The county sheriff’s office had a large contingent of deputies watching the revelry, but there was no one to arrest. It was like a college football pep rally the night before a big game. There was a bonfire. People cheered for inane speeches. Lyn and Loren Grace sang hate songs to an adoring crowd (“Shit, ain’t they cute.”).
Harland Desmond, president of Aryan Army, appeared on CNN at nine o’clock Monday night. He was interviewed by a stylish female reporter in front of an enthusiastic group of neo-Nazi supporters. The pretty brunette reporter had to shout into her handheld microphone to be heard. “I’m here with Harland Desmond, the president of Aryan Army. Mr. Desmond, you seem to have quite a turnout here for your cause.” She moved the microphone toward Desmond.
“There are more people coming,” Desmond answered with enthusiasm. “You’re witnessing democracy in action and the unity of the Church of Jesus Christ Christians.”
I watched the Desmond interview alone in my apartment. I didn’t want to be with anyone else for fear of an attack of IED. Harland Desmond was a short man with a thin face. He wore a Hitler-style mustache over his meager upper lip, and his thinning hair was parted and combed like his beloved Adolf’s. I noticed crooked teeth when he smiled. Harland Desmond looked like an opossum.
A chant of “free Randolph Buford, free Randolph Buford” erupted behind Desmond and the reporter. Desmond’s smile broadened and he raised a clenched fist to acknowledge the chant. “That’s what we’re here for,” he shouted over his shoulder to his stooges.
“Mr. Desmond, how many members of Aryan Army are here tonight?” she asked.
“Hundreds,” Desmond threw out a figure that no one could verify based on the picture on the TV screen. “Maybe thousands,” he announced with no fear of contradiction. “White Christian America is here in search of justice,” he raved on. The crowd roared.
“What does Aryan Army hope to accomplish here?” the reporter asked.
“We intend to get Randolph Buford released on bail and have his case moved to an area where he can get a fair trial,” Desmond announced. The crowd roared their approval. I saw skinheads in the background giving the number-one sign with their index fingers.
“And where do you think Randolph Buford would receive a fair trial?” the reporter asked.
“Almost anywhere but here,” Desmond laughed.
“And why do you say that, Mr. Desmond?”
“Several reasons, darlin’,” Desmond said, holding his right hand up in a fist. “First of all” - he counted the pinky finger of his right hand with the index finger of his left hand - ”the case against Randolph Buford is all hearsay. You understand hearsay, girl?”
“Yes, I understand the principle of hearsay, Mr. Desmond,” the reporter answered patiently.
“Well, we got a whole lot of hearsay going on here-’bouts from a bunch of here-re-tics.”
The crowd roared its approval again, and I heard the familiar redneck battle cry, “Now that’s what I’m talking about!”
“I hear ya brother,” Desmond shouted, looking over his shoulder again at the group. He turned back to the camera and resumed counting off on his fingers. “The guy who made the citizen’s arrest of Randolph Buford is a Jew with a history of violence. He put two of those boys in the hospital.” A second finger went up. “The women who claim they were attacked were black.” Three fingers up. “The judge is another Jew.” The fourth finger was raised. “And the prosecutor is a Jew.” His thumb went last. “This is all a setup.”
“The man who made the arrest is a highly decorated, retired police officer,” CNN’s reporter reminded him.
“You mean the Boca Knight?” Desmond laughed, quoting the title Jerry Small had given me. “Yeah, I read that nonsense by that Jew writer about that Jew cop. Comparing a Jew to a knight is a sacrilege. Real knights were brave Crusaders for Christ.”
“Isn’t that hearsay?” the reporter challenged Desmond.
“That’s a fact.” Desmond looked skeptically at the reporter. “And I’ll tell you what else, little girl. If I was that phony Boca Knight, Eddie Perlmutter, I’d be watchin’ my back right now.”
“Are you threatening Mr. Perlmutter, Mr. Desmond?” The reporter jumped on his statement.
“I ain’t threatening nobody,” Desmond said quickly. “But there are a lot of members of the Army here who might be a lot less tolerant than me.”
“Are you saying that members of the Army might try to harm Mr. Perlmutter?”
“I don’t know nothin’ about that, sweetie,” Desmond chuckled. “But think about it. He’s the only witness them black ladies got. He’s all by hisself. He got no support. No backup. Somethin’ were to happen to him . . .” Desmond let his voice trail off.
“There are a lot of people in this area who believe Mr. Perlmutter is a hero for rescuing those women and for standing up to Aryan Army, despite all the pressure from your group,” the reporter said. “Maybe some of those people will support him.”
“Who? The niggers? The Jews? The rich in Palm Beach?” Desmond’s laugh was dismissive. “The Jews won’t do nothin’ to upset their apple cart. They’re too fat and happy. The Jews will hide like they always do. The niggers? Those Haitians are too stupid and lazy to organize. The rich in Palm Beach? Don’t make me laugh. They’ll just get on their private jets and leave town Wednesday when we march. Sir Eddie the Boca Knight is going to stand alone, sweetheart.”
“Then how do you explain the confrontation at a Boca Raton cemetery the other day when fifty people rallied to support Eddie Perlmutter at the recently vandalized Jewish cemetery?”
“That was no confrontation,” Desmond scoffed. “Four of our people went to see the damage that had been reported on the news and about forty Jews and Mr. Boca Knight ran them off. My people weren’t looking for any trouble.”
“That’s not the story I heard,” the reporter said.
“Depends on who you talk to, little girl.” Desmond smiled. “Anyway, Aryan Army is now prepared to march and face any trouble that comes our way. Ain’t no one gonna stand up to us. Eddie Perlmutter is on his own.”
“He doesn’t seem concerned,” the reporter said. “Can I ask you one more question, Mr. Desmond?”
“Sure, honey.” Desmond was feeling good about his presentation. “Ask away.”
“Why did the Buford family move from an Aryan enclave in South Carolina to a Jewish community in Boca Raton? There are more Jews in Palm Beach County than anywhere else, except New York City and Israel.”
Desmond blinked.
“And there are more black Haitians in Delray Beach than anywhere outside of Port-au-Prince, Haiti,” the reporter persisted. “Why did the Bufords chose to settle here?” Desmond was flummoxed.
“Well, I . . .” he tried.
“Isn’t it true that Aryan Army believes that white Christians cannot peacefully coexist with Jews and blacks?” the reporter interrupted. “It’s in your bible. Why would the Bufords move here?”
“I don’t know,” Desmond spoke softly. “You’d have to ask them.”
“You don’t know?” She turned to the camera. “Well I don’t, either. But didn’t Al Qaeda set up sleeper cells in America before they attacked the World Trade Center? In our permissive democracy, it’s easy to infiltrate and assimilate to attack from within. Is it possible that Aryan Army has taken a page from the Al Qaeda training manual and moved members into the enemy camp?”
“Wait a damn minute,” Harland Desmond shouted from off-camera. “Who said anything about terrorists?”
“Of course, this is just hearsay.” The reporter smiled.
“Hold on there, girl!” Desmond remained off-camera.
“This is Miriam Goldberg,” she interrupted him, “reporting live from Yeehaw Junction, Florida, with Harland Desmond, president of Aryan Army.”
I was standing in my living room staring at the screen as Miriam Goldberg signed off. I went to the bureau where I kept my grandfather’s kinjal safely in its sheath
. I removed the blade. “Grandpa,” I said out loud, hefting the weapon, “I’ve just seen my bear.”
I switched off the television and sat on the sofa. I was still holding the kinjal. I thought about the interview. The verbal bomb about terrorists Miriam Goldberg dropped on Harland Desmond would hover over Aryan Army’s rally like a mushroom cloud. I was proud of her. I decided to get some air. I tucked the sheathed kinjal in my waistband and went out.
I walked two flights down to the parking lot. I looked at a starry Boca sky, took in a deep breath of fresh air, and thought about what Harland Desmond had said during his interview with Miriam Goldberg.
“If I was that phony Boca Knight, Eddie Perlmutter, I’d be watchin’ my back right now.”
I wasn’t worried. I knew how to watch my back.
While I was busy looking at the sky and complimenting myself on how well I watched my back, I wasn’t watching my back. During my reverie someone sneaked up behind me and hit me on the back of the head with a hard object. I could feel my scalp split, and blood spurt. I went down on my knees then fell forward on my face. Instinctively I rolled away from the source of the blow and tried to focus my eyes. I saw a boot with Fearless Flames on the toe approaching my face. I turned my head as the instep of the boot met my mouth. My head movement probably saved my front teeth. My lips exploded, and there was blood in my nose and eyes.
“Hey, Boca Knight,” a familiar voice said. “Harland told you to watch your back.” He delivered a kick to my stomach. I curled in a ball, protecting my head with my arms. More kicks followed from boots and sneakers and it became apparent that these guys weren’t there to warn me; they were there to kill me.
“Get him up,” a second voice said impatiently, “and throw him in the car.” I knew immediately that they intended to take me on a one-way ride to Yeehaw Junction where my murder was going to be the feature event of the Aryan Army rally. They were laughing and joking with each other as they beat on me, and I recalled my grandfather’s advice about surprise and arrogance.
I was yanked from my fetal position to my hands and knees. I saw three pairs of legs around me. I was aware of the exact position of the kinjal in my waistband. Now it was my turn to laugh and I did.
“What the fuck you laughin’ about?” one of them growled.
Another kick to my stomach made me grunt and suck in a breath. I instinctively put my right hand on my mid-section and gripped the kinjal’s handle. I removed the dagger from my waistband. “Surprise, you arrogant assholes.”
With a minimum of movement, the razor-sharp blade sliced across the nearest Achilles tendon I could find in a sneaker. The loudest scream I ever heard filled the night air and a second horrific scream followed as I cut the next guy off at the sneaker top. Both victims were on the ground writhing in pain. I was still on all fours. The third attacker, the one in the Fearless Flames, couldn’t see what I had done to his friends, but he knew it wasn’t good.
“Son of a bitch!” he managed as he jumped away from me.
I tumbled away from him and struggled to my feet. I lost my balance immediately. I staggered backward, tumbling over low hedges. I landed on my back and rolled down an embankment. “Get up, Eddie,” my mind told me, but my body wouldn’t comply.
The two cutups were still screaming. I heard a car engine start.
“No, no, don’t move me,” someone screamed.
“I gotta get you out of here,” someone else answered.
A car door closed with a thud.
“Oh my God,” a third voice wailed a moment later.
“I gotta move you.”
Another car door slammed, the engine roared, tires squealed, and they were gone.
I dragged myself out of the shrubbery and into the parking lot. I reached for a car-door handle and pulled myself up to a leaning position against the car. I took inventory of the things I had.
I had all my teeth.
I had a concussion.
I had a headache.
I had blurred vision.
I had two bloody, split lips.
I had a broken nose, again.
I had at least two broken ribs.
I had no pain in my hands or my knees, which I thought was bizarre.
I had to have some help.
“Help,” I called weakly to a passing shadow.
“Why, thank you, Eddie,” my neighbor, Eleanor Silberstein said, and she handed me two bags of groceries from Publix.
“Call the police,” I told her.
“Don’t be silly,” she giggled. “You can handle those little bags yourself.”
At the hospital, the emergency room doctor told me I had two broken ribs, a concussion, and a broken nose. I passed out.
The next morning my hospital room was filled with police, and the nursing staff was getting nervous. Acting Police Chief Frank Burke arrived and immediately took control. He emptied the room and posted guards outside the door with instructions not to let anyone enter without his permission.
“Do you know who attacked you?” Burke asked, looking down at me.
I nodded.
“Who?”
“Mrs. Silberstein.”
“Eddie, c’mon,” Burke said impatiently.
“I didn’t see a thing,” I told him. “I was hit from behind. All I saw were boots, sneakers, and legs.”
Burke held up a plastic bag containing the bloody kinjal. “What’s this?” he asked.
“My letter opener,” I told him.
“We found it in the bushes near where you collapsed. You must have dropped it.”
“Did I drop the shopping bags, too?” I asked.
“The eggs broke,” he confirmed.
“Damn.”
“It’s a big letter opener,” Burke observed.
“Actually, it’s a Russian sword. My grandfather killed a bear with it.”
“Who did you kill with it?”
“No one,” I said. “But two guys won’t be running the Boston marathon this year. While they were kicking the shit out of me, I cut their Achilles tendons.”
Burke grimaced at the thought. “Why were you carrying the knife?”
“Would you believe it was a coincidence?”
“No.”
“Well it was,” I said seriously.
“You think these guys were from Aryan Army?”
“The Combined Jewish Philanthropies, more likely,” I said. “I didn’t give a pledge this year.”
“Eddie, give me a serious answer, will ya?”
“You want a serious answer, ask a serious question. Of course, they were from Aryan Army. They even mentioned Desmond’s name. They were the same clowns that visited the cemetery minus their girlfriend.”
“I wonder why she wasn’t there,” Frank thought out loud.
“Aerobics class,” I said.
Burke laughed. “We’ll get some people out to their rally right away and see if we can find two guys with a limp.”
“Don’t bother,” I told him. “They’re long gone by now. Desmond wouldn’t keep them around.”
A uniformed policeman entered the room and whispered something to Burke.
“You want to talk to a reporter from CNN named Miriam Goldberg?” Frank asked. “She’s outside the door.”
I thought about her great interview with Desmond. “Yeah, I’ll talk to her,” I decided.
“You sure you’re up to it?” Burke asked.
“I’ll be fine,” I assured him, although my head was killing me.
Miriam Goldberg was tall, pretty, and very professional-looking in a dark business suit. She shook my hand firmly.
“Sir Eddie.” She smiled warmly.
“Princess Miriam.” I returned her smile. “Say hello to King Frank, a good friend of mine.”
They exchanged greetings.
“I loved your interview with Harland Desmond,” I told her.
“That man is so obnoxious,” she said. “I couldn’t resist taking a shot at him.”
“That was more like a mortar round than a shot. Do you think there’s any merit to the sleeper-cell theory?” I asked her.
“Why not?” she responded. “Why else would those bastards have moved here?”
“You make a good point,” I said, wincing from a sharp pain in my side.
“Are you all right?” she asked sympathetically.
“I’ve been better,” I admitted.
“You feel up to giving me an interview?” she asked.
“Not really,” I said with a dismissive wave of my hand.
“C’mon, Sir Eddie,” Miriam prodded me. “Let the public know how you feel.”
“I feel like shit.”
“And you look like shit.”
“Thank you,” I laughed, even though my side hurt. “And you want me to go on national television looking like shit.”
“Yes,” she said seriously. “I want the public to see what those animals did to you.”
“It’s no big deal,” I said. “I’ve been hurt worse than this.”
“That not the point, Eddie,” she said. “If you want to strike a blow against Aryan Army you have to let people know how they operate.”
“Okay, let’s do it,” I decided impulsively. She had pushed the right button.
Do what? Mr. Johnson raised his head a little. I couldn’t believe he was even paying attention.
Miriam Goldberg had a camera crew waiting out in the hall, and it took about twenty minutes to get their equipment ready for a live session in my room. Miriam started the session with a review of my background. She explained the Aryan Army-Randolph Buford-Harland Desmond situation briefly and reminded the audience about her interview with Desmond from the previous night. She talked about the confrontation at the desecrated cemetery. Then she gave a summary of the injuries I sustained, making it sound as if I was lucky to be alive. Maybe I was lucky.
When she had finished her summation, she turned to me. “So, Eddie Perlmutter,” she said, her voice sympathetic, “how do you feel?”
“How do I look?”
“Not good.”
“That’s how I feel.”
Boca Knights Page 23
