Boca Mournings

by Steven M. Forman

  Desmond spoke to us from the grave again. “Will someone help us out of this hole?”

  “Help yourself,” Oz told them.

  Lumpke served as a ladder for the two smaller men and then they hauled the big man up using the shovel. They looked like they had been buried in an avalanche of dirt. The twelve Israeli soldiers encircled the six of us, automatic weapons at the ready.

  “What happens to us now?” Desmond asked Oz.

  “You’re free to go back to Aryan Army,” I said.

  They exchanged worried glances. “We can’t go back there. They’ll kill us,” Desmond said, pointing at me. “He’s right. This was our last chance. We’re finished there.”

  “You’re finished here, too,” I said.

  “What do you expect us to do,” Forrest Buford laughed sarcastically. “Disappear?”

  No one in our group laughed.

  “Okay,” Desmond said understanding his dead-end situation. “Disappear to where?”

  “We found a nice wildlife preserve not too far north of Wasilla, Alaska,” Oz informed them.

  “W-w-where the fuck is Wasilla, Alaska?” Forrest Buford stammered in shock.

  “Twenty-nine miles north of Anchorage,” I told them. “Think of it as a witness protection program without witnesses.”

  “What’s in Wasilla, Alaska?” Buford asked.

  “Moose,” I smiled.

  “I like moose,” Lumpke said. Buford told him to shut up.

  “Why there?” Desmond asked.

  “They don’t take shit from anyone in Wasilla,” I told them. “And no one will ever know you’re there . . . or care. If you refuse to go, everyone will know where you are. Understand?”

  We exchanged nods and Mrs. Buford and I left the Aryans with Sergeant Oz, their new travel agent.

  Thanksgiving Day 2005 closed with an opening . . . in Osceola Park. When the sun went down, the curtain went up on the hottest new show in town.

  SYLVIA DUBIN GOLDMAN - MICHAEL AARON COHEN MEMORIAL MEDICAL CLINIC

  NONPROFIT CARE FOR THOSE IN NEED

  The electricity in the air was generated by a surge of human energy reminiscent of the highly-charged atmosphere at the rally by Boca Knights against Aryan Army in front of the Palm Beach Courthouse months ago.

  My reporter friend at the Palm Beach Community News, Jerry Small, had given the clinic a lot of advanced publicity in his column and the turnout was enormous. He wrote:

  No patient will ever be turned away for financial reasons from the Dubin-Goldman-Cohen Clinics,” Dr. Ronald Cohen, founder of the clinic said. “Hundreds of doctors in Palm Beach County have volunteered their time and money to guarantee the success of this project and the outpouring of support from the public has been fantastic.

  The clinic is named in memory of Dr. Cohen’s son Michael Aaron, who died of congenital heart failure in 1999, and Sylvia Dubin Goldman, former resident of Boca Raton. Mrs. Dubin Goldman’s trust, under the management of well-known local resident, Eddie Perlmutter (aka the Boca Knight), donated two million dollars to the clinic. Perlmutter was quoted as saying, “Sylvia Dubin Goldman was a remarkable woman who made the world a better place.” Several charitable organizations have put the Dubin-Goldman-Cohen Clinic high on their donations list for next year. Apparently, when the Boca Knight talks, people listen.

  I saw Dr. Cohen bobbing in the sea of humanity in the reception area of the clinic. I worked my way in his direction and patted him on the shoulder. He hugged me and said, “I can never thank you enough.”

  “You already have,” I said. “This clinic is phenomenal.”

  Dr. Koblentz, my urologist grabbed my hand. “Congratulations, Eddie,” he said, loud enough to be heard over the din.

  “Thanks, Doc,” I said. “I heard you volunteered a day a week.”

  He nodded.

  “Don’t keep anyone waiting.” I wagged an index finger at him.

  “He’s really a sweet boy,” a smiling, white-haired woman told me. The resemblance was unmistakable.

  “You’re only saying that because you’re his mother.” I smiled at Mrs. Koblentz.

  “He’s more thoughtful since he met you,” Mrs. Koblentz said, shaking my hand.

  I thought of the first time I met Dr. Koblentz at his office and of Carl Mann, who had pitched two no-hitters and invaded Normandy before blowing his brains out in a parking lot. You can’t save everyone, I finally conceded.

  Dr. Albert Dunn, Betsy Blackstone’s specialist, approached with an incredibly pregnant woman next to him.

  “My hero,” Betsy Blackstone gushed. Then her water broke. “Oh, my God, was that me?”

  “We have to get her to a hospital,” Bradley Blackstone said, holding her upright. “Get an ambulance,” he shouted.

  “You’re at a medical clinic, Bradley,” I said softly in his ear.

  He looked at me like he was an imbecile. “Right,” he said.

  “Is there a doctor in the house?” I asked needlessly.

  Dr. Cohen pushed his way into the inner circle. “What’s the problem?” he asked.

  “Her water broke,” Dunn explained to him.

  Bradley Blackstone looked dubiously at Cohen then to Doctor Dunn.

  “You’re our doctor,” Breakstone said to Dunn uncertainly.

  “Yes, I am, and as your doctor, I highly recommend you allow Dr. Cohen to handle this delivery. It’s his specialty.”

  Bradley looked at Betsy. She looked at Dr. Cohen, bit her lower lip tentatively, then nodded.

  I heard Claudette Permice ordering people to get out of her way. The circle parted and my personal nurse appeared with a stretcher. She was in uniform for the opening. She looked gorgeous as usual. Dr. Cohen calmly gave instructions, and Betsy was on the stretcher and into the back operating room in a minute. Bradley followed.

  “Talk about a dramatic opening,” Lou Dewey said, clapping me on the back.

  I turned to face him. “How was your vacation?” I asked.

  He smiled. “Great.” You have a ‘59 Invicta chrome grill in your mouth, I remarked.

  “I got braces,” he told me. “Joy, too.”

  Joy Feely stepped forward and grinned ear-to-ear. I squinted.

  “Let me guess,” I said, “A ‘57 Olds Victoria.”

  They laughed.

  “You two got more than just braces,” a man about my height and Lou’s age said as he stepped between Joy and Louie and put his arms around their shoulders. “In order to correct your dramatic overbites we had to pull two of your premolar teeth to allow your six front teeth to come together. Then you had conventional brackets glued to your teeth.”

  “With all due respect,” I asked the talkative little fellow, “who the hell are you?”

  “Eddie,” Lou said enthusiastically, “this is Stan Starr, the guy I told you about from Atlantic City. He lives parttime in Boca now.”

  I thought for a minute, “The three-card monte shill?” I asked.

  “I’ll never live that down,” Stan moaned. “It’s been over thirty years.”

  “We met waiting in line at J. Alexander’s a few weeks ago,” Joy explained. “Stan recognized Lou immediately.” He offered to fix our teeth so we went to Boston where he has his practice.”

  “That was nice of you,” I said to Dr. Starr.

  “My father said I would fix Lou’s teeth one day, so I had to keep his promise,” Stan told me.

  “I know the whole story,” I said. “So, did you marry that girl from Atlantic City?”

  A woman’s voice answered for Stan. “Yes, he did. I’m Suzy.”

  I shook her hand. “The butcher’s daughter,” I remembered. “Lou said you were prime and he was right.”

  That remark made everyone happy.

  Sanford Kreiger, Sylvia’s lawyer, appeared. “Great place, Eddie,” he said.

  “I couldn’t have done it without you, Sanford,” I thanked him.

  Frank Burke waved to me and gave me a thumbs-up sign.

 
Assistant DA Barry Daniels and Judge Avery Jacobs were there and both expressed their sadness regarding Randolph’s death. I nodded somberly, not bothering to tell them that Randolph was alive and well and living in Israel. Randolph’s mother, Sergeant Oz, Minister Kane, and I knew the truth . . . and that was enough.

  The truth was that Randolph had recognized the bomber on the bus in Tel Aviv and he had thrown himself in front of Zivah Oz. He had dragged several other passengers to the floor and shielded them from the brunt of the blast with his body. Shrapnel had torn into his left side as he went down, destroying his left leg, tearing away part of his buttocks, breaking his arm, and gouging out his left eye. Nearly thirty people had died in the bombing but Randolph Buford wasn’t one of them. A young German Mahalnik named Lukas Neumann was.

  Randolph was badly injured and not expected to survive the ambulance ride to the hospital. He asked Zivah Oz to tell his mother he had died doing something good. The Israeli sergeant promised the dying man she would honor his final request . . . but then he didn’t die. Never losing consciousness, he survived the ride to the hospital, received the best medical care possible, and lived. It was Zivah Oz who pointed out that Randolph’s survival might only be temporary if he was returned to America alive. Aryan Army would kill him for sure. So, alive, Buford was dead; dead, he might stay alive. Needing to act quickly, with Buford’s consent, Oz and Minister Kane officially swapped Buford’s identity with the deceased German Mahalnik, Lukas Neumann, who had no known family. The transfer was a carefully guarded secret revealed only on a “need to know” basis.

  In the explosion, Randolph did lose his left leg, a large piece of his butt, and an eye. Those were the body parts buried in the grave in Deerfield Beach. Randolph’s mother had been part of the deception, including the fake funeral, but she had known nothing about the potential violence at the cemetery. Eventually she forgave me for the ommission.

  Medical experts in Israel were already building a state-of-the-art prosthetic limb for the new Lukas Neumann and his prognosis was excellent. He would definitely walk and maybe even run again. His left arm was saved but his glass eye was strictly decorative.

  Izzy Fryberg interrupted my reverie by slapping me on the back, which reminded me of my near-death experience at the Bagel Bush. Del Ray Vista Building 550 was all present and accounted for. I accepted twenty-four handshakes and absorbed over a hundred slaps on the back.

  The sea of familiar faces began to look strange to me so I decided I needed some fresh air and a new perspective. I struggled through the well-wishers and made it to the front door that was now blocked by Howard Larkey.

  “We’re baaa-aaack.” He held out his arms and we hugged. I hadn’t seen him since he departed on his great adventure.

  “What about me?” Derek said, and the three of us joined arms.

  “Okay, where are they?” I asked about the famous Dietrichs.

  “They decided not to come,” Howard said. “They don’t like crowds, especially crowds of police and politicians.”

  Derek winked at me. “Eileen couldn’t find a thing to wear.”

  “When do I get to meet them?”

  “Dinner this Friday, our house?”

  “You’re on,” I said. “And I’m off for some fresh air. See you in a few minutes.”

  “Anything exciting going on inside?” Derek asked.

  “A woman is having a baby in the operating room,” I told him.

  “What a unique idea,” he exclaimed. “Can we watch?”

  Suddenly the door to the back room opened and Bradley Blackstone emerged, holding a bundle in his arms. He was beaming like the new father he was.

  “You’re too late for the delivery,” I said. “But just in time to meet the baby.”

  “It’s a boy,” Bradley shouted. “And we named him Edward. We’re going to call him Eddie.”

  I don’t cry, but if I did that would have been a good time.

  Everyone cheered and began searching for me in the crowd. I slipped out the door unnoticed.

  Alicia Fine and her fiancé, Jared Farmer, had just arrived. I again congratulated them on their engagement; we were more comfortable with each other than New Year’s Eve.

  “Everybody needs somebody, sometime,” I sang to myself as I walked away.

  I passed a caterer carrying a case of champagne to the party and removed a bottle without breaking stride. I walked across the street and sat on the curb in the shadows. I popped the cork, held up the bottle, and toasted the building that second chances had built.

  Here’s to Jacob Dubin’s little girl. I saluted her memory and took a long swallow of bubbly. With the second swallow, I toasted Ferris Dewey and Dixie the Diving Horse, and wondered how Danny Baker, the lonely soldier, was doing at Hartford. I thought about bad golf and toasted good people.

  When the bottle was half gone, I thought about all the changes I had experienced through the year and tried to make peace with them. I drank some more.

  Speaking of changes, I thought, feeling woozy, here’s to Randolph Buford trying to do the right thing in a foreign land without picking sides. Here’s to Randolph’s mother, who had the courage to send the police into the Aryan Army compound and reclaim her mentally challenged daughter, Eva. And here’s to their mysterious disappearance one day later. I knew where they were now, but I wasn’t telling anyone. And here’s a toast to Stewart Dewey and all the other young men who died in wars they didn’t start.

  I laughed at the thought of the Kuznetsov brothers, the Davidavitch siblings, the Bengloff twins, and Irene Kostanski. There was nothing funny about any of them but I laughed because by now I was drunk.

  Have another drink. Thank you, I will.

  I tried to get up but I fell back on my butt on the curb. I laughed at myself

  I decided, with my next swig, that Seymour Tanzer should have said “I love you” more when he was alive. Everyone should say I love you more. I toasted love and Claudette Permice. I wished she was here right now, but knew that I would be with her later tonight.

  I finally managed to get off the curb and weave my way across the street as only a drunk can. I could see all the happy faces celebrating life through the window and I felt good knowing I was part of the celebration.

  “It’s perfect,” I said. “Moments like this should last forever.”

  I know nothing’s perfect and nothing lasts forever, but on some Boca nights . . . for some Boca Knights . . . there’s no Boca mourning.

  Special thanks to my agent, Bob Diforio, and my editor, Jim Frenkel, for bringing out the best in me; to my publisher, Tom Doherty, for believing in me; to friends Burt Bines, Mike Bernstein, Howard Novie, Derek Moore, Larry Moses, Renee Leonard, Lew Ginsberg, Dr. Glenn Kessler, Stan and Sue Starr, Liz and Joey Baker and their son Danny for their contributions to the story; to the librarians at the Spanish River Library in Boca Raton who put up with me, to Rabbi Fogelman and Attorney Steven J. Brooks for their technical input . . . and to all my friends and family for their support.

  Copyright © 2017 by Steven M. Forman. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise except as permitted under Section 107 or 108 of the 1976 United States Copyright Act, without either the prior written permission of New Word City. Requests for permission should be addressed to the editors@newwordcity.com. For more information about New Word City, visit our Web site at www.newwordcity.com.

 

 

 
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