“Do you know who attacked you?” she asked, already knowing the answer.
The cameraman was doing a close-up of my bruised face.
“No, I don’t,” I admitted. “They came at me from behind. I didn’t see anyone’s face.”
“Do you have any idea who it could have been?” she pressed.
“If I had to guess I’d say it was the three fools from Aryan Army who showed up at the cemetery the other day with the Wicked Witch of the North,” I told her.
“Why do you say that?”
“If you saw her you’d know why,” I said.
“No, I mean why do you say it was the same three men?”
“One of them was wearing a pair of Fearless Flame boots and the other two were wearing sneakers,” I told her. “The same as the three stooges at the cemetery. Then, one of them told me I should have been watching my back,” I said. “And that was what your friend Harland Desmond advised me to do, if you remember.”
“I remember.” She nodded her head. “But Harland Desmond is no friend of mine.”
“He’d be the first person to tell you that,” I agreed with her.
“Tell us what happened,” she led me into my story.
I told her about the attack, the kinjal, and the severed Achilles tendons.
“That sounds horrible,” she said.
“It would have been more horrible if I’d let them keep kicking me,” I told her.
“Will they walk again?” she wanted to know.
“I don’t know and I don’t care,” I said honestly. “I do know they won’t be kicking anyone in the head anytime soon.”
“And what about your injuries?” she asked. “How long do you anticipate your condition will delay the Buford hearings?”
“I don’t expect any delay,” I told her.
“Well, the grand jury is scheduled to convene tomorrow,” she said. “You’re in no condition to testify.”
“I’ll be at that hearing,” I insisted. “And I’ll testify.”
“You have a severe concussion and two broken ribs,” Miriam said with concern.
“If I don’t testify,” I explained, “Randolph Buford’s grand jury appearance will be postponed and the judge will have to release the little turd on bail. That would be a victory for Aryan Army, and that’s just not going to happen.”
“Does Randolph Buford’s indictment mean that much to you?” she asked.
“Randolph Buford doesn’t mean anything to me,” I told her honestly.
“So, why is it so important to be at that hearing?”
“Someone has to stand up to these hateful bastards,” I said. “They attacked me to stop me from testifying. They would have preferred to stop me permanently but if I don’t testify tomorrow they get the next best thing.”
“Aren’t you concerned about another attack?” she asked. “They already tried to kill you once.”
“I’m concerned,” I told her honestly. “But I’m not afraid.”
“You’re not afraid of dying?”
“I don’t want to die, of course,” I stated the obvious. “But I won’t live in fear, either.”
“A newspaper reporter called you a Boca Knight,” Miriam referred to Jerry Small’s article about me. “What did he mean by that?”
“I don’t know. Ask him,” I said.
“I’m interested in your thoughts.”
“I never thought about it,” I told her.
“Would you think about it now, please?” she prodded. “We all know what Aryan Army represents. What does it mean to be a Boca Knight?”
I thought about what it meant to be a Boca Knight by remembering how I had always tried to live my life.
“I would say,” I began thoughtfully, “a Boca Knight is a person willing to fight and die to defend everyone’s right to live as they choose, in peace.”
“So, a Boca Knight fights for human rights.” She tried to turn my explanation into a good media sound bite.
“‘Boca Knights for Human Rights’ does have a nice ring to it,” I said, helping Miriam along.
“Thanks. I think so, too.” She smiled in appreciation. “And where do Boca Knights come from, Eddie?”
“A Boca Knight is a state of mind, not a place,” I told her.
“Do you think we have enough Boca Knights in Palm Beach County to stand up to Aryan Army?” she asked.
“I have no way of knowing that,” I admitted. “Although I met some unlikely Boca Knights the other day at the cemetery.”
“Harland Desmond said that it will be a different story tomorrow,” Miriam told me. “He said Aryan Army will be in full force tomorrow and you’ll receive no support. What if you’re the only Boca Knight in town tomorrow?” Miriam asked.
“Then I’ll stand alone,” I said.
Miriam Goldberg turned to the camera. “Well there you have it. Eddie Perlmutter, the Boca Knight, is prepared to stand alone against Aryan Army if necessary,” she said dramatically. “And we’ll be there to cover this story live from the Palm Beach courthouse tomorrow morning. Join us. This is Miriam Goldberg wishing all you Boca Knights out there a good day.”
The red light on the camera went off.
“Nice touch,” I told Miriam.
“I try.”
From the police helicopter hovering a thousand feet above the ground, I saw what looked like an army of ants marching north on A1A. I could also see the northbound lanes of I-95 blocked with traffic. It was only seven o’clock Wednesday morning, the day Randolph Buford was scheduled to appear before the grand jury at the Palm Beach circuit courthouse.
Frank Burke had roused me from a peaceful sleep in my holding cell at the Boca Raton police station only an hour earlier. I had been moved by ambulance to the police station from the hospital Tuesday morning, shortly after my interview with Miriam Goldberg. The incarceration was my idea. I figured I was still an Aryan Army target, and I didn’t want to put hospital personnel, patients, or visitors in harm’s way. A hospital bed was squeezed into the cell, and I was hooked up to all the tubes I needed.
Jerry Small wrote that I had been taken into protective custody as a star witness.
“What’s up?” I sat up in bed when the chief woke me. Immediately, I was dizzy and put my head back on the pillow.
“Nothing good, I’m sorry to say,” Burke told me. “I just got a call from the Palm Beach chief, who said that traffic is backed up for miles off I-95 and hundreds of people are walking on A1A.”
“Aryan Army?” I asked feeling nauseous.
“I guess. Some of their buses were spotted in the traffic surrounded by cheering marchers.” Frank shook his head slowly. “You’re scheduled to appear before the grand jury at about nine-thirty. We’ve got to get you there on time.”
“I’ll be ready in ten minutes,” I assured him.
“We’re going by helicopter,” Burke told me. “I’ve already made arrangements with the department.”
“Do we really need a chopper?”
“From the way the Palm Beach chief described the situation,” Burke said, “it’s a zoo out there. Nothing is moving.”
“I really didn’t think Desmond would get this much support,” I confessed.
“Neither did I, but he did,” Burke said. “Maybe your interview with Miriam Goldberg incited a lot of bigots. You were pretty expressive.”
“Bigots are always incited,” I said. “I just raised the level.”
“Well you got me excited, Eddie,” Burke said. “I wanted to be a Boca Knight after listening to you.”
“You’re a Boca Knight already, Frank,” I praised him.
“Why thank you, Sir Eddie.” He tossed me a bulletproof vest.
“You think I need this?”
“Wear it. There must be a lot of nuts out there today.”
“There are a lot of nuts out there every day.”
I was transported by wheelchair to a police cruiser and traveled with a police escort to the Boca airport. I was lifted on
to the helicopter, still in my wheelchair, and Frank Burke boarded with me. He was wearing his bulletproof vest.
The helicopter started its descent into Palm Beach. I saw that the front lawn of the Palm Beach circuit courthouse had been cordoned off by police officers holding riot shields. From the air, it looked as if thousands of people were below me. I closed my eyes. I had experienced the ugly sight of angry crowds before, and I knew that a mob’s negative vibrations could drain a person’s energy. My battery was already low and I had to conserve what little power I had.
I hid in the darkness behind my eyelids trying to conserve my strength. Unfortunately, I could still see with my mind’s eye.
I saw a flickering black-and-white 1941 vintage newsreel image of marching fanatics on parade. I envisioned the endless supply of mindless morons goose-stepping behind barbarian leaders like Attila, Hitler, Hussein, Mussolini, Stalin, Amin, Mao, and bin Laden. I heard them chanting. “Death to Jews. Death to Serbs. Death to Americans. Death to pigs. Death to intellectuals. Death to anarchists. Death to Kurds. Death to everyone except us . . . in God’s name, of course!”
The helicopter touched down but I remained behind closed eyes. I felt my wheelchair being lifted from the helicopter and placed on the ground. I heard a loud roar and knew it was time for me to face my bear. Ready or not, motherfucker, here comes Eddie Perlmutter. I struggled out of the wheelchair, stood up, squared my shoulders, opened my eyes, and looked at a massive man standing in front of me. He was not at all who I expected.
“Bruno Muscles?”
“Hey, Coach Eddie.” Bruno Muscles smiled at me and gave me a North End hug that hurt my broken ribs. He patted my back. I smelled garlic.
“How you doin’?” Muscles rumbled. He lightened his grip, so he could look at me.
“Muscles, what are you doin’ here?”
“We’re all here,” I heard a familiar voice.
“Togo!” I looked past Muscles to see my old friend standing there. More hugs. More pats. More How you doin’?s all around. Petey “Pants” was there. Tommy “Rats” was there. Reggie “The Doctor” Infante was there. Mikey Tees was there.
“How you doin’?”
“How you doin’?”
“How you doin’?”
“Hey Eddie, you remember Sal the Mumza,” Togo said.
“Sure, I remember Sal.” I shook Sal’s hand.
“I brought Anthony ‘Nuts’ too,” Togo said. “He tole me you arrested him twice but he liked you anyway. Same with ‘Fingers’ over there.”
“Fingers, you staying out of trouble?” I asked.
“I am but you ain’t,” Fingers, a small-time numbers runner, said.
I looked around at more familiar faces from the old neighborhood. “What’s going on here,” I asked.
Bruno Muscles put a hand on my shoulder and touched his forehead to mine. “We seen you on television, Eddie,” he said. I loved the smell of garlic in the morning. “And your North End buddies wasn’t gonna let you fight these fuckin’ Aryan assholes by yourself. Togo chartered a plane so we could be with you. Let them Nazis try somethin’ now.”
Togo, the boys, and I formed a circle, and we put our arms on each other’s shoulders. I bit my lower lip and kept my head down.
“Thanks, guys,” I said.
“Hey, we’re Boca Knights, too,” Togo said, opening his jacket and showing me his tee shirt that had the words BOCA KNIGHTS - How You Doin’ printed on the front. “There’s a lot of Boca Knights here today, Eddie.”
“Yeah?” I asked, still staring at his tee shirt.
“Look around you.” Togo stepped aside and moved his arm in a grand, sweeping motion. My eyes followed his gesture, and for the first time I saw individual faces instead of a blur of humanity. I was stunned. There were as many black faces as white in the crowd. I blinked several times as if I had just walked out of a darkened theater in the middle of a sunny afternoon.
What the hell was Tommy Bigelow doing there with Matt McGrady?
Was that Barry Anson next to them?
Wasn’t that Carol Amici and her daughters smiling at me? The grandchildren too?
Was that Seymour Tanzer, that pain in the ass?
Was that Mrs. Frost and Mrs. First behind Seymour?
Was that Mrs. Mildred Feinberg? Smiling? Waving to me? Noooo!
Was that the lady and her daughter from the shack on State Road 7? Yes it was.
Steve Coleman pointed at me. “You’re the man,” he shouted, and his wife, Barbara, waved enthusiastically.
It seemed like every golfer from Boca Heights was there.
Jackson, from Memories, was there wearing a Boca Knights baseball cap. Where the hell did he get that?
I turned slowly in a circle and saw nothing but smiling, happy black and white faces.
I saw a little girl, sitting on a man’s shoulders, holding up a hand-painted sign that read: BOCA KNIGHTS - WE CARE!
Next to her a woman was holding a sign: BOCA KNIGHTS - LOVE LIFE.
There were signs everywhere.
BOCA KNIGHTS - LIVE AND LET LIVE!!
BOCA KNIGHTS - RESPECT LIFE!
BOCA KNIGHTS - FOR PEACE!
BOCA KNIGHTS - EQUAL RIGHTS!
I was overwhelmed.
Sylvia Goldman, the bagel thief, was there. I don’t how she got there but I didn’t bother to ask. I just gave her a big hug.
Shankman, the lawyer from Philly, was there handing out business cards.
Louie Lipshitz and Dr. Goober were there. The doctor looked a little lost.
Barry Kaye from the “You die, we pay” commercial was there, too, with his son, Howard. They were both carrying signs.
BOCA KNIGHTS - GOD BLESS AMERICA
There were signs for women’s rights, gay rights, immigrant rights, animal rights, the right to go left. But most of all it was a rally for everyone’s right to live in peace.
The scene reminded me of the antiwar demonstrations years ago. The words Make Love, Not War had been replaced by Boca Knights - Human Rights but the message was the same: Live the life you choose in peace.
I saw Queen Premice walking toward me. Bruno Muscles moved in her path. “Where do you think you’re goin’, mammy?” he challenged her.
Queen made a fist and shook it at Muscles. “Mammy? Get out of my way you goddamn telephone pole,” she growled at him.
I put a hand on the big man’s shoulder. “She’s my friend, Muscles,” I told him.
He looked at me, then he looked at Queen. He looked back and forth again. “Yeah?” He was working it out in his mind. “You sure?”
“I’m sure,” I assured him. “Her name’s Queen.”
“I don’t see no crown.” Muscles looked her up and down.
“How ‘bout I crown you, you big dumb Eye-talian son of a bitch?” Queen was in his face.
“How you know I’m Italian?”
“You smell like a garlic garden, you big dummy,” Queen said.
“Muscles, she’s my friend,” I interceded.
“If you say so,” Muscles said, and before I could stop him, he had Queen in a bear hug. “Any friend of Coach Eddie is a friend of mine,” he said, and kissed Queen on the cheek.
“Aw hell,” Queen protested and wiped her face.
Claudette Premice appeared in front of me. “Look what you did, Eddie,” she said to me. “They’re all here because of you.”
“Why?” I still didn’t understand. “What did I do?”
“You reminded everyone that they can be Boca Knights.” She hugged me like a lover and a friend. “Sometimes people forget.”
“Is the entire Delray Haitian community here?” I looked around at all the black faces.
“I did my best,” she laughed. “They started marching yesterday afternoon. Hey, even Donald Trump is here.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No, I’m not. There are all kinds of people here.” Claudette was very excited.
I looked around in wonder. “Where are
all the Aryans?”
“They couldn’t make it today,” she laughed.
“Why not?”
“All the roads are blocked with people,” she explained. “The Aryan Army’s chartered buses couldn’t get through. They’re stuck in traffic somewhere on I-95, I think.”
“What about Harland Desmond?” I asked over the crowd noise.
“Last I heard,” Claudette Premice shouted into my ear, “he disappeared into a crowd of demonstrating Haitians when he got off his bus north of the city and tried to wade through them.”
“Disappeared?” I said loudly. “People don’t just disappear.”
“In Haiti they do,” she said seriously. “Remember President Guillaume Sam?”
“Don’t tell me about it,” I said and covered my ears with my hands.
Claudette laughed.
Chief Burke tugged my sleeve. “We gotta go inside,” he urged me.
“Okay,” I nodded and turned to Claudette. “I have to go.”
“Wave to your fans,” she said as she kissed my cheek.
I turned and waved. The electric, eclectic, unarmed army of Boca Knights stood arm in arm, reveling in their differences and their human commonality, holding back the hounds of hatred together, for one glorious day. It was a reunion of strangers.
“It’s unbelievable,” I said, awed by the magnitude of the moment.
“We made a difference today, Eddie,” Claudette said. “Maybe we even changed the world a little.”
“We won the day,” I told her. “But the world is still a dangerous place with dangerous people.”
“That’s why we need Boca Knights.”
I saw Steve Coleman being interviewed by Miriam Goldberg.
“Why are all these people here so excited about Eddie Perlmutter and his Boca Knights?” Miriam asked Steve.
“Are you kidding me? Eddie’s a hero,” Steve shouted over the crowd noise. “He’s like . . . he’s like . . . a Social Security Superman.”
“I like that,” Miriam Goldberg laughed. She never should have encouraged him.
“He’s a senior citizen Spider-Man.”
“Cute,” Miriam said with less enthusiasm.
“He’s Harry Potter with arthritis,” Steve raved on.
“This is Miriam Goldberg . . .”
“He’s a Baby Boomer Batman.”
Boca Knights Page 24