Boca Knights

by Steven M. Forman

  “It probably would have been a legal entry anyway,” I said.

  “It would have been legal,” he agreed. “But how the hell did you have the presence of mind to think about that with a bullet in your shoulder?”

  “I lost a bust once because of an illegal entry,” I said. “It must have been in my subconscious.”

  “You were almost unconscious,” he said. “It’s remarkable.”

  “I just reacted.”

  “You still have what it takes, Eddie.”

  “I also have a disability.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Burke smiled broadly. “Try telling that to the guy you set on fire or the guy you shot in the knee. What do you say we contact the Department of Agriculture and get you a license?”

  “I don’t want to be a farmer.”

  He laughed. “The Consumer Services Division of Licensing is in the Department of Agriculture and Consumer Services,” he explained. “I can make some calls to Tallahassee today and probably cut through some red tape for you. Your credentials will make it easy.”

  “What’s the rush?”

  “I have two situations I think are perfect for you,” he told me.

  “Oh, really? Care to share them with me?”

  “Let’s get your license first and a gun permit. That’s a Class G license. I’m a Sig Sauer man. What about you?”

  “A Glock nine.”

  “Good gun,” Burke said.

  “Do you plan on having me shoot someone?”

  “You already did.”

  “Speaking of shooting people” - I followed through - “what happened to Boris, Yuri, and Natasha?”

  “Who?”

  “My favorite Russians.”

  “Oh, those three,” Frank Burke said. “We moved them right to Palm Beach. They were held over Sunday and arraigned Monday. They pleaded not guilty, of course.”

  “Of course. So they’re in jail until the probable cause hearing?”

  “They made bail.”

  “Bail?” My voice rose. “Three dope peddling, counterfeiting sons of bitches shoot me and get out on bail? Who was the judge?”

  “Toulouse Rodriguez,” Burke said. “She’s very liberal.”

  “These guys are the ultimate flight risk,” I said.

  “They don’t call her ‘Turn ‘Em Loose Toulouse’ for nothing.” Burke shrugged. “But she did set the bail at a million dollars apiece. They’ll show up tomorrow for the probable cause hearing with that kind of money at risk.”

  “I don’t believe this.” I stood up and paced the room. “Let me guess, Chief. They paid the bail without a bail bondsman. Right?”

  Burke removed a folder from the middle drawer of his desk. He spread the folder open on the desk. Upside-down, I saw the photos of the three Russian stooges clipped to the first page. Burke scanned some words under the photos by running his index finger across the typed sentences. He looked up at me and raised his eyebrows. “You’re right,” he confirmed. “That’s just how it went down.”

  “And their lawyer paid the bail with three individual bank checks for a million bucks apiece, at around four-thirty that afternoon. Right?”

  Burke scanned the folder for a second time. He scanned with his finger again and turned to the second page. He looked up at me slowly.

  “How did you know that?” He was surprised.

  “Because that’s what I would do if I was a fuckin’ counterfeiter,” I said. “I’d pay the bail with fake bank checks late in the day so they couldn’t be deposited until the next morning and then I’d walk out of jail and run like hell.”

  “You’re saying those checks are no good and those three guys are long gone.” Burke was having trouble accepting what I was telling him.

  “Frank,” I said, looking him directly into his eyes, “I’m willing to bet my pension that there will be nothing Russian in that courtroom tomorrow unless someone sneaks in a bottle of vodka.”

  The next morning, as I predicted, there was nothing Russian in the West Palm Beach courtroom. No Russian comrades, no Russian caviar, no Russian dressing, no Russian sable, no Russian cosmonauts, no Russian army, no Russian front, no Russian Marxists, no Leninists or Stalinists, no Russian roulette, no Russian ballet, no Russian vodka, and no Russian defendants.

  The CFO of the local branch of Bank of America appeared in front of the judge to certify that the three certified bank checks the defendants had submitted to the clerk’s office were certifiably worthless.

  “Best forgeries I ever saw,” he said.

  There was a lot of finger-pointing, so I decided to get out of there before someone pointed at me. Outside the courthouse I saw the reporter from the Boca News who had interviewed the Pugilist Professor at the P.A.L. gym. He shook my hand enthusiastically. “I’m Jerry Small,” he said, smiling. “It’s an honor to meet you. I read all about you in the newspaper.”

  “You must have written about me yourself. Every other reporter did.”

  “Naw.” He blushed. “That’s too big a story for me. I’ve only been on the job for a little over a year. My boss writes the important stories under his own byline. I get the local-interest stuff like the Pugilist Professor story. I gave him that name myself.”

  “Nice touch. So, how did that turn out?”

  “Good, I think,” Jerry said. “The kid’s amazing. I’d like to write a story about his friend.”

  “Tommy Bigelow? What for?”

  “That kid is stuck in the foster care system, and I think it’s sad.”

  “So, why don’t you write the story?” I asked.

  “I tried. My boss turned it down.”

  “Why?”

  “He said he didn’t like the angle.”

  “I think you should write it anyway.”

  “Thanks. But you’re not my boss.”

  The door to the courthouse burst open, and reporters, lawyers, defendants, and spectators made a noisy exit. Several people recognized me, and a few reporters approached, followed by curious onlookers.

  One aggressive reporter worked his way to the front. “Jerry.” He smiled broadly at the young reporter. “Introduce me to your friend.”

  “Arnie Bass, Eddie Perlmutter,” Jerry said. “Arnie’s my boss.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Eddie.” The big smile remained.

  I guessed he was in his mid-thirties.

  “You’re quite a story around here. How about an interview?”

  “They already told my life story in the paper.”

  “Well, what do you think about the criminals you arrested being set free on bail?”

  “Actually, they were released on bail,” I said. “They set themselves free.”

  “Well, don’t you think Judge Rodriguez was a bit remiss in allowing bail in a case of this magnitude, and shouldn’t the district attorney have been more insistent that no bail be set?”

  I could smell an ambush, and I didn’t like it. “No comment,” I said. “I don’t know the judge or the district attorney.”

  “Were the Boca police responsible in any way for this mess?” Arnie probed.

  I noticed the other reporters were getting annoyed by Bass dominating my time.

  “The Boca police were great. They saved my life.”

  Arnie Bass was disappointed. He was digging for dirt. “Certainly, you must have something negative to say about these criminals jumping bail,” he tried again.

  I thought for a moment and looked over at Jerry Small. Why not? “I have plenty to say. But I’ve agreed to give my exclusive story to Jerry Small.”

  Everyone looked at Jerry Small, and Jerry Small looked stunned.

  “Why Jerry Small?” Arnie was unhappy. “He’s just a trainee.”

  “I liked the article he wrote about the Pugilist Professor,” I lied. “And I think his views on foster care in Florida are very interesting.”

  The other reporters circled Jerry.

  “How long have you known Eddie Perlmutter?”

  “Not long,” Jerry s
tammered.

  “How does Perlmutter feel about the judge?”

  “No comment,” Jerry said.

  “What are your views on foster care, Jerry?” “You’ll have to read it in the paper.” “How did you get the exclusive?”

  “Just lucky.” Jerry Small looked at me. I winked and walked away.

  Cold weather blew into Boca two weeks after the Russians blew out of Palm Beach. High winds, cold enough to freeze your lemons, roared through the area. Small craft warnings were issued.

  I awoke at dawn on a Sunday morning in late February. The sky was a gray sheet of slate. Palm tree fronds rapped urgently on my bedroom window, trying to get in the room and under the covers. Anxious to experience Florida’s version of winter, I dressed and left my apartment. It was cold outside, but not the Boston kind of cold that turned my knuckles and knees into aching, rusty hinges.

  I drove slowly past the Boca Heights Golf Course on Yamato. I saw wildly gyrating silhouettes of heather and palm trees. There were whitecaps in the manmade lakes. A radio announcer said the wind-chill factor was forty degrees. A Baptist minister told me I had a friend in Jesus. I turned off the radio. I had enough friends.

  I drove east on Spanish River Road to Route A1A and pulled into an empty parking lot overlooking the public beach. I got out of the car, leaned into the wind, and walked toward the ocean. When I reached the low metal fence that separated the parking lot from the sand, I clutched the railing and enjoyed the spectacle. Red flags on sturdy poles stood at horizontal attention, warning even the hardiest Canadians to keep their crazy asses out of the water. The ocean was rocking and roiling. Waves were crashing on the beach, gouging gorges in the sand, and carrying the silt out to sea. My coat and hair became soggy from the sea spray, and I retreated to my car, smelling like wet wool.

  I started the Mini and turned on the heat for the first time since I had been in Boca. I took off my wet coat and tossed it on the backseat. My shirt was damp, and I started to shiver. When the warm air from the heater touched my cheeks, I felt very tired and tilted my car seat as far back as it would go. I closed my eyes and dreamed.

  I smelled flowers. I was in a king-sized bed under a down comforter. My head was resting on a feather pillow. I saw amber walls colored by sunlight that filtered through window curtains. Alicia Fine was asleep on the pillow next to me. She reminded me of the way Patty looked when she slept.

  The comforter was at her waist, and I was treated to the sight of her naked breasts. I was tempted to touch her, but I didn’t. Her eyes fluttered open, and she looked at me in surprise. She pulled the covers up to her neck.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

  I didn’t know what I was doing there.

  “What are you doing here?” she repeated.

  I felt like an idiot.

  I heard a rapping at the door.

  “It’s the police,” she said triumphantly. “They’ve come to take you away.”

  The tapping grew louder. I struggled to get out of the bed, but I was weighted down by the thousand-pound comforter. The mattress turned to quicksand. I was sinking slowly, suffocating.

  “Are you okay in there?” A deep voice was calling to me.

  I opened my eyes uncertainly.

  Through the rain-splattered window of my car, I saw the face of a young man in a policeman’s hat. He was tapping at the driver’s side window of my Mini. I quickly rolled down the window and felt the rush of cold air on my face.

  “I guess I dozed off, Officer,” I said.

  “No problem,” the young man said politely. “I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”

  “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  “You look familiar,” the cop observed.

  “I’ve been in the papers a lot lately,” I told him.

  “That’s it,” he said. “You’re the super-cop from Boston, right?”

  “I’m the cop from Boston,” I said. “I don’t know how super I am.”

  “Hey, you made a great bust,” he said. “And thanks for saying such nice things about the Boca police.”

  “I owe you guys my life,” I told him.

  “I’m Rick Riley.” He held out his hand.

  “Eddie Perlmutter.” I smiled.

  We shook hands.

  “Nice to meet you, Eddie,” he said. “Take care. It’s gonna be a rough winter day.”

  “You call this winter?”

  With a little guidance from Chief Burke, I received my Class C private detective license and gun permit within two weeks. The day after I got my license, I received a morning phone call from Mr. Ely Samuels, who identified himself as the president of the Community Management Association for Boca Heights.

  “The CMA at Boca Heights is looking to hire a private investigator to handle a couple of matters for us,” he told me. “And we’d like to talk to you about the job.”

  “Did Frank Burke tell you to call me?” I asked.

  “The police department doesn’t get involved with private investigators,” he said unconvincingly. “Let’s just say I heard it through the grapevine.”

  The CMA office was in a small, secluded building off the community’s main street. Samuels was a small, bald man who looked to be in his late sixties. He introduced himself as a retired lawyer from Chicago. He sat behind his desk and got right to the point.

  “Based on your past reputation and the way you handled the Russian counterfeit operation,” he began, “the CMA is interested in retaining your services for the purpose of investigating two matters at Boca Heights.”

  “I’ve been a Florida detective for twenty-four hours,” I said. “Certainly, you could find someone with more experience.”

  “Your reputation precedes you, Eddie,” he complimented me. “You’ve been in this line of work your whole life. We’re comfortable offering you the assignments.”

  “What do you have in mind?” I took the bait.

  The first matter was the murder of Robert Goldenblatt.

  “Steve Coleman told me about the murder,” I said. “As I recall, Goldenblatt was killed with a golf club.”

  “A Bazooka four iron to the head,” Samuels confirmed. “It cracked his skull.”

  According to Samuels, the prime suspect had become terminally ill and the police investigation had stalled.

  “What do you want from me?”

  “The community would like to retain your services,” Samuels told me, “to conduct our own investigation.”

  “What do you expect to gain by that?” I asked.

  “Closure.” Samuels leaned forward in his seat. “There’s a black cloud hanging over Boca Heights. We need to find out what happened to Robert Goldenblatt.”

  “You want me to pick up where the police left off?” I asked.

  “Exactly.” Samuels nodded. “We want some answers for the community and for the families involved.”

  “I understand.” I nodded. “So, who is the suspect?”

  “Dominick Amici.”

  “Tell me about the other matter,” I said immediately.

  Samuels told me that a neo-Nazi family named Buford moved into Boca Heights three months ago and within weeks began causing problems. During a minor dispute their eighteen-year-old son told one of the neighbors, “Hitler didn’t kill enough of you Jews.” When the offended Jewish neighbor complained to the boy’s father, Forrest Buford replied curtly, “Mind your own business.”

  The neighborhood association wrote the Bufords a letter, demanding a formal apology. In response, the Buford family didn’t respond. Randolph Buford, their son, responded by giving “the finger” to everyone he passed while racing through the neighborhood in a black PT Cruiser that looked like a Nazi staff car. He displayed a swastika tattoo on his right arm and wore one on a necklace around his neck. Forrest Buford played loud German military music in his backyard. Mrs. Buford never spoke to anyone in the neighborhood, and their fifteen-year-old daughter, Eva, was a female version of her brother.

&
nbsp; The neighbors complained to the Community Management Association, and the CMA sent more impotent letters to the Bufords, which were also ignored by the family. Eventually, the neighborhood association contacted the police.

  “The police said there was nothing they could do,” Samuels explained. “Frank Burke said the Bufords weren’t breaking any laws. He suggested we handle it internally.”

  “What do you know about the Bufords?” I asked.

  “We did a little research. They’re originally from Tobacco Junction, South Carolina, which is - ”

  “The home of Aryan Army,” I finished his sentence. I knew all about those slimy, hateful bastards, though I never had the privilege of busting one.

  Samuels nodded. “The Bufords are card-carrying members of Aryan Army, a spinoff of Aryan Nations.”

  “All these Aryan assholes hate Jews,” I said. “What are the Bufords doing here?”

  “I don’t know,” Samuels admitted. “But they’re causing a lot of dissension among the members.”

  “People normally band together against a common enemy,” I told him.

  “Not here,” Samuels said. “We’re too busy arguing with each other. I was hoping you could get us organized. Maybe come up with a strategy to pacify the Bufords.”

  “You can’t pacify people like this,” I told him emphatically.

  “Maybe you can reason with them,” Samuels tried.

  “You can’t reason with these hate-mongers either,” I insisted. “I wouldn’t waste my time on strategies like that and I don’t want the case.”

  “Do you have any suggestions?” Samuels asked dejectedly.

  “I’m the wrong guy to ask,” I told Samuels. “I deal with things differently than you might like.”

  “Is there anything I can do to change your mind?” Samuels tried.

  “Let me think about it,” I said. “Maybe I’ll come up with something.”

  “We really could use your help,” Samuels said sincerely.

  “I’ll help you with the Goldenblatt case,” I decided.

  I found religion again in Boca.

  “OH MY GOD,” I praised the Lord.