me but you don’t know me.”

  “You’re the guy in the Mini Cooper from Boca Heights.” He pointed at me.

  “And you’re an Aryan asshole from nowhere.” I kicked him squarely in the balls.

  All I heard was a grunt. Randolph dropped to his knees and fell forward. He tried to get up by rolling over on his back, but I jammed a foot onto his chest to hold him in place. “Stay,” I commanded him like a bad dog.

  He stopped moving.

  “I know you, too,” the brown-skinned woman said as she did her best to pull her blouse together. She was on her feet. Nurse Premice?

  “Claudette?”

  “Yeah, Claudette,” she said in a shaky voice.

  Claudette walked past me and went to the old woman who lay muttering on the ground. Claudette knelt next to her and said some words of comfort. The prone woman answered in a voice strong enough to indicate she would survive. Claudette helped the woman sit up. The old woman’s face was bruised and bloodied. I wanted to kick all three guys in their six balls.

  I heard the wail of a siren and saw two approaching police cars, followed by an ambulance. Claudette turned from the old woman. “I called 911 on my cell while you were busy,” she explained. She stood up and faced me.

  “Have you been following me, Claudette?” I said, trying to lighten the moment.

  She laughed nervously. Then she started to cry. I walked to her and put my hands on her shoulders.

  “Those bastards,” she sniffled as she leaned into me. “Those evil little bastards.” We stood still for a moment holding each other. She recovered quickly and pushed away from me. “Where are the two girls who were with them?” she asked.

  “Who cares?” I asked. “More importantly, how’s Queen?”

  “You remembered her name,” Claudette said. She seemed impressed. “She’s tough. She’ll be all right.”

  “Is dat da white boy you was telling me about?” Queen asked in a gravelly voice.

  “Grandma!”

  The police arrived and checked out the scene while the ambulance attendants looked after the injured. They tried to put Queen on a stretcher, but she refused.

  “Dem boys need a stretcha a lot more den me,” she said, looking scornfully at the fallen boys in black.

  Randolph was struggling to sit up. The Publix boy with the knife in his butt was squirming and groaning. The kid lying face-first on the pavement was motionless except for his labored breathing.<
br />
  One of the policemen approached me. “Eddie Perlmutter, right? I met you when you toured the police station with Frank Burke. I’m Danny Burns.”

  “Officer Burns.” We shook hands.

  “What happened here?” Burns asked.

  “Ask her,” I pointed to Claudette.

  Claudette explained everything.

  “She called me white trash,” Randolph defended himself.

  We all looked at him.

  “So, you punched her in the face,” I said.

  “That’s right,” he confessed proudly.

  “Randolph, you give white trash a bad name,” I said.

  “How do you know my name?” he asked.

  “Lucky guess.”

  “You just happened to be in the area, Eddie?” Burns asked.

  “Pure coincidence,” I said.

  “It’s a good thing he was here,” Claudette interjected. “That boy over there was tearing my clothes off like he was planning to rape me.”

  “That’s a lie,” Randolph protested. “I wouldn’t rape no half-breed monkey like you!”

  “Oh no?”

  Claudette put her hands on her hips. Her ripped blouse opened, revealing a torn black bra and skin the color of coffee ice cream. Mr. Johnson took notice.

  “Were you planning to try on my blouse?”

  She covered herself up again and pointed at another Goth.

  “That one over there, the one lying on his broken, ugly face, was working on kicking my grandmother to death.”

  “What about that guy?” Burns pointed.

  “The one with the knife in his ass?” I asked.

  “Yeah, him.”

  “I disarmed him.”

  “You’ll have to come to the station and make a statement,” Officer Burns said.

  “Of course,” I assured him.

  “You too, miss,” he said to Claudette.

  “Okay. But what about those fat white girls?”

  “What girls?” Burns asked.

  “There were two girls with these guys,” I explained. “They ran off.”

  “How would you describe them?” Burns asked me.

  “Two fat, homely white girls dressed in black,” Queen said.

  “Eddie?”

  “I couldn’t have said it better myself,” I acknowledged. “I’m sure you’ll find them. They don’t blend in real well in Boca.”

  The three boys were taken away in the ambulance, but Queen refused to ride with them. I assured Officer Burns that we would meet them at the Second Avenue police station to make our statements.

  “Thank you for helping us,” Claudette Premice said.

  “Yeah, tank you, Eddie Perlmuttah,” Queen said to me. “You a good mahn. No wonder my granddaughta talk so nice about you.”

  “Grandma!” Claudette squirmed.

  “You got to get a mahn like Eddie here, girl. You single, Perlmuttah, right?”

  I nodded and smiled.

  “So how about brown sugah over dere?”

  “Grandma!” Claudette protested.

  “Your granddaughter is beautiful,” I told Queen.

  Queen grinned, showing empty spaces between her front teeth.

  By the time we had finished our statements at the police station, it was nearly midnight.

  “I’ll drive you two home, and you can have your car fixed tomorrow,” I offered.

  “We can take Ms. Premice home, Eddie,” Burns said. “Queen is going to the hospital for observation.”

  “I am not,” Queen disagreed.

  “Oh, yes you are, Grandma,” Claudette told her. “That boy may have broken something. They gotta check you out.”

  Queen looked around. She could see that she was getting no support.

  “Okay, I’ll go to the hospital so long as Eddie Perlmuttah dere take my granddaughta home,” Queen insisted.

  Claudette rolled her eyes.

  “Okay with you?” Officer Burns asked me.

  Mr. Johnson nudged me.

  “My pleasure,” I said.

  “We’ll get Queen to the hospital and check her in,” Burns said. “We’ll dust their car for prints, look for evidence, and have it towed to our garage. You can get it in the morning.”

  Mr. Johnson was wide awake.

  Forrest Buford barged in the main entrance of the Boca police station just as we were preparing to leave. The large, angry Aryan demanded that his son be released immediately. Red spots started playing tag in front of my eyes the instant he entered the room. He was an intimidating presence, and he knew it. What he didn’t know, however, was that I couldn’t be intimidated.

  Acting Chief Frank Burke arrived just as I was stepping in front of the Aryan asshole. Burke had been called at home due to the severity of the charges. Burke told Buford that Randolph wasn’t going anywhere until the morning, when he would be transferred to the West Palm Beach prison for his arraignment.

  “Bullshit,” Forrest Buford roared.

  “Keep talking like that and you can share a cell with him,” Burke said calmly.

  “Look, Chief Burke,” Buford was mollified, “you and I have met before.”

  “Yes, we have, Mr. Buford,” Burke said, glancing at me. “Your house was vandalized not too long ago.”

  “Then you know we’re local homeowners,” Buford tried. “And not a flight risk. We’re solid citizens of Boca Raton.”

  “I know you’re a solid citizen of Aryan Army,” I interjected.

  Forrest Buford looked at me like I was an annoying insect. I suppose from his perspective I was.

  “I know who you are.” He looked down at me. “You’re that Jewish cop from Boston everyone thinks is so special.”

  “Me? No, I’m no one special at all,” I feigned modesty before displaying spite. “I’m just a little Jew who kicked your son’s ass while he was sexually assaulting that nice-looking lady over there.”

  Just for laughs I pointed to Queen.

  “Yeh, dat’s right,” Queen said.

  Even Claudette stopped scowling long enough to smile. I saw Burke smirk.

  “That black trash?” Buford stammered.

  I saw a black policeman in the outer office look up from his paperwork and frown.

  “I’ll have you know,” I stated, “that this woman is a direct descendant of the king of Haiti.”

  “What king of Haiti?” Buford looked like he would explode, so I lit his fuse.

  “Haiti only had one king, you dumb fuck,” I said.

  “Who you calling a dumb fuck?” Buford took a menacing step toward me.

  I stepped toward him. Burke stepped between us.

  “Mr. Buford,” Burke said firmly, “stay calm please. Eddie, watch your mouth.”

  “You fuckin’ Jews expect me to believe that my son tried to rape that old hag,” Buford snapped.

  “Mr. Buford.” Burke raised his voice. “First of all, I’m not Jewish. I’m Irish Catholic.”

  “He hates Irish Catholics too, Frank,” I interjected.

  “And second of all” - Burke ignored me – “your son did not try to rape that woman.” He pointed at Queen. “He’s accused of assaulting that woman.” He pointed to the lovely Claudette sitting quietly in the corner. “He punched her in the face and tried to tear her blouse off,” Burke explained.

  Buford gave Claudette a look of contempt.

  “Jews, niggers, and Catholics.” Buford had a hate snit. “You’re all going to be sorry you ever met me,” Buford snarled.

  “I’m sorry already,” I let him know.

  Buford stomped toward the front door.

  “Asshole,” I said as he passed me.

  He glared but didn’t stop.

  “I thought that went well,” I said when Buford was gone.

  “That man don’t like nobody,” Queen observed correctly. “How you think he feels about voodoo?”

  “I’m sure he hates voodoo too, Queen,” I said.

  “Yeah, well, I make a little doll of him and stic
k a needle up his tight ass,” she chuckled.

  The black cop in the outer room laughed.

  Queen departed with Officer Burns for the hospital. Claudette and I headed for Delray Beach in my Mini Cooper. It took about fifteen minutes on 95 North to get to Delray and another fifteen minutes driving east on Atlantic Avenue to reach the Haitian area known as Osceola Park. I followed Claudette’s directions to a neighborhood of small private houses.

  The streets were clean. The lawns were tiny. The houses were white. The people were black. The only white face I saw was my own in my rearview mirror and I didn’t look that great.

  I stopped the Mini in front of the house she indicated. The one-level dwelling was no better and no worse than the other houses on the street.

  “Would you like to come in?” she asked.

  “No, that’s okay,” I said. “You must be exhausted.”

  “Actually, I’m not,” she told me. “Too much adrenaline. I’d like some company.”

  “You sure?”

  “Positive.”

  The house seemed smaller inside. I looked at family photographs on the walls and tables. There were all black faces in the pictures except for one photo. There was a white man, very handsome, with blond, wavy hair standing next to a very attractive black woman. I picked up the picture from the table.

  “Your parents?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said, taking the picture from my hands and looking at it reflectively. “Do you know about Haiti, Eddie?” she asked.

  “Not much,” I said. “I know it’s a poor country.”

  “It is a very poor country with a troubled past,” she said.

  “Is that why you came to America?”

  “I had no choice,” she said. “I had to leave Haiti.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  I sat down on her sofa. “Tell it to me.”

  “It’s been a long day,” she said unconvincingly.

  “You won’t be able to sleep for a while anyway,” I said. “You’re too wound up. Talk to me.”

  She sat in a chair across from me. “Okay,” she sighed. “Did you know that Columbus discovered Haiti the same year he discovered America?” she began.