Boca Knights

by Steven M. Forman

  “No,” I answered her honestly.

  Without warning she stepped back and ripped my shirt open like Buford had done to her blouse. Her nails scratched my chest and I felt like I was being seduced by a panther.

  “I might be a little afraid of you,” I admitted.

  She looked at me intently. “You should be.”

  We didn’t make love. We mated, fucked, grunted, pushed, bit, scratched, and panted. Sweat drenched our bodies, and we slid in and out of each other as if our parts had been custom-made for this purpose. Every position was perfect.

  Claudette was on top of me, grinding away on Mr. Johnson, who didn’t give an inch.

  Bring it on, he challenged her. I was proud of him. After all, the big prick was sixty years old.

  Claudette finally collapsed on the bed next to me. “I can’t believe you’re sixty years old,” Claudette gasped, looking at Mr. Johnson still standing.

  “I am, he’s not,” I told her, pointing to Mr. Johnson. “He’s like Peter Pan. He never grew up.”

  “I think he grew up just fine,” she said, and kissed Mr. Johnson on his bald head.

  That’s the way I like it, ah huh, ah huh, I heard him sing until he heaved a great sigh of relief, bowed to his partner, and retired for the night. Till we meet again.

  Sex with Alicia Fine had been an elegant evening at the symphony. Sex with Claudette Premice had been a crazy night of hot jazz. I was beginning to love all kinds of music.

  I gazed at the granddaughter of a Haitian revolutionary. She gazed back at me, the grandson of a Russian legend. We continued looking at each other until sleep finally closed our eyes.

  The next morning, after a brief jazz session, Claudette Premice and I were at the auto center at Sears, waiting for four new tires to be installed on her old Buick. My cell phone rang.

  “I heard you’re a hero again,” a familiar male voice said.

  “Of course I am,” I replied. “Who is this?”

  “Your favorite news reporter.”

  “Geraldo?”

  “Okay, your second favorite.”

  “How you doin’, Jerry?” I asked the young reporter formerly of the Boca News. He was writing for the Palm Beach County News since I gave him my exclusive about the Russian gangsters. He had his own column now.

  “I’m at the West Palm Beach county courthouse,” Jerry told me.

  “Good for you,” I interrupted him. “But before we get into that, when are you going to do the article on the foster kids?”

  “It starts tomorrow,” he told me. “It’s a four-part series in the local section, running four days in a row.”

  “Great. Were you careful with the wording about the trust fund?”

  “What do you think?” he asked casually.

  “Look, Jerry, we have to be very cautious, or we’ll have every nut in south Florida trying to adopt Tommy Bigelow.”

  “I know,” he said defensively. “And I was very clear. Tommy Bigelow has a $75,000 trust fund set up for his upbringing and education. The trust is tightly controlled by court-appointed trustees who have absolute authority over how the trust money can be spent. And, if Tommy should die, the trust is cancelled immediately.”

  “That should discourage fortune hunters, don’t you think?”

  “I would think so. But you said you only had one person in mind anyway.”

  “I’ll be disappointed if it doesn’t work out that way.”

  “Are you sure you want to take a risk with all that money?” Jerry asked.

  “I’m taking the cash value out of an old insurance policy I had for my wife. Who knew she’d die first? She’d approve of what I’m doing. Now what about the courthouse?”

  “A teenage kid named Randolph Buford was arraigned this morning for assault and attempted rape last night.”

  “Oh, that.”

  “You were listed as making a citizen’s arrest. How did that happen?”

  “Lucky,” I said. “I assume the Nazi bastard pleaded not guilty and was released on bail.”

  “In Florida, there’s a standard bond,” Jerry explained. “The judge released Buford on a $25,000 bond.”

  “That’s too bad,” I sighed. “The kid is a menace.”

  “Fortunately, other people share your opinion,” Jerry said.

  “Who?”

  “The DA’s office.”

  “No shit,” I said. “What did they do?”

  “Barry Daniels, from the DA’s office, rushed the information to the circuit court where Judge Avery Jacobs drew the case.”

  “I assume Buford’s affiliation with Aryan Army was read into the record.”

  “Correct.”

  “To Jewish judge Jacobs by Jewish district attorney Daniels.”

  “Correct again,” Jerry said.

  “Bail denied,” I said, already aware of the negative consequences.

  “Close to correct,” Jerry said. “Jewish judge Jacobs, with attorney Daniels urging him on, immediately decided that Randolph Buford was a danger to society and a flight risk. He set a circuit bond at a 250,000.”

  “Buford’s father went ballistic, I bet.”

  “Nuclear is a better word,” Jerry noted. “They had to restrain him from going after the judge.”

  “Now what?”

  “A representative of Aryan Army attended the arraignment,” Jerry reported. “Outside the courthouse, the lawyer referred to Aryan Army as the Brotherhood, another name for these lunatics, same as Aryan Nation. He declared that the Brotherhood was going to hire a big-time defense attorney, probably a Jew, and request a change of venue. They claim that it’s impossible for a member of their organization to get a fair trial in South Florida.”

  “There’s a twisted logic in what he says.”

  “The logic stops there, I’m afraid.” Small sighed. “Aryan Army announced they plan to demonstrate in Palm Beach. There’s a great propaganda opportunity here for the Aryan Brotherhood. They got Jews and blacks conspiring against good old white supremacists. It’s a natural. The circuit grand jury is scheduled to convene in a week. Harland Desmond, president of Aryan Army, has promised that the Brotherhood will be there en masse.”

  “Will there be a formal function at Mar Lago to welcome the Nazis?” I asked.

  Jerry laughed. “The rich and the superrich aren’t too thrilled about the prospect of having a few hundred skinheads running around their neighborhood.”

  “Why not? I think skinheads can be cute in their own way, like baby alligators,” I said. I disconnected from Jerry Small and told Claudette the story. We spent the next hour talking about Nazis, and finally her car was ready.

  “Will I see you again?” she asked tentatively.

  “I was counting on it,” I told her.

  “I wasn’t sure.” She shrugged. “Last night was kind of weird. I didn’t know if it was a one-time thing for you.”

  “I’m not that kind of guy,” I said.

  She laughed.

  “I’ll call you this afternoon at the hospital,” I promised.

  She seemed pleased.

  I showered at my apartment and was getting dressed when the cell phone rang. A friend of Carol Amici was calling to tell me that Dom had passed away at six o’clock that morning. I felt guilty. When Dom died, I was having great sex with a beautiful woman who bit my neck, scratched my back, and kissed every inch of my body in an unbelievably contradictory combination of violence and tenderness. By the time I wrote down all the details of the memorial service, I no longer felt guilty. I felt lucky to be alive.

  Dom’s memorial service was held the next night at the St. Francis Funeral Chapel in Boca. The service was scheduled to start at seven. I got there early to get a good seat, but the hall was already filled.

  I waited in a long line to view Dom’s body. I was startled to see how little remained of him. I expressed my condolences to the family. Carol was composed and calm. Her daughters hugged me and introduced me to their families. I forgot everyone’s
name in a minute.

  I stood in the back of the room as the ceremony began. The priest made some remarks about how there was only one God and Dominick was with him in heaven. “If Dominick Amici didn’t make it into heaven,” Father Tom said, “then we all have a problem.”

  A friend of Dominick’s from Boca Heights made a few remarks. He tried to lighten the mood with anecdotes. “Dominick suffered from the Stockholm syndrome,” the man said. “He had so many Jewish friends he thought he was Jewish, except for the religion and circumcision part.”

  Even I laughed.

  “Does anyone here know why Italians hate Jehovah’s Witnesses?” the man asked.

  Most of the mourners knew the answer. “Because Italians don’t like any witnesses,” they said in unison. It was one of Dominick’s favorite jokes, and it was a “feel good” moment.

  When Dom’s friend finished, I looked at the crowd. I saw a lot of smiling faces and watery eyes. I also noticed a small, middle-aged man standing by the exit with his arms folded across his chest. He was scowling, red-faced, and fidgety. A friend of Dominick’s from New Jersey was at the podium preparing to make a few remarks. I got up from my seat as quietly as I could and said, “Excuse me,” all the way down the narrow row, doing my best not to step on anyone’s toes. Unfortunately, I stepped on a Boca Babe’s pink-painted big toe. “Asshole,” she muttered and spoiled that “old-time religion” feeling for me. When I was free of the aisle, I headed directly toward the disgruntled mourner who seemed to sense I was coming for him. As I approached, he unfolded his arms, stepped away from the exit door and shouted, “DOMINICK AMICI IS A MURDERER! HE MURDERED MY FATHER, AND HE SHOULD BURN IN HELL!”

  Statements like that are not regarded lightly by devout Catholics, who take burning in hell literally. Personally, I prefer the seventy-two-virgin Muslim afterlife idea, but it’s not a multiple-choice kind of thing.

  Everyone had turned toward Robert Goldenblatt’s son, who stood defiantly in the back of the room. Before anyone could say, “Kick that squirrel in his nuts,” I twisted his arm behind his back in a perfect “policeman’s come-along” and pushed him to the door.

  “You’re breaking my arm,” the man protested.

  I knew I wasn’t breaking anything and I kept his arm where it was until we were out in the street.

  “You’re breaking my arm,” he repeated, weaker this time.

  “No, I’m not,” I said, and let him go.

  He rubbed his shoulder and glared at me. “He killed my father,” Robert Goldenblatt’s son told me.

  “I heard you the first time,” I said. “And I’m sorry about your father.” I held a hand out to him.

  He looked tentatively at my extended hand.

  “I’m Eddie Perlmutter,” I told him.

  He slowly put his hand out and took mine. His handshake was halfhearted. “I know who you are,” he told me. “I’m David Goldenblatt, Robert Goldenblatt’s oldest son.”

  “I understand how you must feel, David. But this is a hell of a place to present your case.”

  “There won’t be a case,” he said with frustration. “That’s the problem. With Amici dead, there won’t be anything. My father’s death will never be explained, and there will never be closure for my family.”

  “I’m investigating your father’s death right now,” I told him.

  “I heard something about that,” he said. “Why?”

  “Boca Heights wants closure, too,” I said.

  “I know Amici killed my father,” David Goldenblatt said. “Case closed.”

  “What if I told you I thought Amici was innocent?” I asked.

  “I’d say you were crazy,” David said. “If Dominick Amici didn’t kill my father, then who did?”

  “I’m not prepared to say just yet,” I said. “But when my investigation is complete you’ll hear from me.”

  “There’s no other explanation for what happened,” David Goldenblatt said, but he wasn’t angry anymore.

  “Yes, there is,” I disagreed, “and I’m going to try to prove it. All I want you to do is promise me you won’t bother the Amicis anymore.”

  “I wasn’t planning to,” he said sadly. “I just wanted to get this off my chest.”

  “Will you apologize to the Amici family if you’re wrong?”

  “I’m not wrong.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “If I’m wrong I’ll apologize,” David Goldenblatt conceded.

  “You’re not such a bad guy,” I told him.

  “Neither was my father,” he told me.

  I suggested that David leave the area before the rest of the mourners exited. He agreed.

  “You’ll be hearing from me,” I promised.

  The mourners filed out of the funeral home a few minutes later. Everyone was talking about David Goldenblatt’s outburst.

  “That son of a bitch,” Debbie Aiello, one of Dom’s daughters said to me, her eyes red from crying. “How could he do something like that?”

  I put a hand on her shoulder. “He lost his father, too,” I reminded her, “and his father’s death hasn’t been resolved. He’s very angry.”

  Carol Amici came up to me with her daughter Lisa. “Thank you for getting that man out of the room,” she said. “That was awful.”

  “Yes, it was,” I agreed. “But he really believes Dominick killed his father.”

  “I know.” Carol fought against her tears. “It’s a shame, Eddie,” she went on. “Dominick was such a good person. For him to be remembered like this is a crime.”

  “I used to be in crime prevention,” I said, hugging her. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  The next morning I was front-page news in the Palm Beach County News again thanks to Jerry Small. Claudette and I read his article under the covers of my bed, where we had spent another night in a lively jazz session.

  Jerry Small’s article was entitled “Oh What a Knight” and was laced with so many superlatives about me that even I was impressed with myself. Jerry referred to me as “Sir Eddie the Boca Knight.”

  Claudette had her head on my chest as I read aloud about “Eddie Perlmutter’s heroic rescue of two damsels in distress.”

  She gave Mr. Johnson a healthy squeeze. “My hero,” she said with an exaggerated sigh.

  “Careful,” I warned her. “He’ll get a swelled head.”

  “I hope so,” she laughed.

  Jerry’s article reviewed my career in Boston and noted my accomplishments since I moved to Boca. He mentioned that I had become a licensed private detective in Florida and was working on cases for Boca Heights in cooperation with the Boca police. The article also confirmed that hundreds, maybe thousands of members of Aryan Army were planning to invade Palm Beach the following week.

  Aryan Army had received a parade permit to march in the Palm Beach streets in protest of Randolph Buford’s arrest. The license was granted for the day the Palm Beach grand jury convened to hear the Buford case. Labeling the entire matter a “Jewish-Black conspiracy,” Aryan Army’s lawyers were not only demanding a change of venue but a public apology.

  Jerry Small identified me as the only witness. I’m sure Jerry meant well, but I felt as if he had painted a bull’s-eye on my back for the sharpshooters of Aryan Army.

  I flipped to the local section of the paper and found the first installment of the four-part foster-care series I requested. It featured a bright, young kid named Tommy Bigelow as a perfect candidate for adoption.

  Claudette went to work at the hospital, and I went to Dominick’s funeral at Saint Joan of Arc Catholic church on Palmetto. It was a modern building with high ceilings. Muted sunlight filtered through the stained-glass windows and gave the church a mellow, Godly glow. It was a beautiful day even though Dom was dead. Rain would have been more appropriate.

  There were over a hundred people in the church, and I figured ninety-nine percent were Jewish. Maybe six Catholics were in attendance, not counting the family, the priest, the altar boy
, and the deacon.

  I knew I was getting curious looks. My celebrity status was growing with each bullet and crime I stopped. I smiled at familiar faces and was surprised to see Alicia Fine in the row in front of me. She turned to face me, and the first thing I did was picture her naked. Mr. Johnson stirred. What schmucks the two of us can be.

  She smiled.

  I nodded.

  Mr. Johnson stretched a little. What’s up? he asked.

  She whispered, “I want to talk to you.”

  I nodded again.

  The music of “Ave Maria” filled the room as the pallbearers wheeled Dom’s casket down the center aisle. “Ave Maria” is a masterpiece, and it always made me wish I believed in God. The organist paused at the end of “Ave Maria” then plunged into “Amazing Grace.” I lost control and blew my nose into my hand.

  Why the hell did I do that? I thought.

  The grossed-out woman to my right passed me a tissue. I wiped my hand and my face clean, and I thanked the woman without looking at her. By the second chorus of “Amazing Grace,” I had raised my right arm in the air and lowered my head while I sang. I had seen this done at a Baptist ceremony one time. When I first saw this levitating routine I thought it looked like fun. It was like hailing a cab while trying not to be recognized. I glanced around the church and noticed that I was the only person playing “hail a cab.” I immediately put my arm down. Apparently, the raised-arm rapture was strictly a Baptist thing, not a universal Christian thing. The woman next to me with the tissues looked at me out of the corner of her eye like I was a complete imbecile. “Wrong pew,” I said with a shrug, and kept right on singing.

  When the priest invited Dominick’s friends and family to come forward and receive communion, the Jews in attendance froze like deer in headlights. Carol and the immediate family approached the priest with their hands folded in front of them. They were followed by six of Dom’s Catholic friends. The entire communion was over in about seven minutes.

  “That was the shortest communion in history,” Father Tom joked.

  The congregation laughed, and the service ended on a positive note. No one was happy that Dom had died, but everyone there was happy that he had lived.