Boca Knights

by Steven M. Forman

  “I heard that the Anti-Defamation League is sending a representative,” someone said hopefully.

  “The Anti-Defamation League won’t stop Aryan Army,” I said. “Maybe the Jewish Defense League could slow them down but not the ADL.”

  “The JDL is too violent,” one of the Jews protested.

  “With Aryan Army you can’t be too violent. Violence is all they understand and respect,” I explained. “I know them. I’ve dealt with them in the past.”

  “Eddie,” Seymour said. “This isn’t Boston in the seventies or Germany in 1939.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said. “The rules are basically the same.”

  “We have laws to protect us,” someone added.

  “Yeah, and it was the law that gave the Aryans a permit to march in the streets of Palm Beach and tell the world about a Jewish-black conspiracy. I think it’s going to be very ugly.”

  “Oh, I don’t think it will be so bad,” a heavily made-up grandmother said with a wave of her hand. “I heard they’re bringing two teenage-girl singers with them to perform during the protest. How bad could it be if they’re planning on entertaining people with little-girl singers?”

  I laughed. “Those cute, blond teenager singers would be Lyn and Loren Grace,” I said. “They’re sisters who sing under the name of Aryan Angels.”

  “That’s right. Are they any good?”

  “They’ve been on national television,” I said.

  “Really? What do they sing?”

  “Anti-Semitic songs. Anti-black songs. Anti-Catholic songs.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously,” I said. “One of them wears the number eighty-eight on her clothes.”

  “Why?”

  “She’s copying another couple of Aryan girl singers. H is the eighth letter in the alphabet. Double eight is for two H’s, which stand for ‘Heil Hitler,’” I explained. “They’re very creative kids.”

  “Oh dear,” one woman said, holding a frail hand to her wrinkled neck. “This is a nightmare.”

  “Now you’re getting it,” I congratulated her.

  “I don’t want these people marching in my backyard,” Seymour chimed in again. “I don’t want to hear them, and I don’t want to see them. What can we do?”

  “You could go on a cruise,” I said facetiously, remembering my dream about everyone going on a cruise while Aryan Army attacked Boca Heights.

  When I heard, “Hey, that’s not a bad idea,” from someone in the crowd I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  “What do you think it would cost?” another member asked.

  “We can look into it as a group and maybe get a good rate.”

  “We could make this a Boca Heights event,” one woman said. She sounded excited about the idea. “We could make it a theme cruise like Aryans Away. We could have a costume party.”

  I just shook my head.

  “Eddie” - Seymour looked at me seriously – “how long do you figure these hate groups will be in Palm Beach County?” All eyes were on me now, hoping to get an idea of how long the cruise should be.

  “They’ll stay as long as it takes to get what they want,” I told them.

  “What do they want?” someone protested.

  “First and foremost,” I said, “they’d like us to die.”

  “That’s not an answer,” I heard.

  “It’s the only answer I have,” I said.

  “I read in the paper that the president of Aryan Army will be in Boca soon,” someone said nervously.

  “Yeah, Harland Desmond,” I replied. “I heard he’s here already.”

  “Can you talk to him? Try to reason with him.”

  “My grandfather taught me that you can’t reason with a bear,” I said.

  “The man is hardly a bear,” Seymour pointed out.

  “Close enough.”

  “Certainly, you could say something to him,” Seymour tried.

  “Yeah. I could tell him to get out of town,” I said.

  “Do you think he’d listen to you?”

  “Only if I threatened to kill him.”

  The drive from the clubhouse to my apartment was a blur of headlights. I remembered reading once that man was the only creature on earth with a brain big enough to contemplate his own existence. So, I asked myself, “When there are Aryans at the gate threatening to huff and puff and blow the house down, can people with big brains really believe it’s a good time to plan a costume party?” What were they thinking?

  “There are Aryans at the gate.”

  “Tell them to go away.”

  “There are Aryans rioting at the gate.”

  “Tell them to keep it down.”

  “There are Aryans breaking down the gate.”

  “Call the manager.”

  “The Aryans have broken down the gate.”

  “Another goddamn assessment.”

  “There are Aryans pounding on the door of our house.”

  “Maybe they’ll go away.”

  “There are Aryans chopping down our door.”

  “Pack the cruise wear.”

  “There are Aryans taking all our property.”

  “Who knew?”

  My grandfather knew there was always someone trying to take someone else’s stuff. There was always hate, and Aryan Army had hate oozing out of every pore. The people in Boca Heights only hated waiting in line, small dinner portions, bad restaurant tables, and poor service. The gentle people of Boca Heights were only qualified to fight with their children and each other. They were no match for professional haters like Aryan Army.

  Who would defend the gates of Boca Heights, Boca West, Boca Teeca, Boca Grove, Boca Vista, Boca Woods, Boca Green, Boca Lago, Boca Marina, Boca Chase, Boca Highlands, Boca Falls, Boca Isles North, Boca Isles South, Boca Pointe, Boca Country Club, Delaire, Bocaire, Stonebridge, Saint Andrews, the Colonnade, Les Jardine, Woodfield, the Woodfield Hunt Club, the Oaks, the Sanctuary, Mizner Country Club, and Ponte Vecchio? Who had the courage? Who had no fear of the consequences? Who would live free or die like the residents of New Hampshire? Who would defend the defenseless?

  “I’ll do it,” I announced as I got out of my car. “I’ll carry the load for everyone.”

  “Why, thank you, Eddie,” gray-haired, seventy-eight-year-old, twice-widowed Eleanor Silberstein said, and she handed me two heavy bags of groceries from Publix.

  I went to bed still thinking about the Aryans Away cruise. At 4 a.m. my phone rang. I’ve never received a phone call with good news between the hours of 2 a.m. and 5 a.m. and this call was no exception.

  “Eddie, did I wake you?” Frank Burke sounded agitated.

  “No, Frank,” I mumbled. “I was sitting here fully dressed waiting for your call.”

  “Sorry to bother you but - ”

  “You have some bad news,” I interrupted him as I sat up and put on the lamp next to my bed.

  “I’m afraid so,” Frank confirmed. “The Jewish section of Memories Park was vandalized tonight. I’m told it’s a mess.”

  “Let me guess,” I said, rubbing my eyes with my free hand. “Some asshole painted swastikas there.”

  “Among other things,” Frank said. “The papers have the story already. I thought I’d give you the courtesy of telling you myself.”

  “Those bastards don’t waste any time do they? Anything I can do there now?”

  “Not really,” he said. “We’re securing the area and leaving a guard. You can drop by in the morning.”

  “It is the morning,” I said.

  “It’s more like the middle of the night,” Frank remarked. “I’m sorry, Eddie.”

  “I know you are, Frank,” I said, and hung up the phone.

  Aryan Army had declared war on Boca and the invasion had begun.

  I was at Memories at nine the next morning. Claudette Premice and Queen were already there. The police had taped off the area as a crime scene and one officer was still on duty.

  “What a
re you two doing here?” I asked Claudette.

  “Bad news travels fast,” Claudette said. “We got a call this morning from neighbors of ours who are gardeners here. We wanted to see for ourselves,” Claudette said.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” I said, kissing her on the cheek.

  “How ‘bout me, Vanilla Ice?” Queen said.

  “I’m glad you’re here, too, Queen,” I said, and gave her a peck as well.

  I saw Jackson Lehman, one of the owners of Memories, who had shown me around the park during my first visit to Boca several months ago. Jackson was a nice guy who wanted to change the way people looked at death. He wanted Memories to be a celebration of life not a place of death. Unfortunately, there was no cause for celebration that morning.

  The requisite swastikas were on the walls of the large mausoleum that already held hundreds of Jewish souls in the short time it had been opened. “DEATH TO JEWS” was painted in black over the Star of David at the front door. “FUCK THE JEWS” was scrawled prominently on all four walls. Across the road that divided the park was the Christian mausoleum, spotless and conspicuous by its pristine appearance and untouched walls. The message was clear.

  Individual Jewish family crypts had been damaged and painted. Glass was broken. Doors were smashed. Paint was everywhere. Jackson Lehman had tears in his eyes.

  “Look what these bastards did, Eddie,” he said. “They destroy everything that’s good. Won’t it ever stop?”

  “No, it has to be stopped.”

  While we surveyed the damage, a caravan of cars began arriving. Soon there were at least fifty people walking somberly around the grounds. Despite the swelling crowd, Memories remained quiet as a tomb and silent as a cemetery. It was the sound of Boca mourning.

  I looked at the swastikas and blasphemy on the walls and thought of when I spray-painted the Buford house. The two physical acts were similar but the motivations were entirely different. I was sending the Buford’s a personal message that night. I was telling them there was someone out there in the darkness of South Florida who was just as barbaric as they were and not afraid to play without rules. I was sending a one-time message directly to them that their uncivilized behavior would be met with uncivilized behavior. I thought that “Live and let live or prepare for war” was a fair warning that left room for choices.

  The message these animals left at the cemetery was different. Their message was, “We hate you because of who you are and we have no respect for your living or for your dead.”

  I noticed three black squirrels hopping around the wreckage. They darted, dashed, stopped and started, flitted, scurried, scrambled, scampered, and fidgeted. They never seemed comfortable with where they were or where they were going. I remember thinking that people who hate for a living must have squirrels running around in their heads. What else could explain their behavior?

  The policeman on duty departed after telling Jackson the crime lab would be there soon. The park was left to the mourners. I was studying some rather large, deep footprints when Jackson Lehman put his arm on my shoulder. “Will you look at this,” he said, shaking his head. “What balls.”

  I turned to see an Aryan Army version of Goldilocks and the Three Bears approaching. Apparently, the good-looking members of Aryan Army who bathe regularly couldn’t make it today. Hello, red spots, I thought as I watched four Halloween characters approach. If I were a black cat I would have raised my back and hissed.

  The bears were bully big, an incongruous mix of muscle, bulk, fat, and swagger. They had huge shaved heads, thick tattooed arms, and round, bulging bellies indicating that intimidation was their strongest weapon. The three bears looked dirty. Goldilocks looked vile. Her blond, straggly hair was from a peroxide bottle. Her haggard face and rheumy eyes were from a liquor bottle. Her skinny, tattooed arms looked disgusting. Her pinched features tried to argue that she wasn’t as old as she looked but her cigarette wrinkles made her actual age irrelevant. When you look like shit, age doesn’t matter. Goldilocks was trash and the bears were her garbage men.

  “What are they doing here?” Jackson muttered to me.

  “Gloating,” I told him.

  “Do you think they’re the ones who trashed this place?” he asked me.

  “Yes,” I said to Jackson. “But they’re betting we can’t prove it. They’re here to intimidate us.”

  “It’s working.” Jackson motioned with his head at the Memories mourners. They looked like deer caught in the headlights but instead of being paralyzed by the oncoming lights they were petrified by the approaching darkness.

  I watched the foul foursome walk toward the crime scene and I could feel the fear emanating from the crowd mingling in Memories. To his credit, Jackson Lehman did not seem intimidated.

  “I’m Jackson Lehman, the owner here,” he said to them in a clear voice. “Can I help you?”

  “Looks like you’re the one who could use some help, motherfucker,” Goldilocks said as she lit a cigarette with a silver Zippo lighter. She snapped the lighter lid shut by hitting it against her thigh and stuffed it in the front pocket of her jeans.

  Every move and every word was well choreographed to make the most fearsome first impression possible. I wasn’t impressed. Bravado is the first sign of bullshit.

  “Yeah, looks like you had some trouble here,” one of the bears said. “Now who would do such a nasty thing to a nice Jew cemetery?” His insinuation was obvious and meant to intimidate. The crowd was silently cowering.

  “Yeah, what a shame,” another grizzly said. “Who would do such a terrible thing to nice heeb property?”

  “You would, Yogi,” I said, stepping forward and stopping their advance.

  “And just what might you be, motherfucker?” Goldilocks blew smoke in my direction and looked me up and down disdainfully.

  “I might be afraid of you but I’m not,” I turned to the frightful woman.

  “How about I kick your ass?” the biggest bear said, stepping forward.

  “With your Xelement Fearless Flames,” I said, indicating his black boots with the fire painted on the toe.

  “That’s right,” he said, smiling. “They’d make a nice imprint on your scrawny ass.”

  “Like the imprints you left all over the ground here last night,” I said. “I’d say they’re size fourteens, custom-made. I’d also say you weigh about 260 pounds based on the deep footprints you left.”

  The four of them blinked in unison.

  “Your friends over there left some excellent size-thirteen sneaker prints, too,” I pointed out. “And I’m sure I’ll find some dainty little boot prints made by your mother.”

  “Kiss my ass, motherfucker,” she said to me.

  “Thanks for the offer,” I said. “But I’ll pass.”

  “You can’t prove those are our footprints.” The booted bear put his hands on his hips and stood tall.

  “You have me confused with the police,” I said. “I don’t have to prove anything. I know you did it and I’m gonna make sure you never do it again.”

  “Who do you think you are, motherfucker?” The blonde seemed to have a limited vocabulary.

  “Eddie Perlmutter,” I said, shifting my glare to her and closing my fists.

  I saw the recognition in her eyes. The three bears looked at each other.

  “The Boca Knight,” she laughed. “You?”

  “Little old me,” I said.

  “We’ve been wanting to meet you.” She smiled meanly and the four of them started to separate from each other. They were experienced street fighters and would come at me from four different angles. I knew I could get two of them but I didn’t have a chance against all four. I targeted the woman. She would be the easiest. Then I’d move for the biggest bear. I stood motionless wondering why the hell I wasn’t the least bit frightened and why everyone else in the area was terrified. I took a deep breath and waited.

  Claudette Permice stepped in front of me, looked me in the eyes, and winked. Then she turned
to face Goldilocks. “You gotta get through me to get to him,” she said.

  The hideous woman snorted a laugh. “You shittin’ me, motherfucker? What are you anyway, white or nigger?”

  “I don’t care what I am as long as I’m not you, you ugly bastard.”

  Claudette amazed me. I had made love to her enough to know she could beat up on most men but I had never seen her in action outside the hospital or the bedroom. I was impressed but I still didn’t like our odds.

  Jackson Lehman suddenly stepped in front of me and stood next to Claudette. “You’ll have to go through me, too,” Jackson said.

  Goldilocks and the three bears were confused. This was turning into a confrontation. They still looked like easy winners but the mood had changed. Someone else moved in front of me. It was Seymour Tanzer, the pain-in-the-ass retired attorney from Boca Heights. He didn’t say a word. He just took his place next to Jackson. A frail female octogenarian bent by osteoporosis and aided by her similarly hunched husband moved next to Seymour. People began moving silently in front of me, one after the other, until I was behind a wall of people. No one was talking. No one was threatening. It was completely silent in the cemetery. I was impressed.

  “What is this,” Goldilocks snorted again, “the march of the living dead motherfuckers?”

  No one answered her. The crime lab police car pulled into the lot and broke the silence.

  “Okay, Boca Knight,” Goldilocks said, motioning to her thugs, “we’ll settle this another time.”

  After they had driven away my human shield turned to me. I saw relief, fear, and pride on their faces.

  I picked out Seymour Tanzer, the lawyer. “Seymour,” I said, “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

  “I don’t have it in me anymore,” Seymour said. “I just shit my pants.”

  People laughed to relieve the pressure they all were feeling.

  “Does anyone have any more questions about Aryan Army?” I asked them.

  No one said a word.

  Buses and RVs carrying members of Aryan Army began arriving in Florida on the Monday preceding the Wednesday grand jury hearings. The Army had rented acreage near Yeehaw Junction, several miles east of Interstate 95, about an hour north of Palm Beach. Members of the Nation pitched tents and started partying. Campfires blazed, loudspeakers blared, and a couple of crosses burned. The Klan was with Aryan Army.