Boca Knights

by Steven M. Forman

  A free breakfast was served directly outside the health club. To get to the fitness center in the morning members had to run a gauntlet of bagels, cream cheese, muffins, juice, and coffee. The breakfast had a loyal following that ate for free and complained about the food. They complained about a lot of things.

  As an ex-cop I looked for crime everywhere. I spied Mrs. Sylvia Goldman, a slightly built seventy-nine-year-old lady, sneak four bagels into her handbag every morning along with a slew of Sweet’N Low packets. I didn’t think it was a crime to steal free things, so I didn’t bust her. When she stole the bagel toaster, however, I was compelled to do something. I followed her to her car in the parking lot of the health club and had a private conversation with her. I quickly realized that Mrs. Goldman had mental problems, probably Alzheimer’s. She was carrying the toaster in her arms under a stolen health club towel, and she handed both items to me without protest. We made a quiet, out-of-court settlement standing by her car. Shortly after the incident, I bought Mrs. Goldman a toaster and we became friends. But that’s another story.

  A sumptuous buffet lunch was offered after the morning’s exercise. After lunch, many of the men played cards and some napped. Many women played cards or mahjong; other women shopped. But after three o’clock the focus changed.

  “Where are you eating tonight?”

  “Home.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Of course I’m kidding.”

  “So where are you going?”

  “We’re going to Renzo’s.”

  “Fabulous. I love the chicken scarpariello there. Who’s going?”

  “The Rittels, the Antels, the Kurlanders, the Sabuls, the Ginsbergs, the Stones, the Shapiros, the Pinskys, the Cramers, the Adlers, the Bakers, and the Crisciones. We weren’t in the mood for a lot of people. Besides, the Coopers, the Samuels, the Potashes, Curleys, and Greeburgs said no.”

  “I understand.”

  “And where are you going?”

  “P. F. Changs.”

  “You’ll never get in unless you eat at five o’clock.”

  “I’m sending Irving there at six to put our name in. We’ll get there at seven-thirty. There should be an hour wait by then.”

  “Fabulous. Does Irving mind waiting all that time?”

  “No. He enjoys it. He drinks at the bar and watches the game.”

  “What game?”

  “Any game.”

  “Excellent. And who are you going with?”

  “The Cohens, the Friedens, the Finkelsteins, the Krozys, the Woolfs, the Levines, the Schoenbergers, the Mandells, the Grumets, the Freedlands, the Ablows, the Livingstons, the Tuckers, the Stillmans, the Kesslers, the Patricks, and the Starrs. The Bettingers and Cantors might join us with the Bines and Bergers.”

  “Fabulous. Do any of the men keep Irving company while he waits at the bar?

  “Irving doesn’t like any of the men.”

  “Does he like the wives?”

  “No. He likes the wives less than the men.”

  “Then why does he go?”

  “What else does he have to do? He likes to drink at the bar and look at the young waitresses.”

  “Aren’t you worried he’ll go after one of those young ones?”

  “He doesn’t like young girls, either.”

  “He doesn’t? What does he like?”

  “Irving doesn’t like anything. Besides what’s he going to do with a young waitress besides order cheesecake?”

  I was having lunch at the tennis club with Togo’s brother-in-law, Steve, on a beautiful February afternoon at the end of my second week on the job. Steve had a cynical way of looking at things and a comical way of expressing himself.

  “So what do you think of Camp Boca?” he asked.

  “I guess this place is like summer camp for adults.”

  “Yeah, except it’s in the winter. It’s too hot here in the summer to do anything besides change your underwear three times a day.”

  “Some members told me they like it better here in the summer.”

  “Whoever told you that was pulling your pecker, Detective Perlmutter.”

  The name’s Johnson, Mr. Johnson spoke up.

  “There’s nothing to like down here in the summer,” Steve continued, “unless you’re a fuckin’ gecko. Wait till you get into your car on a July afternoon.”

  “Hot, huh?”

  “Your balls will melt on the leather seats.”

  “And what if you’re a woman?”

  “Think of sitting on a soldering iron.”

  I winced.

  “I’ll bet the same schmucks who told you they like it better in the summer also told you there were no waiting lines at the good restaurants or the movies that time of year, and you can get in anywhere. Right?”

  “How did you know?”

  “Because it’s a fuckin’ recording.”

  “Well, is it true about the restaurants and movies?”

  “Of course it’s true.”

  “So they’re telling it like it is.”

  “Yeah, but they’re not telling you why it is, Dick Tracy.”

  “Okay, why is it?”

  “You can get into any place in Boca in the summer because if there was a line outside . . . people would drop dead from the heat. In fact, that’s exactly what happened two summers ago.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No, I’m not. A new deli opened on Glades and they had a grand opening with a big special on opening day. People here can’t resist specials, even if it’s for a casket. So the line at the deli was out the door and around the building. Some eighty-seven-year-old guy died of heatstroke waiting for a good deal on a corned beef sandwich.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Okay. Maybe it wasn’t corned beef. But a guy did drop dead in line.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  “It gets worse. His wife left him lying in the sun while she had the special. They gave the guy an open casket funeral because he had such a good tan.”

  “Enough already. I get your point.”

  “Okay,” he relented. “Let’s talk about camp again. You ever go to summer camp?”

  “No.”

  “Well I did, and all camps, including Camp Boca, have one thing in common.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Schedules! Everything is on a schedule except your bowels. Breakfast at seven, softball at eight, tetherball at ten, general swim at eleven, lunch at twelve, then a rest period from one to two, which is when most adolescent boys jerk off.”

  “I assume you’re speaking from experience.”

  “Of course. I became ambidextrous at summer camp. Anyway, like I said, summer camp is all about having scheduled fun, and so is Camp Boca. But there are some notable differences.”

  “Like what?”

  “First of all, speaking from personal experience again, the boys at Camp Boca don’t jerk off as much during rest period as the boys at regular summer camp.”

  “I’d agree with that,” I said, “based on my own personal experience.”

  Steve nodded.

  “Another big difference is that when regular summer camp is over, the campers go back home to the real world and prepare for their futures. Camp Boca, on the other hand, is in session until the camper dies. At Camp Boca, campers only plan for the immediate future.”

  “Fun to the end. That doesn’t sound bad.”

  “It’s not bad. It’s great. Look at this place. It’s absolutely great and gorgeous. Everyone’s laughing, running, jumping, riding, swinging, hitting, missing, schmoozing, bullshitting, complaining, ball busting. They’re doing everything here except fucking, and no one seems to care about that anyway. There’s only one problem.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The campers don’t have to think anymore so everyone’s brain slowly turns to puppy shit.”

  “I think you’re exaggerating. I’ve met a lot of smart, successful people here.”
>
  “You’re a hundred percent correct. There are a lot of very smart, very successful people here. Tons of them. They’re great. You could write a book about them. But these former high-powered lawyers, doctors, and businessmen aren’t mentally stimulated anymore. You can’t just turn an active mind off for a long time and expect it to run on all twelve cylinders like a Boca Volkswagen.”

  “What’s a Boca Volkswagen?”

  “A Bentley Continental GT.”

  “I didn’t know that,” I laughed.

  “If you didn’t know that,” Steve remarked, “I suppose you don’t know about Boca midnight, either.”

  “No,” I admitted. “What’s Boca midnight?”

  “Ten p.m.,” he explained.

  I laughed again.

  “When I first got here,” Steve went on, “I had trouble remembering everyone’s name.”

  “Yeah, I’m having that trouble, too,” I agreed.

  “So, I’m at a cocktail party one night,” Steve continued, “and I see a guy I’m sure I’ve met before but I can’t remember his name. I figured I’d try the honest approach so I shook his hand and said, ‘I’m sorry but I forgot your name’ and he said, ‘So did I.’ “

  Steve and I both burst out laughing.

  “Seriously. You know what really happens to high-powered people when their brains aren’t kept active enough?”

  “Tell me.”

  “They make unimportant things important.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like golf, or tennis, or where they’re going for dinner every night.”

  “Aren’t you being a little hard on these people?”

  “Not really. I love most of them but they’re pretty hard on me, too,” Steve said. “These people nag the shit out of me. Do you know how many times a season I’m asked why I work so hard and don’t play more golf? It’s unbelievable. They make me feel like I broke a covenant.”

  “What covenant?”

  “Hell, I don’t know. How about ‘Thou shall not find joy in thy work while we’re fuckin’ around on a golf course’?”

  “Is that from the New or Old Testament?”

  “The Koran,” he decided. “But seriously, I don’t work hard. A guy who digs ditches works hard. I go to a nice, air-conditioned office where I get to match wits with some of the best business minds in the world. It’s fantastic. I love it. I’m good at it. I don’t need anyone telling me how to turn my shoulders, move my hips, or stay behind the ball.”

  “I don’t understand golf terms.”

  “Neither do I. I’m just making a point. I’m happy with what I’m doing, and I don’t need golf. I don’t need tennis. I have other interests.”

  “That’s easy to understand.”

  “Yeah? Well try explaining this to some big-swinging-dick former brain surgeon or CEO who’s retired. He’s traded his prestige and Armani suits for shorts, a golf shirt, and a baseball hat. Then take these former world beaters, cover them in sunblock until they look like Bozo the fuckin’ Clown, and convince them that their new mission in life is to sink a two-foot putt to win a five-dollar Nassau.”

  “What’s a five-dollar Nassau?”

  “A five-dollar Nassau is a golf bet. It’s nothing really. But it’s everything if you have nothing better to do. Understand?”

  “No.”

  “Just remember this,” Steve advised. “A person can never be happy having someone else’s fun.”

  “That’s good. Did you think that up yourself?”

  “I read it in a self-help book.”

  “Did it help?”

  “No.”

  “What does your wife think of your philosophy?”

  “Barbara thinks I work too hard and should play more golf. Speaking of golf, how’s the job?”

  “It’s okay. I’m learning the ropes and meeting the members.”

  “What do you think of the members?”

  “I have a lot to learn about these people. Some are real nice, some are not so nice, and some I just don’t understand.”

  “Join the club.”

  “I can’t afford to join the club.”

  A foursome of women passed our table and Steve waved casually. They all called him by name. I nodded, but Steve didn’t introduce me. Mr. Johnson stirred and stretched for the first time in a while.

  When they were gone, I asked Steve, “Who was the one in the white shorts?”

  “You have good taste. That’s Alicia Fine.”

  “Oh, that’s right.” I was having difficulty remembering all the names. “She’s very nice.”

  “Nice tits, too.”

  Great tits, Mr. Johnson agreed. I crossed my legs and throttled him.

  “I mean she has a nice way about her.”

  “Her husband didn’t think so. He left her for a younger version two years ago.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “It happens. But you’re right. She is very nice.”

  Mr. Johnson and I were enthralled watching Alicia Fine walk away. It was a pleasure for both of us.

  “Oh, by the way,” Steve interrupted us, “there is one thing that bothers me more than compulsive golfers.”

  “What could that be?” I asked.

  “Country-club politics,” he said without hesitation.

  “I don’t know much about country-club politics,” I said.

  “The trouble with country-club politics is that ninety-nine percent of the issues are inane, and ninety-nine percent of the people are totally incapable of agreeing on anything anyway. And last year the politics here got way out of hand, as I’m sure you heard.”

  “No. What happened last year?”

  “No one told you about the murder at Boca Heights?”

  “Oh, cut the shit, Steve.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “You expect me to believe someone was murdered at Boca Heights over country-club politics?”

  Steve raised his right hand. “Honest to God.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “No, really. I can’t believe no one told you. A guy named Robert Goldenblatt was murdered last year over country-club politics. He was found in his garage with a Bazooka four iron imbedded in his forehead.”

  I laughed out loud and pushed Steve on the shoulder playfully.

  “C’mon, Steve, cut the crap. You’re not serious.”

  “Oh, yes I am.” He looked at his watch. “Hey, I gotta go.”

  “Wait, you have to tell me what happened.”

  Steve was up and moving. “No time. But you can ask anyone here. Everyone knows the story. It was front-page news for a long time,” he said as he walked away.

  “Wait. You gotta tell me! Who killed Robert Goldenblatt?” I called after him.

  “We’d all like to know that,” said a man sitting at the table next to me.

  I forgot about the Goldenblatt murder and focused on learning the names and nuances of the Two Course members. I had no trouble remembering Mrs. Alicia Fine. She made frequent appearances in my daydreams, and one night she became a headliner. Mr. Johnson and I enjoyed the performance very much. I understood that Alicia Fine and I were from different worlds, and I had no expectation of ever actually being with her. The dreams were fun though, and I was grateful that I could still dream like that at my age.

  The membership at Boca Heights was diverse but they had certain things in common. When the members were young they were all wannabes. Now that they were older they were all usetabes.

  “I usetabe a heart surgeon, Eddie,” said an octogenarian.

  “That’s awesome, Dr. Goober. Hey, let me get that golf bag for you.”

  “Yeah, open heart surgery.”

  “Wow. You driving or riding, Doc?”

  “Driving. Angioplasty was my specialty.”

  “Balloons, right?”

  “I guess that sums it up.”

  “Sounds exciting.”

  “It was. Years ago I held life and death in my hands. Can you imagine that feeling
, Eddie?”

  “As a matter of fact I can, Dr. Goober.”

  “No, you can’t. You’re a bag boy.”

  “Actually, I’m the head of security here, Dr. Goober.”

  “Is my golf bag secure?”

  “Looks that way to me,” I said, rattling the bag for him to make sure.

  “Good. So what does a security officer know about the power of life and death?”

  “I usetabe a police detective, Dr. Goober. When I had my gun aimed at a suspect, I had the same power you did with your scalpel.”

  “I didn’t know you usetabe a police detective.”

  “Everyone usetabe something before they got here, Dr. Goober.”

  “Yes, that’s true,” the former heart surgeon said reflectively. “Everyone usetabe something.” He paused a moment. “I usetabe a heart surgeon, you know.”

  “I know, Dr. Goober. Well, hit ‘em straight.”

  “It would be easier for me to open a chest cavity.” He drove away, deep in thought.

  “Where you from, Mr. Shankman?”

  “Philly. I usetabe a lawyer.”

  “Do you know Dr. Shapiro? He’s from Philly.”

  “Know him? I sued him.”

  “I usetabe in business back in Chicago,” short, dapper Louie Lipshitz told me. His pure-white hair was slicked back and always in place. His golf clothes were coordinated, and his tan was perfect. He wore a big gold Jewish star around his neck.

  “What kind of business, Mr. Lipshitz?”

  “All kinds of business.”

  “Anything special?”

  “You writin’ a fuckin’ book, Eddie?”

  “No. Just curious.”

  “Don’t be.”

  “No problem, Mr. Lipshitz.”

  Another man said, “I usetabe a dentist.”

  “Painless?”

  “Not really. I hated every minute of it.”

  “I usetabe a proctologist. No stupid comments, please.”

  “Hey, what do you think I am? An asshole?”

  And another man said, “I usetabe in ladies underwear.”

  “I’m sure you still are, Mr. Bellows.”

  “Yeah, but don’t tell my wife, Eddie.”

  “You told me you were single.”

  Dr. Sloan said, “I usetabe an anesthesiologist.”