Mort Ziff Is Not Dead
Page 9
Sure enough, Uncle Shlomo was waiting for us just outside the doors of the terminal. He stood beside his old army truck, white puffs coming from his mouth as he breathed. We piled inside.
“So the big-shot travelers are back,” he said. “Was it worth all the fuss?”
“It was lovely,” Mom said.
“Very relaxing,” Dad added.
“Are you kidding?” Marcus raised his voice. “Miami Beach is amazing!”
Uncle Shlomo shrugged. I looked outside. Even though it was winter the sun was shining, making the new snow sparkle. The fences and signs had little caps of snow and the bare trees were hung with glittering icicles. It wasn’t hot and there wasn’t an ocean but it was still beautiful.
“Let’s have a snowball fight when we get home,” Marcus said.
“Yeah!” came from Larry.
“Well,” Dad said, “I hope you three are looking forward to the first day back to school.”
Marcus moaned. “I forgot all about school.”
“So?” Uncle Shlomo said. “Where is it?”
“Where is what?” Mom responded.
“The souvenir you promised me.”
“Oh no! We forgot to get you something.”
Uncle Shlomo laughed. “I was just kidding.”
“But I have one for you,” I said. I reached into the knapsack between my feet and felt for the Royal Palm Hotel coffee mug that Mr. Spitzer had given me. I passed it to Dad in the front seat, and he held it up for Uncle Shlomo to see. I didn’t mind giving it up; I still had the model airplane that the pilot had given me on the flight over.
“Always the thoughtful one,” my uncle said with a smile. “I’ll have my coffee in it every morning and feel like I’m the big shot. Look, it’s starting to snow again.”
“Hey, Uncle Shlomo,” I said. “You know who we saw?”
“Who?”
“Mort Ziff!”
“Mort Ziff? The comedian? I thought he was dead.”
“Nope,” I said. “Mort Ziff is not dead. He’s very alive. In fact, I bet he’s taking a swim in the ocean right now.”
A Note from the Author
Back in the 1960s, when I was a kid, my family went to Miami Beach for the Christmas holiday. My playmates were my two older brothers, who (I’m glad to say) are nothing like Marcus and Larry. In those days, airline pilots often let kids visit the cockpit. In Miami gift shops you really could buy stuffed and dressed-up baby alligators. (Not anymore, thank goodness.) The Beatles really did go to Florida in 1964—there’s a great photograph of them splashing around in the ocean.
And what the taxi driver tells Norman at the end? That was also true, although I didn’t know it at the time.
Acknowledgments
My thanks to Rebecca Comay for reading the manuscript first, to all the kids in all the schools who heard me read from it, to Amy Tompkins for shepherding it, to Lynne Missen for making it better, and to everyone at Penguin Books.