Boca Knights

by Steven M. Forman

  I had many women in my life after Patty died, but I never had one special woman. My affairs usually ended amicably enough when it became apparent that the relationship had run its course. I didn’t “love ‘em and leave ‘em” like some guys. I loved ‘em and let them leave me.

  “Eddie, I’m thirty-two years old, and I need to plan for my future.”

  “Eddie, I’m forty-three years old, and I need to get serious. Everything is a joke with you.”

  “Eddie, I’m almost fifty. I need a long-term commitment.”

  Sometimes it was painful for me to let a woman go, but I knew it would be more painful to ask her to stay. After Patty’s brain exploded in the middle of the night, I could no longer make long-range plans. When I was younger, I made a lot of plans. But when Patty was taken from me, I was painfully reminded of one of my Grandma Goldie’s favorite Yiddish sayings. “Mensch trach und Gott lacht.” - Man plans and God laughs. Well, God would just have to laugh at someone else for a change.

  Through the good times and bad times, Togo Amato was always there for me. He was there when I started out as a twenty-one-year-old rookie cop. He was there when I married Patty and he was there when I buried her twenty years later. He was by my side for my unexpected early retirement. When I retired, Togo was the clerk magistrate of the Marblehead District Court. He was upset with my decision to accept early retirement.

  “Why didn’t you take the desk job they offered you?”

  “I can’t sit at a desk all day. You know that.”

  “Yeah, I know, tough guy,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re not happy unless you’re beating the shit out of some bad guy in the street or getting shot in the ass.”

  “I’ve never been shot in the ass,” I said in my own defense.

  “That’s because you never ran away from anything.” Togo frowned. “So, what are you going to do now?”

  “Honestly, I don’t know. I got nothing and no one.”

  “What about all your girlfriends?”

  “Like I said, I got nothing and no one.”

  “You got me,” he said, looking directly into my eyes and patting my hand.

  And that’s when I became the “official” boxing coach of the NEA boxing club. I had my policeman’s pension and a job I enjoyed. It wasn’t a terrible life, but I can’t claim I was happy. I had lost too much along the way.

  Winters were killing me. One Saturday morning in January of 2004, I was in so much pain walking to the North Bennett Street Industrial School to give boxing lessons that I almost collapsed on Hanover Street. I stumbled into the school’s undersized, stifling gym, known as the “hot box,” and limped to the radiator in the corner. I flopped onto a wooden chair and leaned as close to the old heater as possible. Togo arrived and saw me huddled next to the radiator. I looked up and saw him walking toward me. He wore a cashmere overcoat. Classy.

  “Eddie. You look bad.”

  “My hands and knees are killing me. I can’t stand this fuckin’ weather anymore.”

  Togo nodded as he sat down next to me, like he was going to give me some advice. There was a clang of metal on metal before he got the chance to talk. The gym door opened, and two of Togo’s buddies came in - Petey “Pants” Pantolioni was Togo’s closest friend. He was a dark-skinned, brown-eyed Italian of medium height with short, jet black hair. Petey was followed by a kid they called Muscles, who was six foot six, movie star handsome, and weighed close to 300 pounds. Bruno “Muscles” Marinara was a giant physically and the best athlete in the neighborhood. But mentally, Bruno Marinara wasn’t all there, although he wasn’t all gone, either. They waved to us from across the gym floor.

  “We got a board meetin’,” Togo told me.

  “Muscles is on the board?”

  Togo laughed, “Why not?”

  The board members greeted us and “HOW you doin’? How YOU doin’? How you DOIN’?” echoed through the gym. The door clanged open again, and two more board members entered. Gangly Tommy “Rats” Ragusa was followed by a short, tough-looking Reggie “The Doctor” Infante. Reggie was called “The Doctor” because when he was a kid he once said he wanted to be a doctor. He never said it again but he got stuck with the name forever.

  How YOU doin’?s filled the gym again. Hugs, back slaps, and noogies (those annoying little knuckle punches to the shoulder or ground into the head) were exchanged. I looked at them with envy. These guys belonged to an exclusive club I could never join.

  They had grown up in the shadows of the Old North Church and Paul Revere’s house. Their immigrant parents had learned to speak English together at the North End Union, and they had learned a trade at the North Bennett Industrial School, the oldest trade school in the country. The boys were raised in apartments that had no hot water or bathtubs. In the forties and early fifties, they had gone once a week with their fathers to the North End Bath House, where they could get a bar of soap, a towel, and a hot shower for a penny. Their fathers had played cards together in storefronts like Club Torresi, where the favorite game was Boss and Underboss even though the players weren’t necessarily Mafia.

  The boys had played stickball together at the Saint Anthony Polcari Playground during the summer, spring, and fall. They played football in the Gino Capaletti League, named after the Boston Patriot’s record-holding Italian-American placekicker and wide receiver. Then they played baseball in the Small Fry League, followed by Little League, and finally the Yankee Clipper League (named after the New York Yankee’s center fielder, Joe DiMaggio). The North End was a hotbed of Red Sox fans but Joe DiMaggio was the best player in the game and he was Italian. Blood was thicker than home-team loyalty for these guys. They played their games at the North End Park on Commercial Street by the Charles River and they met often at the Christopher Columbus Youth Center.

  Streets, districts, and areas determined their neighborhood team. There was the Clinic team, the North Bennett Street team, the North Square District guys, and the Hanover Street boys. These areas competed with each other in local sporting events, but when it was time to represent the entire North End they became one community. These young men had smelled the same smells in their youth: Stella’s Restaurant, Pizzeria Regina, Louis, La Cantina, and the European. They knew everyone who hung around Pat’s Scratches, tough guys like Longy Zaza and Jackie Franko. Ralphie Santos they watched from a safe distance, because they knew he was a dangerous man, and they gave plenty of room to “Killer” Mike Fatone when he visited from East Boston. Togo’s group had become a band of brothers, linked together by the common bond of their childhood on the streets of the North End. I knew I could be their friend, but I could never be one of them.

  “Hey, Infante! Yo, stupid,” Muscles shouted at Reggie Infante. “I dunked on you pretty good yesterday, didn’t I? You couldn’t do nothin’.”

  “You’re ten feet tall, pinhead,” Infante responded. “Big fuckin’ deal. You was my size you couldn’t do nothin’.”

  “Oh yeah. Oh yeah.” Muscles sounded like an eight-year-old. “I could dunk on Wilt Chamberlain if I wanted to.”

  Infante got a pained look on his face. “Wilt Chamberlain is dead, you moron. ‘Course you can dunk on him.”

  Muscles was confused. All he could say was, “Oh yeah? Oh yeah? So?”

  “Why don’t you stop picking on him?” Togo said without temper.

  “It’s too much fun.”

  “Havin’ fun now?” Togo asked.

  “Yeah, that’s right. Havin’ fun now?” Muscles said, making a fist and shaking it at Infante. Muscles turned to me. “Coach Eddie,” he called me. “You look sick. Whatsa matter?”

  I smiled as best I could. “It’s my arthritis. It hurts a lot when it gets cold.”

  “You should go where it’s warm then,” Muscles said simply. “Like Mikey Scarfetti done.”

  “Mikey Tees?” Petey Pants asked.

  “Yeah, yeah, Mikey Tees. ‘Member him? I seen him Christmastime.”

  “That was just last week, numb n
uts,” the Doctor chimed in, placing a light noogie on the big man’s shoulder.

  “I know that.” Muscles rubbed away the noogie with his palm. It was the tradition.

  “If he was here how come he didn’t come by to see us?” Petey asked.

  “Why didn’t he come to see us?” Togo laughed. “You know why, Petey. We all know why. We useta make fun of him all the time, ‘cause all he wanted to do was hit golf balls.”

  “Yeah,” Muscles agreed. “You guys was always makin’ fun of Mikey Tees. Like when we was all playing baseball at the park and he’d be out in right field hittin’ golf balls and getting in the way. He musta hit a million of those fuckin’ things. I ‘member he hit some so far they landed in the fuckin’ Charles River.”

  “So where’s he now, Muscles?” Togo seemed interested.

  “He told me he’s a golf teacher somewhere where it’s warm all the time,” Muscles announced proudly. He knew something the other guys didn’t know. That didn’t happen often.

  “A golf pro,” Petey said, shaking his head. “That figures. Fuckin’ Mikey Tees teaching other assholes how to hit golf balls.”

  “Did he tell you where he is exactly?” Togo asked.

  Muscles scratched his huge head. “Yeah, but I don’t remember. I think he said Florida.”

  “That’s a big fuckin’ state, egghead,” Infante teased.

  “Oh yeah. Oh yeah,” Muscles responded. “Well at least I know something. You don’t know nuttin’.”

  “Will you guys stop it?” Togo held up a hand. They stopped. “Muscles, I want you to think real hard.”

  “He can’t even think real soft,” the Doctor started again.

  Togo gave Infante an exasperated look. The Doctor held up his hands in surrender. Togo turned his attention to Muscles. “Try to remember exactly what Mikey told you.”

  Muscles squeezed his eyes shut. “Okay, okay.” He clenched his fists and thought as hard as he could. He smiled and opened his eyes. “He teaches golf in South Florida. At a place that has two names.”

  “West Palm?” Petey tried.

  “No, it has two Italian names,” Muscles said.

  “Italian names?” the Doctor moaned. “The Italians didn’t settle Florida. What the fuck you talkin’ about?”

  “Spanish names maybe,” Togo tried. “Could they have been Spanish names?”

  “Sorry, Togo.” Muscles looked sad. “I don’t know the difference.”

  Togo patted him on the shoulder. “That’s okay, Muscles. You done good.”

  “C’mon, guys,” Reggie “The Doctor” said. “We got a meetin’ to conduct here. Why you wastin’ so much time on Mikey Tees anyway?”

  “I was thinking,” Togo explained. “If we could find Mikey Tees, maybe he could find some work for Eddie down there in the warm weather.”

  That caught me by surprise. “Hey, don’t worry about me,” I said. “I can take care of myself.”

  “Of course you can,” Togo said. “But why should you be miserable six months a year? You’re almost sixty, Eddie. You can’t take much more of this shit.”

  “I’m happy here.”

  “Yeah, I can see that,” Togo said sarcastically, pointing at my position close to the radiator.

  “Besides I got this job and the kids I coach here. I don’t know anyone in Florida.”

  “You’ll meet people,” Togo insisted, shaking his head. “I hate to see you in pain, Eddie.”

  The rest of them murmured their agreement.

  Then, all of a sudden – “BOCA RATON! BOCA RATON!” Muscles shouted.

  “Stop the yelling, Sasquatch,” the Doctor shouted back. “And what’s Boca Raton?”

  “That’s where Mikey Tees lives!” exclaimed excited Muscles.

  “That’s in South Florida.” Togo nodded. “Between Palm Beach and Fort Lauderdale. My brother-in-law and sister-in-law have a winter place there.”

  “Yeah, Steve. The Jewish guy with the fake fish,” Rats remembered.

  I looked at Togo and said, “This is a nice thought, guys, but I’m staying right here. I love Boston.”

  “Boston don’t love you no more,” Petey said. “At least not in the winter. You’re in pain, Eddie. The cold’s no good for you.”

  “I’m okay,” I insisted.

  “Then why you rubbing your knees right now?” Petey pressed. “You’re a fuckin’ mess, Eddie. Face it. Your hands look like you got marbles in ‘em.”

  “Hey, this is home,” I said. “I’m not going to some strange place in Florida.”

  Togo wasn’t happy with me. “You know,” he began, “Muscles remembers almost nothing, but this he remembered for you. It’s a sign.”

  Muscles lumbered to Togo and hugged him. Togo hugged him back.

  “I done good remembering, didn’t I, Togo?”

  “You did very good, Muscles,” Togo agreed.

  Muscles pushed away from Togo. He walked toward me with his arms held out. I was never much for hugging guys, but I couldn’t turn down a hug from good-natured Bruno Muscles. “Okay, okay,” I said, patting Muscles on the back. “I’ll look into it.”

  “Hey, Coach Eddie,” Bruno said, “way to go.”

  “Good choice,” Togo said.

  Someone gave me a noogie.

  The Lord parted the gates of his waiting room and the elders of the Tribe of Israel saw it was good. “This land is mine!” They exulted and they wandered no more. – First Book of Arvida, Chapter 561, Verse 33496

  I felt like I had landed on another planet. Everything at Palm Beach International Airport looked strange to me when I got off the plane from Boston. I hadn’t been outside New England since my eighth-grade class took an overnight train trip to Washington, D.C.

  The people in the waiting area looked like a council of tribal elders. They were mostly little people with darkly tanned, wrinkled skin, white hair, and capped, white teeth. Many were wearing shorts, pullover short-sleeved shirts, and sneakers. I saw Togo’s brother-in-law, Steve Coleman, waving to me. He was easy to spot. He didn’t have white hair, he wasn’t wearing shorts, nor was he short. He was a big man, over six feet tall; Steve was a successful businessman who had been wintering in Boca Raton for over ten years. We greeted each other with a North End-style hug, and since I had no luggage, we preceded directly to short-term parking. Steve was driving the Pebble Beach Special Edition Lexus SC430 retractable hard-top convertible. He kept the top up as we raced south on Interstate 95. In forty minutes, we were in Boca Raton, at the Two Course at Boca Heights. Steve walked me to the golf pro’s office where he introduced me to Mikey Tees and told me he would wait for me outside.

  Within fifteen minutes I was offered a job I didn’t think I wanted by a man who was certain I wasn’t qualified, in a place I wasn’t sure I wanted to live. I accepted the offer.

  “I don’t know why I’m offering you this job,” Mikey Tees Scarfetti told me honestly. “You know nothing about golf or country clubs.” Mikey was a stocky, athletic-looking guy in his late forties with a full head of black hair. I could see him fitting right in on the streets of the North End, except he had never really fit in there at all.

  “Nepotism,” I said. “I’m part of Togo’s extended family.”

  “You and a thousand other guys,” Mike said. “Togo was a pain in my ass when I lived in the North End. Him and his friends never let me alone.”

  “Well I appreciate you helping me out,” I said, patting him on the shoulder. “I guess North End connections run pretty deep no matter what.”

  “Yeah, they do,” Mike said. “Plus your reputation as a cop in the North End was pretty impressive. I figure I owe something to a guy like you.”

  “You don’t owe me anything, Mike. I just did my job.”

  “You were outstanding,” Mike said. He went to a bookcase in his office and selected a book entitled Rules of Golf. He handed it to me. “Try to learn something before you get back,” he said, walking me out of the office toward Steve’s car in the parkin
g lot. “I’ll use you mostly on security, but you might have to perform some golf-related services.”

  “Don’t worry, Mike. I won’t embarrass you.”

  “I know,” was all he said.

  I looked around at the course and the clubhouse. “Everything seems so new,” I observed.

  “It is new. This clubhouse just opened and this course has been totally redone. The One Club did the same thing a couple of years ago.”

  “There are two separate clubs?”

  “That’s another story,” he laughed. “And we don’t have time for that today.”

  “Who pays for all these improvements?”

  “The members.”

  “They don’t mind?”

  “Of course they mind. You’ll hear all about it when you get here permanently,” he promised with a laugh. “It’s a big topic of conversation. All you have to do is listen.”

  I looked around again. “Mike, I haven’t seen this much green since Fenway Park. It’s amazing.”

  “I hate to say it, Eddie, but you take it for granted after a while.”

  “That’s sad.”

  We shook hands. “Thanks, Mike,” I said. “By the way, where are the heights?”