Boca Mournings

by Steven M. Forman

  “People survive heart attacks all the time and live to a ripe old age.”

  “I am a ripe old age, Eddie,” Seymour said.

  “You’ll be alright,” I encouraged him. “You’re a tough old bird.”

  “The pterodactyl was a tough old bird and look what happened to him.” He laughed and so did I.

  “Remember that day at the cemetery when we faced down those Nazi bastards?” Seymour asked.

  “Of course I do,” I said, remembering how several senior citizen superheroes had come to my aid when I needed them. “You were very brave that day, Seymour.”

  “I almost shit my pants,” he admitted and laughed until he started to cough.

  “Do you want me to get a doctor?” I asked nervously.

  He waved me off and continued coughing. Finally, he stopped and gasped for air.

  “What do your doctors say?” I asked.

  “I need a heart transplant,” he said, “but I’d never survive the surgery.”

  “So, what are your options?”

  “I can die now or die later.”

  “How long do they give you?” I asked.

  “A couple of months, a year at most,” he told me.

  “Doctors have been wrong before,” I tried.

  “They’ve been right before, too,” he said. “It’s okay. I can live with dying. I just regret wasting so much time worrying about life instead of enjoying it.”

  I’ve heard a lot of regrets from people who know their number’s up.

  “What did you worry about?” I asked.

  “Everything,” he said. “When I was a kid I worried about other kids and pleasing my parents. In grade school, I worried about high school. In high school, I worried about college, pimples, girls, and my body. In college, I worried about law school. In law school, I worried about passing the bar. Then I worried about getting a job, and when I eventually started my own practice, I worried about surviving in business.”

  “That’s a lot of worry for one man,” I said.

  “Wait, I’m not done yet,” Seymour told me. “I worried about the woman I married. I worried that I didn’t love her enough and then I worried that she didn’t love me. I worried about having children instead of enjoying them.”

  “No time to stop and smell the roses,” I said, using the old cliché.

  “I thought about it, but then I worried about the thorns and the fuckin’ bees,” Seymour said. “I did try golf.”

  “Did you enjoy it?”

  “I hated it,” he said. “I only enjoyed winning but it made me worry about losing.”

  “You have to lighten up, Seymour,” I told him. “Enjoy the moment.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” Seymour said. “I promised myself that starting tomorrow I’m going to try to enjoy the process instead of worrying about the outcome. I’m going to make the most of whatever time I have left.”

  “That sounds like a good plan to me,” I said.

  “Yeah, that’s what I’ll do,” he said. “I’m going to change.”

  Seymour Tanzer smiled at me, closed his weary eyes, and an hour after I left his room he died.

  “We have a winner in the elevator FX category,” Lou Dewey announced when I answered my phone the morning after Seymour Tanzer died.

  “And the winner is . . .” I played his silly game.

  “Noah Paretsky.”

  “Who?”

  “Child prodigy Paretsky; a graduate of Chelsea High at sixteen years old, an M.I.T. special honors student who graduated in ‘64 and was recruited by the National Aeronautics and Space Administration in Houston, Texas.”

  “NASA? As in Houston-we-have-a-problem NASA?”

  “As in man-on-the-moon NASA,” Lou confirmed.

  “From the moon to a two-story elevator in Delray Beach?”

  “It sounds like a crash landing to me,” Lou agreed. “He worked for NASA for over twenty years then became an inventor.”

  “What kind of inventor?”

  “The dangerous kind,” Lou said. “In the early nineties, he invented Baby Big Teeth, a moon-faced girl doll with baby teeth that could be pulled out one at a time and a big tooth would grow in the empty spot.”

  “Is this a joke?”

  “No, it’s quite serious,” Lou answered. “Bancroft Toys sold millions of these things until kids started swallowing the baby teeth. It became an epidemic. Children were coughing up plastic doll teeth all over America. Fortunately, there were no fatalities but the recall put the manufacturer out of business.”

  “What happened to Noah Paretsky?”

  “He continued inventing dangerous things,” Lou said. “His next creation was an electrified window screen that zapped flies.”

  “Shocking,” I surmised.

  “You bet your ass it was,” Lou said. “One installer almost lost his fingers and one guy short-circuited his pacemaker.”

  “Both inventions had basic conceptual flaws,” I noted.

  “To say the least,” Lou said. “But failure didn’t discourage our boy. Next, he invented The Velvet Glove, a undulating, five-fingered simulated hand for a stimulating massage.”

  “Sounds like a good thing for stiff joints,” I said.

  “That it was,” Lou said. “Unfortunately, the primary users of The Velvet Glove were adolescent boys who only had one stiff joint in mind. Gloves with outrageous stains on them were returned across the country. Another loser.”

  “This sounds like a guy definitely capable of manipulating an elevator,” I concluded. “What’s his connection to Delray Vista?”

  “He’s the fifty-five-year-old unmarried son of Bennett and Bertha Paretsky, who own a condo on the second floor of Izzy Fryberg’s vertically challenged building.”

  “The second floor? Why would Noah Paretsky sabotage his parents’ elevator?”

  “He didn’t,” Dewey said. “The Paretskys were the only second-floor residents who voted against the elevator and refuse to use it. They said it was divisive.”

  “He’s our man,” I concluded. “Nice going.”

  “He lives in his own condo on the beach near the Deerfield Hilton,” Dewey told me. “I have a map of the location plus a satellite view of the building. Are we going to contact the police?”

  “Not just yet.” I thought for a moment. “Maybe he’s into something else illegal we don’t know about. Follow him for a couple of days. See how he spends his time.”

  “Okay,” Lou said enthusiastically.

  “Nice job, Lou.”

  “Thanks, Eddie,” Lou said softly. “That means a lot coming from you.”

  Later that afternoon I drove to Wilton Manors to do additional research in the gayborhood. I went directly to Tropics, the Dietrichs’ favorite hangout to take a closer look at Edik Davidavitch, the bartender. He was one of only two people who said they heard the Dietrichs talking about an overseas trip, and there was just something about him . . .

  Why not check him out?

  The bar was busy at five thirty in the afternoon. I sat on a stool and smiled at two young men seated next to me.

  “Looking for a date?” One of them batted his eyelashes at me. He was wearing eye shadow and lipstick, and appeared to be a third my age.

  I looked the kid up and down like I was considering his offer. “You’re a little too old for me,” I declined with a forced smile.

  Don’t get me involved with this cocksucker, Mr. Johnson warned me.

  The male hooker smiled. “If you change your mind, super-boy, my name is Sammy. Short for Samantha.”

  “My name is Eddie,” I told him. “Short for my age.”

  Both male hookers laughed.

  “He’s so cute,” Sammy told his friend. I was flattered.

  Stop it, Mr. Johnson warned.

  Edik Davidavitch approached me.

  “What can I get you?” he asked professionally.

  “I’ll have a Coors,” I said.

  “I see you here before,” Edik s
aid, pouring my beer.

  “I was here once before with a friend,” I told him.

  “You were with Howard Larkey.”

  “You’re very observant,” I complimented him.

  “I remember every face, every name, and every drink,” he said, pointing at his temple.

  You’re full of shit, I thought, remembering his fumbling behind the bar.

  “Where are you from?” I asked.

  “Russia,” he said. “I have been five years in this country but cannot lose accent.”

  “You speak English better than I speak Russian,” I told him, trying to be friendly.

  “Thank you,” he said, looking around the bar. “Excuse me; I must take care of customers.” He moved away and my eyes followed him in the mirror behind the bar.

  There was something about him that gnawed at my subconscious like a name you can’t remember even though you’re sure you know it. I saw ugly Irene Kostanski approach the bar and give him a drink order. I watched them exchange affectionate glances before she exited the bar.

  Edik returned to my end of the bar eventually.

  “You look familiar,” he said to me. “Are you famous?”

  This guy intrigued me so I decided to blow my own cover. “I’ve been in the papers a few times.”

  “Maybe I’ve seen your picture,” he pointed a finger at me.

  “My name is Eddie Perlmutter,” I told him and looked for a reaction. I got one.

  “The Boca Knight guy?” Edik asked, surprised.

  I nodded.

  “Is Boca Knight gay?” he asked, still surprised.

  Oh, for chrissakes, Mr. Johnson groaned.

  “No, the Boca Knight is not gay,” I said.

  “Then why you come to gay bar with gay friend and come back again?”

  I decided it was time to bait this guy.

  “I’m a detective,” I said. “Howard hired me to find two missing friends.”

  Edik laughed, but his face didn’t. “The Dietrichs, right?” He shook his head. “Dietrichs went to Europe. They talk about trip several times, right here at this bar. Howard and Derek worry for nothing.”

  “You and your girlfriend seem to be the only ones who heard about the trip.”

  “No, were several others.” Edik wiped the bar nervously.

  “Who?”

  “I can’t remember now,” he said, and I could tell I was making him uncomfortable. He fidgeted a moment then excused himself. “I must go to men’s room.”

  He’s lying, I told myself, smiling. He’s gonna call someone. I just knew it.

  I waited a few minutes and when Edik didn’t return I went to the men’s room. No Edik.

  Who is he calling, I wondered as I hurried back to the bar.

  Edik returned a few minutes after me. He seemed more agitated now.

  Perlmutter, you’ve done it again, I congratulated myself.

  I paid my bill and said goodbye. Outside, my cell phone rang. It was Claudette.

  “Where are you?” she wanted to know.

  “I’m in Wilton Manors. I just left a gay bar.”

  “I’m not enough for you?”

  “I’m working on a case.”

  “A case of what?”

  “You’re homophobic,” I told her.

  “Wanna hurry home and hump Halle the Homophobic Half-Haitian?”

  “Can I tie you up and pretend I’m your Papa Doc?”

  “Do you have rope?”

  “I don’t leave home without it,” I told her.

  As I walked to my car, I saw several same-sex couples displaying uninhibited affection on Wilton Drive; kissing, holding hands, grabbing ass and walking arm in arm. I was more at ease now then I was the first time I had been in the gayborhood. I had pretty much accepted the fact that sexual preference isn’t a multiple-choice exam.

  Q. Which do you find more titillating? Toying with tits or with testicles?

  Q. Do you prefer playing patsy with a pussy or a penis?

  Q. Do you prefer lips between a mustache and goatee or between a pair of thighs?

  Mr. Johnson didn’t agree with my new liberal attitude nor did most men.

  Guys who are sexually aroused by the thought of women making love to women often find the thought of two men balling . . . appalling. The same men, who think a man’s tongue in a woman’s privates is awesome, think a man’s tongue in his buddy’s crotch is awful.

  You gotta love those cavemen.

  A few steps from my MINI in the back of the parking lot, I heard a gunshot and felt my forehead sizzle from left to right. I dove for the ground and touched my forehead.

  Blood. Fuck.

  A bullet had grazed me.

  I was coherent enough to roll away from the sound of the gunshot. When I banged into a car door an alarm went off. Another shot rang out and glass shattered above my head.

  Nervous shooter, lousy shot.

  “Hey, what’s going on over there?” a man shouted from around the corner.

  “I heard shots,” a woman replied.

  I heard footsteps.

  I peeked over the car hood in time to see the shooter running away into the night.

  I struggled to my feet and was suddenly surrounded by people.

  Sammy, short for Samantha, the tart from Tropics, was the first face I saw.

  “Short Eddie,” he said, concerned. “What happened to your forehead, dear boy? You’re bleeding.”

  “I walked into a curb.” I grimaced and slumped against the little hooker.

  Sammy produced a tissue and dabbed my forehead. “Nasty scrape.”

  “Get your hands off him,” a vaguely familiar voice said.

  A painted face appeared inches from my own.

  “Hi, Gill,” I said to Howard’s gay friend from George’s Alibi who told me we were all somebody.

  “You remembered.” Gill was pleased.

  “I saw him first,” Sammy pouted.

  “He’s not gay, you twit,” Gil defended me.

  “He’s the Boca Knight,” a voice from the crowd said.

  Another voice joined in. “The Boca Knight is gay?” I knew it. I just knew it.”

  Oh shit, Mr. Johnson went into his shell.

  Now Gill was wiping my wound with a pink handkerchief.

  “Are you really the Boca Knight?” Gill asked, seemingly impressed.

  I nodded.

  “Why would anyone want to shoot the Boca Knight?” Gill asked. “You’re for human rights and peace, right?”

  “I’ll beat the shit out of anyone who says I’m not,” I told him.

  This got a good laugh from the assembled gays, lesbians, heterosexuals, and undecideds.

  “Do you have any idea who shot you?” Sammy asked.

  I shook my head despite my strong suspicions. “I have a lot of enemies.”

  “Well, sweetheart,” Sammy said sincerely, “you have a lot of friends, too.”

  My new buddies wanted to take me to the hospital for a checkup but I told them I was okay. Gill insisted on driving me home in my MINI while Sammy followed in a carful of gayborhood guys.

  Gill told Claudette what happened and she listened intently.

  After he left, Claudette bandaged my head and got into bed with me.

  “I almost lost you tonight,” she said emotionally, her head on my shoulder.

  “How do you think I feel,” I said. “I almost lost me tonight.”

  “It’s not funny, Eddie. A half inch to the left, and you’d be dead. Do you know who did it?”

  “Edik the bartender, I think,” I said. “Or he knows who did. I think he’s involved with the Dietrichs’ disappearance.”

  “Do you think the Dietrichs are still alive?”

  “Based on tonight I’d say it doesn’t look good for them,” I told her.

  I woke up the next morning with a ripping headache and a roaring hard-on.

  “You’re kidding,” Claudette said, staring at Mr. Johnson’s headstand.

  �
�Just ignore him and he’ll go away.”

  “No way,” she said. It was two against one and I didn’t have a chance.

  I must have looked pathetic afterward because Claudette seemed to be feeling guilty.

  “I shouldn’t have bothered you, huh?” she apologized, looking away.

  I couldn’t respond. I fell into a sex-induced mini-coma. When I woke hours later Claudette was sitting next to me looking concerned.

  “I was worried. You don’t look so good,” she said, putting it mildly.

  “I was shot last night and sexually molested this morning. How would you look?”

  “You probably have a concussion.” She looked carefully at my forehead. “Let’s get you an MRI.”

  “Okay, I’ll call my doctor,” I said.

  “You don’t have a doctor,” she informed me.

  “Dr. Koblentz.”

  “He’s a urologist.”

  “Close enough,” I said, reaching for the phone.

  Dr. Koblentz’s receptionist put me right through to him.

  No waiting.

  “Eddie, how are you feeling?” he asked cheerfully.

  “Not so good,” I said, and told him the whole story.

  “Unless your head is up your ass I’m not the right doctor,” he said. “You need a neurologist.”

  “I figured you could refer me to one,” I explained.

  “I can but I’ll have to make a few calls,” he told me. “Can you get to my building right away?”

  I assured him I could.

  “Go to the MRI lab on the first floor,” he told me. “I’ll make an appointment for you right now. After the exam they’ll send the results to my office and I’ll have a neurologist friend of mine read them as soon as possible.”

  “Thanks, Doc,” I said. “I’ll be on my way in a few minutes.”

  “Eddie, wait a second,” the doctor said. “I’ve been checking your records on the computer while we’re talking and I see you’re scheduled for a colonoscopy in three days.”

  “Why are you always sticking something up my ass?”

  “Just doing my job,” he told me. “We scheduled this weeks ago.”

  “What do you insert for this pleasure?”

  “A thin, flexible instrument attached to a camera.”

  “You are not sticking a camera up my ass,” I told him. “A transistor radio . . . maybe.”