Boca Mournings

by Steven M. Forman

  “I think black is an appropriate color,” Howard suggested.

  “Perfect,” I said.

  When I got to their house after my briefing with Lou, Howard insisted we travel in his Cadillac rather than my “tacky” MINI. He was in the driver’s seat, I was in the passenger seat, and Derek was content to sit in the back seat.

  “Where to, boss?” Howard asked.

  “Edik the bartender’s house,” I said. “Here’s the address I got from the Tropic’s pay records.”

  “I know where they live,” Howard said. “But how did you get into the Tropic’s pay records.”

  “Don’t ask.”

  “Okay, Double-oh-seven,” Howard said, not pleased with my secretive answer. “Are you sure about this?”

  “Positive.”

  We drove across town to the Davidavitch house. We parked a block away and scurried stealthily to a hiding place behind a clump of bushes. I was carrying the small leather satchel with Lou’s notes and my equipment.

  “What an adorable bag,” Derek said. “Where did you get it?”

  “Can we talk about that later?”

  I removed a pair of ATN Viper goggles from the bag and put them over my eyes.

  “Those are fabulous,” Derek said. “Can you really see in the dark?”

  “Yes, I can see perfectly. Now stay here.”

  I crept to the side of the house about twenty yards away.

  “This is so exciting,” I heard Howard say from his hiding place.

  “I’d rather be a Peeping Tom with night goggles,” Derek said.

  I crawled around the perimeter of the house looking for an alarm system. I found nothing. I returned to our hiding place.

  “You have schmutz all over your shirt and pants,” Howard told me.

  “I’ve been crawling in the dirt,” I explained.

  “That’s no excuse,” he fussed and busied himself brushing me off.

  As we bumbled behind the bushes, I couldn’t help thinking of other early-morning raids when I was on the Boston Police Force. I was always the first to kick down a door and rush the bad guys. I had no problem with risking my life but on a few occasions my impulsive behavior put the lives of other cops in danger. I wasn’t about to do that tonight.

  “You guys stay here,” I ordered. “I’ll pick the front door lock-”

  “You can do that?” Derek interrupted.

  I nodded. “When you see a light go on in the house, that’s your signal to come in. Got it?”

  They nodded solemnly.

  I removed my Glock from the back of my waistband and checked it out. I took a pencil-sized flashlight out of my shirt pocket and tested it with a quick flash.

  “Why don’t we have guns and flashlights?” Howard wanted to know.

  “Do you know how to use a gun?” I asked.

  “Heavens no, but we know how to use a flashlight,” Derek said.

  “You can have the flashlight,” I said. “But not right now. Stay here.”

  I moved silently toward the totally darkened house.

  The front-door lock was an old Schlage deadbolt and I opened it easily with my equally ancient lock pick set, which I always carried in my wallet. I went into the house and moved quickly through the small front room. The night goggles were effective, and I avoided the obstacle course of suitcases placed randomly on the living-room floor. I hefted one of the bags and it was heavy. Someone was planning on going somewhere soon.

  The door to the bedroom was open, and I looked inside. There were two people asleep in the bed. I moved closer and was able to see Davidavitch and Irene. I put the nose of my Glock between Edik’s eyes, pushed my goggles to my forehead, and switched on the lamp next to the bed.

  “Happy Valentine’s Day,” I said loud enough to get a reaction.

  Edik squinted and blinked at the bright lights.

  “What the fahk?” he exclaimed, his eyes slowly crossing, trying to look at the gun barrel pressed against his forehead.

  Irene pulled the covers up to her neck, looking extremely frightened and ugly.

  I heard the front door bang open . . . followed by a loud crash and the splintering of wood.

  “Son of a bitch,” Howard cursed.

  “Put on a light,” I told them.

  “Thanks for the tip, Mr. Night Goggles,” Howard shouted.

  I saw the light go on in the living room.

  “Howard tripped on a suitcase and fell through the coffee table,” Derek shouted.

  I heard the shattering sound of ceramic on plaster.

  “That was Hercules throwing a tacky lamp against a seedy wall.”

  I heard a thud.

  “That was my hero kicking the suitcase he tripped over.”

  “Who the fuck leaves suitcases by the front door?” Howard complained.

  “People planning to go on a trip,” I called back. “Get in here.”

  Howard and Derek both tried to fit through the bedroom door at the same time.

  “After you, Goliath,” Derek said, backing off.

  “What the fahk are you doing here?” Edik said, recognizing them.

  “Tripping over your fahking suitcases, you asshole,” Howard answered.

  “What are you doing in my house?” Edik demanded.

  “Get out of bed,” I ordered them. Edik complied; Irene didn’t. “Get out of bed, Irene,” I said, still pressing the gun against Edik’s forehead.

  “I’m not dressed,” Irene protested.

  “Thanks for the warning,” I said. “Now get out of bed.”

  “No,” Irene refused.

  “Howard.” I motioned for him to move her.

  “Make it easy on yourself, Irene,” Howard said as he approached her.

  Irene pulled the covers over her head. “Don’t you dare,” she screamed.

  Howard looked at me, hoping I’d call him off.

  “Howard, get her out of bed,” I ordered.

  Howard grabbed the blanket with both hands and tugged. The covers and the covered hit the floor. As threatened, Irene was naked.

  Howard and Derek stared in amazement.

  “She has a penis,” Derek said, pointing.

  I wasn’t surprised.

  The five of us gathered in the living room of the Davidavitch dump. The décor was cracked ceramic, wrecked wood, and funky floral. Four large suitcases sat in the middle of the room, one tipped on its side. I sat on a musty, overstuffed armchair splattered with unidentifiable, thought-provoking stains.

  Edik and Irene sat on a scary sofa obviously from the same collection.

  I casually pointed my Glock at the two suspects. The only danger they seemed to pose was airborne disease. Edik’s Underoos were grungy and his black Rolling Stones T-shirt was gamey. Irene, now wrapped from head to toe in the bedsheet, looked like a poorly preserved mummy.

  Derek and Howard hovered in the background. Derek looked confused. Howard was angry.

  Howard pointed at Edik. “You communist closet case.

  “Fahk you,” Edik said predictably.

  “You wish, pal,” Howard said.

  “Stop it,” I said. “We’re not here for that.”

  “What are you here for?” Edik asked uncertainly.

  “We’re here for the Dietrichs,” I told him.

  “No Dietrichs here,” Edik insisted.

  “I know,” I said, waving the Glock at him. “They’re with your sister in Russia.”

  “I don’t have seester.” Edik was a lousy liar.

  “Sure you do,” I said. “I met her last year when I raided her ecstasy lab.”

  “You make mistake,” Edik said, his voice shaking.

  “No mistake,” I said, “You and your sister look exactly alike. Are you twins?”

  “No, she is older,” he blurted out, then slapped his forehead. “Idiot.”

  Edik looked like his sister but he obviously couldn’t think like her.

  “I also met Uncle Boris and Yuri in the same raid,” I said. “We
hit it off great. I hit your sister with a right cross and Uncle Boris with three shots to the knee.”

  “What happened to Uncle Yuri?” Derek asked.

  “I set him on fire,” I told them.

  “Did they go to jail?” Howard asked.

  “They were arrested,” I said. “But they escaped.”

  “How?” Derek asked.

  “They passed counterfeit bank checks for bail,” I said.

  “Clever communists,” Howard said. “Where are they now?”

  “In Russia,” I said. “Derek, hand me that satchel, please.”

  He passed it to me.

  “Why did Edik’s sister leave him here?” Howard asked.

  “Based on the information I received from my research department,” I said, removing stacks of paper from the leather bag, “I think she was trying to keep him away from her gang of anti-gay, anti-Semitic psychos.”

  “Why would a gay man want to belong to an anti-gay gang?”

  “Edik didn’t belong to the gang,” I explained, referring to my notes. “His sister did. Natasha and Edik were born and raised in Ekaterinburg in the neighborhood where the Russian version of our KKK originated . . .”

  “You know Ekaterinburg?” Edik was surprised.

  “I know everything,” I told him. “Natasha wanted to be a KKK girl since she was a kid. Unfortunately, her kid brother wanted to be a KKK girl, too. My information tells me that Natasha had to keep her gay brother’s secret all these years to keep him alive.”

  “That’s why Irene was posing as the world’s homeliest woman,” Derek said.

  “Correct,” I said. “The mob considered Edik an inconsequential noncombatant and tolerated him because of his sister’s status. Had they known Edik was gay they would have circumcised him with a hammer and sickle, and cut her throat for lying.”

  “Russian necktie,” Edik moaned, touching his neck. “They cut your throat and pull your tongue through the incision.”

  “Sounds very stylish,” Howard interrupted. “But, what about the Dietrichs?”

  “See if you can follow this. Edik’s sister and the Kuznetsovs left the USA last spring to avoid prosecution. Natasha had moved Edik from Russia to New York City a few years ago, after she moved to Florida. She wanted to keep an eye on him, but still keep him away from the KKK. When Edik met Irene, his sister came up with the female impersonator idea for their protection. Then when Natasha and her boys had to leave the country, she told Edik to move to Florida where he’d be safest. She figured the Kuznetsovs would never return there. Edik and Irene moved to Wilton Manors for the ambiance and met the Dietrichs strictly by chance. How am I doing, Edik?”

  His sullen expression told me I was doing great.

  “Edik and Irene somehow learned about the entire Elliotto-Eileen cross-country, cross-dressing saga.”

  “Yes, they couldn’t wait to tell us the whole story once they knew about me,” Irene said proudly. “It was like a confessional for them.”

  I continued unravelling the story. “My guess is that Edik told his sister about the Dietrichs and the KKK contrived the kidnapping. They gave the Dietrichs two choices: your money or your life. They had the Dietrichs withdraw a large sum of money from their bank account and take a trip to Europe under the guise of a vacation. They probably drugged the Dietrichs, which would explain the wheelchair on the plane. The traveling companion the flight attendant saw was probably a hired stooge, who may or may not still be breathing.”

  “Why not just kill the Dietrichs after they had the money?” Derek asked.

  “They didn’t take all the money at once,” I conjectured. “That would have aroused suspicion. Plus, Edik certainly wasn’t qualified to commit a murder and cover his tracks professionally. My bet is that the Dietrichs are alive in Ekaterinburg and the KKK is slowly draining their funds and collecting their Social Security checks.”

  “You really think they’re still alive?” Howard asked.

  “Yes, I do,” I said. “I think they’re being kept alive until all their money is gone. I think Edik’s sister told him to let her know if anyone started asking about the Dietrichs. When Howard and Derek began poking around, Edik told his sister and, all of a sudden, postcards started arriving in Eileen and John’s handwriting.”

  “How the hell did you come up with this theory?” Derek wondered.

  “I read it in the newspaper one morning,” I told them. “A Polish couple from Miami drugged and kidnapped a neighbor, stuck her in a Polish nursing home, and slowly drained her assets in the States.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us before?” Howard asked.

  “I didn’t put it all together until tonight.” I explained. “In a dream.”

  “Should we tell his sister we’re on to them?” Howard pressed.

  “Edik already told her,” I said. “She ordered him to shoot me.”

  “I am not killer,” Edik said. “I told Natasha to hire professional.”

  “And after you missed me, she told you to try again. So, you decided to run away instead.” I pointed with the Glock at the suitcases.

  “I go hide somewhere with Jonah.”

  “Who is Jonah?’ Derek asked.

  “I’m Jonah,” Irene said. “Jonah Kaplansky.”

  “A Jewish, gay transvestite,” Howard smirked. “Three of the KKK’s favorite food groups.”

  “Can we make deal?” Edik pleaded.

  “Of course, we can make a deal,” I said.

  All eyes turned to me.

  “Must my seester be involved?” Edik whined.

  “Yes. She has to help us get the Dietrichs back without giving you up,” I told him.

  “Impossible,” he whined.

  “Call her. I’ll talk to her.”

  “She hates you.”

  “She’ll talk to me,” I said confidently.

  I checked my watch. It was five fifteen in the morning.

  “It’s early afternoon in Ekaterinburg,” I estimated.

  “I will not call her,” Edik tried.

  “Edik, either you call or I’m going to call the U.S. Consulate in Ekaterinburg and start extraditing your sister and your uncles.”

  “You cannot extradite Kuznetsovs,” he told me.

  “The U.S.-Russian Mutual Legal Assistance Treaty says I can.”

  “No such treaty,” Edik insisted

  “Bill Clinton and Igor Ivanov would disagree.” I said reading from a printout.

  Thank you, Lou Dewey.

  “Fahk,” Edik uttered.

  “There’s also the little matter of you and Jonah,” I said, added the frosting.

  “Cell phone is in top drawer of nightstand,” Edik said.

  “I’ll get it.” Howard moved quickly from the room.

  “We’re gonna die,” Jonah decided.

  Howard returned holding a cell phone and a handgun. “They were side by side in the nightstand.”

  “Would that be the gun that creased my forehead?” I asked redundantly.

  Edik looked miserable as he pushed a button on his cell, waited, and began speaking in Russian.

  I nudged him with the Glock.

  “Speak English,” I told him.

  He stammered through a reasonable English explanation of the entire situation. He stopped talking and listened for a moment. He nodded his head and held the phone out to me.

  “She want to talk to you.”

  “Natasha, your brother looks just like you,” I said cheerfully.

  “Fahk you,” she said.

  “He sounds like you, too.”

  “I will have you keeled, you stupid bastard,” she hissed. “One call to Florida and . . . bang, bang you’re dead.”

  “Let’s not bullshit each other,” I said calmly. “If you could make one call, you would have made it already. You’re protecting your brother.”

  “What do you want?” she said through teeth I knew were clenched.

  “I want the Dietrichs returned to America safe and sound,”
I said.

  “Impossible,” she said quickly. “The Dietrichs are dead.”

  “Then so are you,” I told her. “Say goodbye to your brother.”

  I handed Edik the phone.

  “Natasha, he weel tell Kuznetsovs about me. They weel keel me and Jonah with Russian necktie.” There was genuine panic in his voice.

  He listened for a moment then looked at me.

  “She want to talk to you,” he said again and handed me the phone.

  “Dietrichs are not dead,” she said.

  “I told you not to bullshit me.”

  “What do you want me to do?’

  “I want you to tell Boris and Yuri I’ve been tracking the three of you since you skipped bail in Palm Beach last year,” I instructed her. “Tell them I know who they are and where they are.”

  “They don’t care what you know,” she said. “They will not cooperate.”

  “I’ll make them an offer they can’t refuse,” I said.

  “From Godfather, right?”

  “Very good, Natasha,” I said sarcastically. “Here’s the offer. I’ll exchange my silence and the money they already stole from the Dietrichs, for the Dietrichs’ safe return.”

  There was a long pause.

  “Keeping the money is good idea,” Natasha said.

  No shit.

  “You have twenty-four hours to make the deal,” I told her. “After that, I’m sending in the Feds. By the way, I’m sorry about your brother’s broken nose.”

  “Fahk you,” she said and we disconnected.

  “Why did you tell my seester you broke my nose?” Edik laughed nervously.

  “I was making a prediction,” I told him.

  Edik was confused until I hit him with a short, straight right fist to the bridge of his nose, breaking the bone like a twig. He covered his face with both hands.

  “Son of a bitch,” he cursed, moaning in pain.

  “That’s for shooting me.”

  Later that day Sylvia Goldman’s lawyer, Sanford Kreiger, called to tell me Sylvia had broken her hip while attempting to steal the coffee urn at the breakfast buffet. The urn was still plugged into the wall at the time and when she tried to walk away with it the chord went taut and Sylvia went down. I immediately went to the hospital.

  Resident Dr. Marc Eisenstock, looked young enough to be a resident of Sesame Street. He gave me a brief description of Sylvia’s injury.