Finally. After all his youthful earnest propaganda, he’d gotten around to the point of my visit.
“Yeah, I’ve heard something about that,” I said. “I think that’s the one I’d be most interested in helping with.”
“Groovy. Tell you what, Dad’s spearheading that effort. Why don’t I go get him, and he can tell you more about it?”
What a cooperative informant. The kid was practically doing my work for me. Wish they were all this easy.
He jumped off the desk and disappeared into a back room. I sat there sweating and listening to the raindrops dance on the building’s tin roof. When Josh reappeared, he had aged about forty years. A stab of alarm went through my gut. Had I just gone through some kind of time warp? Anything was possible in Boca. The Twilight Zone had nothing on the weird shit that went down in this town.
The kid resumed his seat on the desk. “Hi, I’m Richard,” he said.
Oh. I guess he wasn’t the kid, he was Dad. Same face, just jowly; same ponytail, just gray. And now that he was closer, I could see that his T-shirt was different. “The News Is Lying,” this one read. I wondered if he realized that was no longer a fringe belief, but a mainstream one.
“I understand you’re interested in volunteering for our War on the Wall campaign,” he said.
“Yeah. I’ve heard about that wall. But didn’t that guy who wanted to build it just get killed?”
“Yeah. Poor Junior.” Richard shook his head. “He and I went way back to the sixties.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, he was a major player in the I-95 construction project that totally destroyed Overtown, the historic, thriving black neighborhood in Miami. The highway was built right through the middle of it, taking out people’s homes and businesses. The economy of Overtown went right in the toilet. Lots of folks moved out, lots plunged right into poverty. Place has never recovered.”
He hung his head for a moment then raised it again. “That was Junior’s first role as project manager, although he was barely out of his teens. But he’d been working at his Dad’s company since he was a youngster. Trying to stop that project was my first battle. Lost many more with Junior over the years, but tell you what, I’m going to miss the old fart. He was a worthy adversary.”
“So what about this wall?”
“Actually, it’s kind of a similar scenario. Junior planned to have the wall go right through Valley View and some other poor communities. It would destroy another generation of disadvantaged folks. It’s always the poor who get the shaft when it comes to land resources. Economic justice and environmental justice, they go hand in hand.” He clasped his hands in front of his chest to accentuate his point.
He might be right, but it was criminal justice I was interested in at the moment.
“Won’t Junior’s death change things?” I asked.
“Not as far as we’re concerned,” he said, dropping his hands back down to his sides. “The matter’s in civil court right now.”
“So what can I do to help?”
“We’ve filed a brief in support of the plaintiff, a group called BACK OFF. We’re not a direct party to the legal action, so there’s not much for us to do there. The thing is, we’ve got to prepare for the worst.” He stabbed a finger in the air. “Like I said, most of my battles with Junior have been lost. After all, Castellano & Son has bucks, and as you surely know, money talks in our justice system.”
Yeah, I knew that all right. I’d often suspected that it was the Contessa von Phul’s money that had talked the system out of charging me with murder in my husband’s death, ruling it self-defense instead. The ugly truth was, I was both a beneficiary and a battler of such injustice.
Richard went on, “We have to assume that BACK OFF is going to lose the case. Even if they win, it’s going to be appealed. So we have to plan our long-term actions.”
“Such as?”
“One of the strategies we’re particularly fond of is guerrilla theater. You know, staging a spectacular event to draw public attention to the issue.”
“Like what?”
“For example, one time Junior was going to build a housing development out on the edge of the Glades. He was seeking a residential zoning permit from the city council. We got Billy Billie to let loose a couple gators in the council chambers.”
Billy Billie was a locally renowned Seminole Indian gator wrestler.
“We wanted to drive home the point that the development would encroach upon the natural habitat and lead to dangerous encounters with the wildlife,” Richard explained.
“What happened?”
“Total chaos.” He jumped off the desk and waved his hands above his head. “Picture this,” he said, forming a rectangle with his thumbs and forefingers to simulate a picture frame. “The council members clamber up on their dais. The women teeter there in their high heels, the men are trying to keep them upright, and they’re all screaming to high heaven.” He waved his hands again. “The gators are roaming the room, chewing up furniture and knocking over wastebaskets and microphones with their tails.” His hands came back down. “Somebody finally called a trapper, but Billy Billie rounded up the gators before the trapper got there, and released them back into the wild.”
I wondered if Lana had been in on that one. I wouldn’t put it past her.
“You know all the council meetings are videotaped,” Richard said. “So the whole fiasco was on camera, and we got a lot of media exposure, which is exactly what we wanted.” He did a fist pump.
“And what happened with the development?”
“Oh, it was approved,” he said, sitting back down and smiling. The man seemed downright cheerful about losing.
“Another time Junior was going to build a big box store at a major intersection,” he went on. “We got a couple hundred people to come out in their cars to cause a traffic jam to demonstrate what the effects would be.”
“And let me guess—the store was built.”
“Yep. And I got arrested both those times.”
“You’re awful persistent in the face of repeat defeat.”
“That’s what life is all about. Never, never, never give up.”
“Right. So what I can do is . . .”
“You can help by calling and emailing our members to set up some strategizing sessions. You can get organic, fair-trade coffee and sugar-free, gluten-free, preservative-free bran donuts for the meetings. You can take minutes. That kind of thing.”
Yeah. I was really going to do all that.
“Yeah, I’ll do all that,” I said.
“Great! But right now we’ve got to secure this place for the hurricane. Why don’t you get in touch with me after the storm?”
“Will do. Looking forward to it.” As if. “Stay safe.”
“You, too.”
Josh emerged from the back. I rose, we all shook hands, and I stepped outside.
The rain had stopped, and the air was still—until the next onslaught. I figured I might just have enough time to ride over to my next destination—the homeowners meeting—before that.
I donned my helmet, straddled the Hog, and turned on the ignition. As the engine roared to life, I reflected on what Richard had said. He sure had seemed to make a point of relishing his losing battles with Junior. After forty years of that, some people might get a little discouraged and decide to end the war, once and for all. Was Richard really as happy-go-lucky as he made out—or was he putting on another theatrical act?
Chapter 17
I DIDN’T HAVE time to ponder Richard’s motives on my brief ride over to the beach for the homeowners meeting. I did, however, have sufficient time to reflect on the fact that I needed more time to reflect. It seemed like throughout this whole case I’d been running around maniacally like a dog chasing its tail. What I needed was
some quality time with my most meaningful relationship—my Hog. It’s when I’m flying down the open road, feeling the singsong of the wheels on the pavement, feeling the power of the motor, that I do my best thinking. When the gears are fully engaged, so is my mind.
But with the hurricane fast approaching, I couldn’t take the time now for a restorative ride. I had one final lead left—the BACK OFF members. And that might be another wild goose chase. On the other hand, it might yield that one pivotal piece of the puzzle that would make everything fall into place.
Yeah, right.
I didn’t even have time to go to the office to change into my one suit. It’s a leftover from my Boca Babe days, a white Dolce & Gabbana with matching vamp shoes, which would help me look the part of a wealthy potential homebuyer. I’d just have to come up with some explanation for my incongruous appearance.
The meeting was at Bernard Kravitz’s oceanfront estate. Riding across the Intracoastal to the Atlantic, I saw a hellacious traffic jam going in the opposite direction. Thousands of people wanted to get off the barrier island—all at the same time. Great—what a fun ride I would have on the way back.
Kravitz’s home was located along a row of single-family castles on the beach. I arrived just as the next rain band came ashore. I pulled up to the large metal gates, which swung open after I pressed a buzzer. I followed the circular driveway and parked under a glorified carport at the side of the residence. I strode to the front door and rang the doorbell.
A balding man of about sixty answered. He stood ramrod straight, which made him top out at just over five feet, in my estimation. My brilliant investigative powers led me to deduce that he was Kravitz. Especially since that’s what he said.
“I’m sorry, I was expecting . . .” he said, viewing my attire with a raised eyebrow. “Are you the woman who called about buying a home?” he asked.
“Yes, that’s me.” I flashed a big smile. “Pardon my appearance. My Maserati is in the shop. You know how temperamental those Italians can be. Instead of borrowing a loaner, I decided to just use my son’s good old reliable made-in-the-US-of-A Harley, although of course that meant I had to leave my Christian Dior suit and Christian Louboutin shoes at home.”
“Uh, yes, of course.” He rubbed his forehead. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
That was because I hadn’t thrown it.
“Harr . . . Hailey. Hailey Holloway.”
“Well, nice to meet you, Mrs. Holloway. Come in.” He led me through a grand foyer with a double staircase curving upward, into a large room that real estate agents like to call a “great” room. It makes the homeowners feel great about themselves. I should know—I’d had one, too, in my former McMansion. I’d ditched my self-importance for self-reliance. But now, seeing how this room could hold about five cabins the size of mine, the old familiar doubt about my decision crept in. As usual, I quickly pushed it away.
The room was adorned with plush Persian carpets, colossal crystal chandeliers, and Renaissance-looking tapestries. At the far end, a plate glass window faced the ocean. I could see massive eight-foot breakers rolling in—the build-up to the coming main attraction.
Three men and a woman were seated around a marble coffee table. The men were of similar age and appearance as Kravitz. All of them wore the standard Boca male uniform of pastel polo shirt with upturned collar, crisp light trousers, tasseled loafers, and gold bracelets.
The woman was the age and appearance of a Boca Babe. Her blown-out blond hair cascaded past her bra line, her artificially boosted boobs were showcased in a clingy black halter top, and her eyes swept me up and down in the ritual threat assessment that was played out whenever a Boca Babe encountered another woman. Apparently, in my biker guise, she judged my threat level to be nonexistent, as she quickly returned her gaze to the men without issuing any eye-contact challenge to me or moving closer to any of the men to mark her territory.
Kravitz introduced the members of the homeowners association board, which consisted of the vice president, the treasurer, and the secretary. The woman was the wife of the secretary, and she alone held a notepad and pen. Evidently, no woman had been elected to the board, not even to the typically token secretary position. And the male secretary had his own secretary to do his work for him.
“Mrs. Holloway is considering buying a home out here, and she wanted to speak with us about the Castellano seawall,” Kravitz explained. “I’ve told her that if we have time left after the emergency meeting, we could take just a few minutes to address her concerns.”
“Yes,” I said. “I’d like to know what you think the odds are of the wall getting built and what effect that would have on property values and resale potential.”
“Mrs. Holloway, you’re welcome to join us while we get our hurricane-related agenda items out of the way,” Kravitz said.
“Oh, I don’t want to intrude,” I said. “I’ll just go wait in the, uh, wine room,” I said, glancing toward a stocked bar in an alcove.
“But of course,” Kravitz said, walking with me to the area. “What can I get you to drink?”
I scoured the shelves. They were filled with high-end brands that I recognized from my days as Bruce’s wife-cum-hostess.
“How about a Hennessy X.O.?” I asked.
My usual was the V.S.O.P., a step down in price and quality. I figured I might as well take advantage of the opportunity to live it up. Kravitz obligingly poured the drink then went back to the group as I seated myself on a soft leather bar stool. Of course I had no intention of merely hanging out and every intention of hanging onto every word in the next room. I figured they’d all be more upfront if I wasn’t right up front in their faces.
I took a sip of the high-class cognac. That stuff was fine. Strong body and good character. Wish I had those in a man. Lior had the body but clearly not the . . . oh, what the hell was I thinking? Man, I was slipping. I didn’t need Lior. I didn’t need any man. All I needed was to up my liquor budget.
I tuned into the conversation.
“The hurricane watch has been upgraded to a warning,” Kravitz was telling the group. “It’s expected to make landfall as a category three around noon tomorrow. And guess what, folks? Boca’s in the bull’s eye. So here are the items I want to discuss tonight: One, shutters. Two, evacuation. Three, security. And four, beach erosion. Is there anything else?”
“I want to talk about pelican poop,” the treasurer said.
“Excuse me?” Kravitz asked.
“We’re having serious issues with droppings on our homes and vehicles,” the treasurer replied.
“Garvin, this is an emergency meeting to discuss the hurricane only,” Kravitz said.
“Hurricane, schmurricane. I’m telling you, we’re facing a bird flu threat.”
“You’re out of order,” Kravitz snapped.
“I want to discuss our financials,” the vice president cut in. “Why is it that we have two sets of books? And how come none of the entries are dated? There’s no audit trail!”
“I don’t appreciate your implication,” the treasurer said.
“And people in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones,” the secretary added.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” the vice president asked.
“As if you didn’t know,” the secretary replied. “Your house is in foreclosure.”
“You’re all out of order,” Kravitz yelled.
“Come on, Kravitz, we’ve got serious business to discuss,” the secretary said.
“Yes—the HURR-I-CANE!” Kravitz elongated the word as his voice rose.
“Oh, baloney,” the vice president said. “Those things are always overblown. Let’s get back to the issues of real importance.”
Man, this was a bunch of bumbling buffoons. Their preparations should have started days ago, and they obviously wer
e unable to grasp the gravity of the situation. Clearly, they hadn’t experienced the hurricanes that had blown through Boca in the past few years.
“Listen,” the secretary said, “we still haven’t resolved that problem with the resident who’s giving private tennis lessons on the community court. The man is keeping the other residents out and making a personal profit off the community property. He has to be stopped. Either that, or we need our cut of the action.”
“Get real, people,” Kravitz screamed. “There’s a frigging category three hurricane coming! In eighteen hours! Here’s what I have to say: One, the shutter contractors will be here tonight to put the shutters up. Two, the Intracoastal bridges are being locked down at midnight tonight. If anybody’s got boats docked out there, they need to get them out, because after that, anything with a mast taller than the bridges isn’t going anywhere.”
Good luck with moving the boats. The waterways, like the roadways, would be jammed, and available inland docks would be nearly nonexistent.
“Three,” Kravitz went on, “early tomorrow morning the Boca police are going to come through with mandatory evacuation orders. Anyone who doesn’t leave voluntarily will be placed under arrest. Our private militia—I mean, security patrol—will be first on the scene once the police allow people back out here onto the barrier islands. The security forces are armed and authorized to shoot—I mean, to professionally intercept—any looters. Finally, we expect major beach erosion as a result of the storm surge. Therefore, I am hereby announcing a special assessment of $10,000 per homeowner to cover the cost of beach replenishment. The meeting is adjourned.”
Little Kravitz seemed to have something of a Napoleonic complex.
“My husband, Dr. Diamond, will not stand for this!” the secretary’s wife screeched.
Yep, she was a Boca Babe all right. No other species referred to their own husbands as “Doctor.”
“You have emasculated me and the rest of this board, Kravitz,” Diamond bellowed.
Now there was a classic case of displaced displeasure. You didn’t need to be Freud to get that it was Mrs. Doctor who had de-balled her husband by speaking for him. Personally, I’d never stand for anyone telling someone what I wouldn’t stand for while I stood right there. I guess I’m in no danger of castration.
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