“Reporting live from Palm Beach for CNN.”
I walked past Steve and smiled. He winked at me.
Suddenly I heard a single voice cry out above the crowd noise, “WE ARE!”
And I heard another voice respond, “BOCA KNIGHTS!”
The second time around there were more voices. “WE ARE!”
The response came from many voices. “BOCA KNIGHTS!”
All together now . . . “WE ARE!”
I can’t hear you. “BOCA KNIGHTS!”
They wouldn’t stop.
I started up the courthouse stairs.
“WE ARE!”
“BOCA KNIGHTS!”
What you say?
“WE ARE!”
“BOCA KNIGHTS!”
At the top of the stairs I came face to face with Alicia Fine. She was wearing a “Boca Knights - Live and Let Live” tee shirt that made her look delicious. I saw her glance uncertainly at Claudette Premice walking behind me. We smiled at each other.
She’s my choice, Mr. Johnson said.
Life is all about choices, I observed without committing myself.
Remember, we’re in this together, Eddie.
You have a mind of your own, Mr. Johnson.
Hey, he said cheerfully. I’m a penis. Of course, I have a mind of my own.
You’d think after sixty years I’d be able to make choices without you.
You’re not old enough yet.
He was right, of course.
Two helicopters landed on the grass across the street from the courthouse. I couldn’t see clearly but it looked as if Barbra Streisand and Oprah Winfrey were getting out of the first chopper.
“Is that who I think it is?” I asked Burke.
“Could be.” He shrugged. “And there’s Steve Abrams, the mayor of Boca.”
From the second helicopter, I thought I saw more celebrities.
“What are all these famous people doing here?”
“Looks like everyone wants to be a Boca Knight today,” Burke observed, patting me on the back. “You should be proud of yourself, Eddie.”
I was proud of myself. I was sixty years old and slowing down but I could still bring an opponent to his knees and a crowd to its feet. I had lived my entire life meeting violence with violence but I had won this battle with words instead of weapons. I had never been afraid of standing alone, but banding together with these Boca Knights today made me feel more powerful than I had ever felt before.
The last cheer I heard from the assembled multitude as I entered the courthouse made me smile and I raised my fist in salute.
“HUMAN RIGHTS.”
“BOCA KNIGHTS.”
Now that’s what I’m talking about!
All things seemed possible.
Here’s a sneak peek at the next Eddie Perlmutter novel, Boca Mournings, coming from Tom Doherty Associates in February 2010.
I should have known not to take my eyes off an uncaged wild animal.
Buford lunged across the conference table and his thick fingers were around my throat in an instant. His thumbs pressed into my windpipe and I knew I was in serious trouble. I saw Chief Burke go after Buford, but I couldn’t wait. I reached for the full pitcher of water on the table, grabbed it by the handle, and crashed it down on top of Buford’s head. The pitcher shattered and Buford crashed face-first onto the table. Glass and water flew through the air, and blood began to seep from the gash on Buford’s head. Mrs. Buford screamed.
Frank Burke grabbed my wrist and held out his other hand. “Gimme that damned pitcher,” he growled.
I handed him the handle. “I’m sorry, Frank,” I said calmly. “Did you want some water?”
Forrest Buford was taken to the Boca Community Hospital in the backseat of a police car. I waved goodbye and gave him the finger.
“Nasty cut,” I said to Burke as we returned to the conference room.
“At least ten stitches,” the chief said, looking at the mess.
“Twenty,” I predicted.
“Why the water pitcher, Eddie?” Frank was upset with me. “You could have killed him. What were you thinking?”
“I wasn’t thinking, Frank,” I said, rubbing my neck and sitting down. “The oxygen to my brain was shut off. So, I guess this means the meeting is over.”
“Mrs. Buford is still here. She’s in the ladies’ room washing the blood off her hands.”
“Nazis do that a lot,” I said.
The door opened, and a small, mousy-looking, middle-aged woman entered carrying a mop and bucket. She had two outstanding features: two large, protruding breasts and four large, protruding teeth. I noticed the teeth first while Mr. Johnson took the low road as usual.
The woman was followed by a janitor in a gray uniform, who carried a push broom and a dustpan. The woman was dressed in blue slacks and a neat blue-striped shirt buttoned to the collar. Her hair was pulled back in a tight bun, accentuating her black-rimmed glasses, perched on her pointy nose. She smiled at me and I thought of a chipmunk.
“I see we had a little accident here,” she said diplomatically.
“No, this was deliberate,” I said honestly.
She looked uncertainly at me then pointed.
“You’re him, aren’t you?”
“Who?”
“The Knight guy?”
“Do you like the Knight guy?”
“I love him,” she gushed.
“I’m him.” I held out my hand and she took it.
Frank Burke rolled his eyes.
“Joy Feely meet Eddie Perlmutter.” Frank made the introductions. “Joy does our computer upgrades and maintenance.”
“You don’t look like a cop,” I said, thinking she looked more like a ferret with a great body.
Joy and I shook hands. “I’m not a cop,” she said. “I have my own business but the police department gives me a lot of work.”
“Well, your job description doesn’t include cleaning up broken glass,” Frank told her.
“I don’t mind helping Fred,” Joy said, referring to the janitor.
“You’re overworked already,” Frank said.
“This cleanup won’t take much time,” she told us.
The intercom rang, and Frank picked up the phone.
“Mrs. Buford is in my office, Eddie,” he said. “She wants to meet with you again.”
“But I almost killed her husband just now.”
“Maybe she wants to thank you,” Frank said, taking a shot.
We left Joy Feely and Fred to clean up my mess.
Mrs. Buford sat in Frank’s office, her hands folded in her lap. She looked sad and embarrassed. Frank went to sit behind his desk. I remained standing.
“Mrs. Buford,” I said. “I had no choice but to defend myself.”
“I understand,” she said softly. “Can we talk about my son?”
“What about him?” I said, sitting down.
“He’s only nineteen years old,” she began. “He’s just a boy.”
“In the eyes of the law he’s a man, and, in my eyes, he’s a bad man,” I said.
“He needs help.”
“He needs a muzzle.”
“I need help,” she pleaded.
“Believe it or not, I am trying to help,” I said.
“How? By getting my son killed?”
“No, by narrowing his options,” I said. “Mrs. Buford, I didn’t start a rumor. I asked one man one question and human nature did the rest. Aryan Army believed a false rumor because they wanted to believe it.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” she said. “He’s one of them.”
“Not anymore,” I said. “He shot off his mouth last year and there’s no room in Aryan Army for a loose cannon.”
“You put him in this position.” She needed someone to blame.
“You’re as much to blame as anyone.”
“I’m not responsible for this,” she insisted angrily.
“You’re his mother,” I told her. “You h
elped make him a danger to society.”
“I did not,” she said. “It was Forrest. I couldn’t stop him, he’s uncontrollable.”
“I just controlled him by hitting him over the head with a water pitcher.”
“I couldn’t do that,” she said.
“No, but you could have gone for help,” I said without sympathy.
She started to cry softly.
I looked at Frank.
What do you want from me?
“Maybe that’s enough for now,” Frank suggested.
“No, we have to keep talking,” she insisted. “Mr. Perlmutter, you said you were trying to help. What did you mean?”
“Yeah, what did you mean?” Frank leaned forward in his chair.
“It’s difficult to explain,” I said.
“Give it a try,” Frank told me and Mrs. Buford nodded. “This I gotta hear.”
I talked nonstop for about twenty minutes, thinking how proud of me Dr. Kessler would have been. I explained my idea of the best option and how everyone could win. When I was done, they were looking at me like I was insane.
Acknowledgments
My heartfelt thanks to some of the many people who helped me complete Boca Knights: Fred Deluca, for sharing his business adventure with me and introducing me to his literary agent, Bob Diforio; Jim Frenkel, my editor, and Tom Doherty, my publisher, for believing in me; Dr. Jeff Silver, for medical advice; Dr. Glenn Kessler, for psychology research; attorneys Steven J. Brooks and Morris Golding, for legal input, and Anthony Salvucci, for physics lessons; author Douglas Preston, for his encouragement and help; Danielle Boudreaux, my personal consultant, my son, David, who helped me organize my thoughts, and my daughter, Jana, who always believed I could do anything; my brother-in-law Robert “Ted” Tomasone, who inspired the character “Togo” and taught me the secrets of the North End; Lenore Tomasone, for her encouragement and suggestions; my brother-in-law Matt Potash, for his opinions; and Carol J. Seminara, Deborah A. Hogan, and Lisa A. Davidson, who allowed me to share a little of Dominick with the world; and to all my friends in Boca Raton, for encouraging and inspiring me.
My dear friends Dominick Seminara, Joel Hirshfield, and Dick Sabul, three of the finest men I ever met. My parents, Rae and Harry Forman, who were my original readers, my sister, Frances, who told me I was her hero, and Bernie and Sylvia Wofsy, who were my biggest fans.
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 the written permission of New Word City. Requests for permission should be addressed to the [email protected]. For more information about New Word City, visit our Web site at www.newwordcity.com.
Boca Knights Page 25
