Boca Mournings

by Steven M. Forman

  “That’s my mother and father fifty years ago . . . and that’s me.” He pointed to a skinny geek.

  “You haven’t changed a bit,” I told him.

  “That’s Izzy Fryberg and his wife,” Noah continued without comment. “That’s Mo Myerson and Maxine. That’s Billy . . .”

  He named every person in that photo.

  “How did you preserve this picture so long?” I asked, marveling at the quality.

  “My father was the neighborhood photographer so I inherited the collection of photos and eight-millimeter movies. Several years ago I took all the stuff to a professional studio and had everything transferred to discs or laminated. I was going to edit them and make a DVD for future generations. Then all this fighting started and nostalgia seemed like a waste of time.”

  “What am I going to do with you, Noah?” I asked, blowing air through my lips and handing him back the picture.

  “I suppose you’ll have to report me to the police,” he said sadly. “This is really going to upset my parents. They always said I wasted my talent.”

  “You helped put a man on the moon,” I reminded him.

  “They wanted me to be a doctor,” he said.

  We sat in silence for a few minutes until Dewey returned holding his cell phone. “Should I call the police?” he asked, nodding toward Paretsky.

  “I’m thinking,” I told him.

  “About what?”

  “How I can turn this into a happy ending.”

  “This isn’t a movie, Eddie,” he told me.

  “Maybe it could be,” I said.

  Two days after meeting with Noah Paretsky I received a call from the Ministry of Justice regarding Randolph Buford.

  “Mr. Perlmutter,” the minister’s secretary said politely. “I’m pleased to inform you that your request regarding Randolph Buford has been approved.”

  You’re kidding.

  “That’s good news,” I said.

  “I agree,” she said. “We still require approval from the district attorney’s office, the state attorney general’s office, and the judge. But, we are ready to proceed from our end.”

  I thanked her, said goodbye, and placed a call to Bobby Byrnes, the twenty-eight-year-old public defender who had been assigned the Buford case after Aryan Army deserted.

  “Bobby, we got approval from the Ministry of Justice,” I told him. “I assume your client still wants the deal?”

  “Absolutely,” Byrnes assured me.

  “Good. Make an appointment to see the Assistant DA,” I told him.

  “The sooner the better,” Byrnes said. “The death threats just keep rolling in.”

  “How’s his mother holding up?”

  “She moved into a low-rent apartment by herself,” he told me.

  “What about her husband and daughter?” I asked. I hadn’t heard about the move.

  “They went back to South Carolina,” Byrnes said. “When the old man learned about the settlement his wife and son made with the government he took his daughter and ran back to the compound.”

  “Did Aryan Army take him back?”

  “I don’t know and I don’t care,” Byrnes said. “I’m just glad I don’t have to deal with him anymore. He’s a bad man.”

  “His wife says he was just a typical kid from South Carolina,” I said.

  “No, he’s not,” Byrnes disagreed. “I’m a typical kid from South Carolina.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Go Game-Cocks,” he gave a half-hearted cheer. “I’m from Columbia and I know a lot of typical kids from that state. I can assure you Buford’s not one of them. Buford’s not typical of anything from South Carolina except Aryan Army.”

  “Point well taken,” I said.

  I met Bobby Byrnes at the West Palm Beach DA’s office the following afternoon. We were escorted into Assistant DA Barry Daniels’s office immediately. I had only seen Daniels once, from a distance, at the Palm Beach Courthouse on the day Randolph Buford shot himself in the foot with a policeman’s pistol. That day Daniels looked as if he had just made a motion in his pants but today he looked cool and confident. He sat behind his desk wearing an Assistant DA’s navy blue suit, crisp white shirt, and a striped tie. When we shook hands, I noticed my proposal was on his desk.

  “Have you read it?” I asked, indicating the stack of papers.

  “Yes. Interesting. In fact, very clever,” he said.

  “What does the DA think?” I wanted to know.

  “He passed the buck and left the decision to me.”

  “What’s your decision?” I asked.

  “Personally, I’d rather see this guy get the gas chamber,” he said, deadpan.

  “There is no gas chamber in Florida,” Bobby Byrnes pointed out quickly.

  “I’m joking, Bobby,” Daniels said.

  “Oh, sorry, David,” Byrnes turned red.

  “There are a lot of people who share your opinion about Buford,” I said, “but I’m hoping for a better result.”

  Daniels nodded and turned to Byrnes. “Bobby, are you sure your client still wants this deal?”

  “Positive,” Byrnes said. “He feels he’ll be safer.”

  “He’ll be anything but safe,” Daniels said, with a shrug. “But that’s not my concern. When can you get me a signed agreement from Buford?”

  “Today,” Byrnes guaranteed.

  “As soon as I have a letter from the Ministry and a signed agreement from Buford, I’ll approve it and forward it to the attorney general in Tallahassee.”

  “I’ll hand carry it,” I volunteered.

  “I’ll send it by courier,” Daniels said. “I’ll get you a fast answer.”

  The meeting adjourned.

  Two days later we presented Barry Daniels with the Ministry’s letter and Buford’s statement. We were almost there.

  New Year’s Eve - 2004

  “How many people here will live to see 2006?” Steve Coleman asked our table of six revellers at the Boca Heights Country Club. The loud band music made it difficult to hear.

  “Happy New Year to you, too,” Togo Amato said, rolling his eyes. “You do this every year.”

  Togo and Steve were brothers-in-law, married to sisters Lenore and Barbara. Togo and Lenore were visiting from Boston for a couple of weeks. Togo was my closest friend from my North End days. He had been the best man at my wedding to Patty McGee. Steve and Togo had been instrumental in getting me my first job in Boca, which I quit after a few days.

  Barbara, Steve’s wife, poked his shoulder and frowned.

  “Be cheerful,” she said. “It’s my birthday.”

  “Happy birthday,” Steve raised a glass and we all joined him in toasting his wife. “But you have to admit there are a lot of BB people here tonight.”

  “What are BB people?” Claudette asked him.

  “Barely breathing,” Steve shouted.

  “I know one person who won’t be breathing in a minute,” Barbara said.

  “I hope it’s the singer. She’s too loud,” Steve said, laughing. He looked at his watch. “Hey, there’s only twenty minutes to midnight.”

  I excused myself and went to the men’s room. On my way back to the party I came face-to-face with the fabulous Alicia Fine.

  “What a surprise,” I said self-consciously. “You look beautiful, Alicia.”

  “So does your girlfriend,” she said, sounding like she had had too much to drink. “I can see why you chose her.”

  “I didn’t choose anyone.”

  “Not choosing anyone is a choice,” she said. She took an unneeded drink from her champagne glass.

  A tall, handsome man in an elegant tuxedo walked up behind Alicia and put his hands possessively on her bare shoulders. He had a full head of white hair, a cosmetically enhanced smile, and a serious man’s eyes.

  “There you are,” he said, kissing her on the cheek but looking at me.

  “Jared, this is an old friend of mine,” she said, turning to look up at
him. “Eddie Perlmutter, meet Jared Farmer.”

  “The Boca Knight,” he said, stepping aggressively around Alicia. He held out a huge hand, fingers stiff and poised to crush.

  I’d been through this macho-mating manure before and I wasn’t in the mood. I shoved my hand as far into his open palm as possible and extended my right index finger onto the veins under his right wrist. I pressed down hard enough to convince him that a squeezing contest was a bad idea.

  To his credit, he got the hint.

  He’s probably not a bad guy, I thought.

  “Shall we go back to the party?” he asked Alicia, taking back his hand. “It’s almost the New Year.”

  “Give me a minute, Jared.” She smiled at him.

  He hesitated then said, “Of course.”

  When he was gone, she turned to me. “Jared has asked me to marry him.”

  “Congratulations,” I said, feeling a sense of loss but also one of relief.

  “He’s a very nice man but I don’t think I love him.” She slurred the words a little. “Sometimes I wish the Boca Knight would come to my rescue.”

  “In the end, we all have to rescue ourselves,” I said, and kissed her cheek. “Happy New Year, Alicia.”

  “Happy New Year, Eddie,” she said, and went after Jared Farmer.

  I rejoined my group on the dance floor just in time for the countdown to 2005. At midnight, colorful balloons cascaded from a ceiling net and floated around us in slow motion. People kissed and embraced and wished each other good luck for another three hundred and sixty-five days.

  The band played “Auld Lang Syne,” and everyone sang along.

  “What does ‘Auld Lang Syne’ mean anyway?” Togo asked.

  “It means days gone by in Scottish,” Claudette said. “It’s like once upon a time or a long, long ago.”

  The six of us stood arm in arm, swaying to the music, thinking of days gone by.

  Claudette watched me and sensed my melancholy.

  “Enjoy the moment, Eddie,” she said. “Before you know it, tonight will be once upon a time and a long, long time ago.”

  “I know,” I said, hugging her closer, “so let’s dance.”

  I spent the first couple of weeks in January working with Noah Paretsky on a presentation for the residents of Delray Vista. Late January I returned to Boston for a week to attend an event honoring Togo Amato’s lifetime contributions to the North End. The cold was worse than I remembered. A former police chief who I had been friends with for many years was at the celebration and we spent the night reminiscing. We both agreed we were lucky to still be alive after all our near-death experiences shared. We embellished on the events we could remember and made each other feel like heroic immortals.

  The next week I almost choked to death on a bagel.

  I was at a Delray deli named the Bagel Bush, exhausted after a night of coaching boxers at the PAL gym and falling asleep in my clothes while reading Lou Dewey’s data on Delray Vista. I had arranged a 10:00 a.m. meeting through Izzy with all the residents of Building 550 to discuss the haunted elevator. I was wearing the same clothes from the night before and still had the trainer’s whistle in my pocket.

  After reviewing my notes, I turned to the Local section of the newspaper to read about new variations on old crimes.

  I scanned the lead stories:

  BOCA RIVER OFFICIALS STEAL ASSOCIATION FUNDS

  TRIVIAL CASES CLOG UP COURTS AND JAIL SYSTEM

  BOCA STEROID RING BUSTED

  CLASSIC CAR BROKER STEALS CLIENT’S CLASSIC CAR

  BOCA DOCTOR ACCUSED OF BACKING AL-QAEDA

  WOMEN STEAL $500,000 FROM NURSING HOME

  ROAD RAGE MURDER HAS LONG RECORD

  MAN CRUSHED TO DEATH IN GARBAGE TRUCK

  WOMAN KIDNAPPED BY MIAMI NEIGHBORS A YEAR AGO RETURNED SAFELY FROM EUROPE

  Wait a minute.

  I took a big bite from my bagel and leaned forward to read the kidnap story.

  A 79-year-old couple from Miami, Sheppard and Seema Plotkin, kidnapped an 83-year-old Mia Kozlowski from her luxury apartment a year ago and took her to Poland. The kidnappers kept the woman drugged in a Polish nursing home for over a year while they slowly drained her funds, cashed her Social Security checks, and settled estate matters. Somehow Mrs. Kozlowski escaped and was found wandering in woods near the nursing home. She was recently returned to America and is recovering nicely. The Plotkins are being held without bail in Miami.

  I was so fascinated by the article I forgot to chew. A large hunk of bagel slid into my throat, lodging near my vocal chords and upper airway. I couldn’t talk or breathe.

  Not good, I thought, knowing my brain would turn to puppy shit shortly. Don’t panic. You’re a professional.

  I remembered from my first-aid training that a blockage of the upper airway was caused by food entering the trachea instead of the esophagus.

  Simple enough.

  All I had to do was oust the obstruction and breathe.

  A piece of cake, I said to myself, knowing it was actually a piece of bagel.

  I coughed loudly, trying to force the bagel out of my trachea. I only managed to move it slightly, creating a small opening that might give me an extra minute before I became a garden variety vegetable. I coughed louder, which got me a lot of attention but no breathing room.

  Don’t panic, I told myself again.

  “He’s choking,” a fat woman sitting next to me said, pointing. “He’s turning blue.”

  Okay, panic!

  I stood up and pounded the table with the palm of my hand. I coughed and pointed frantically at my throat. I looked around for help and assessed my chances clinically.

  I’m gonna die, I decided.

  I coughed and gagged, trying desperately to dislodge the dough. I dislodged a cream cheese fart instead.

  “I think he messed his pants,” the fat lady said. “People do that before they die.”

  I did not mess my pants and I am not going die, I insisted, but I was wasting what little breath I had. No one could hear me.

  “We have to help him,” I heard someone shout, and people began shuffling toward me as fast as they could . . . which wasn’t fast at all.

  Someone was suddenly at my back, and I felt boney hands on my belly.

  “Hang on, dear,” I heard an old lady’s voice encouraging me. Feeble fingers applied puny pressure to my lower abdomen but only succeeded in forcing another fart out of me.

  “He did mess his pants,” she said, letting me go. When I turned to face her she was backing away, holding her nose.

  “We have to keep trying,” a big, elderly guy said, and banged my back with the flat of his hand. Nothing.

  “Let me try,” the fat lady volunteered and tried the Heimlich maneuver on me. She only succeeded in making Mr. Johnson vaguely aware of her large breasts pressed against my back. Even at death’s door the little jerk wouldn’t leave me alone.

  I stumbled forward and put my hands on a table top to steady myself. I stared at the old man sitting at the table. He had a spoon poised at his lips and I realized that he had continued eating while I was dying. He looked up at me, seemingly annoyed by my intrusion.

  Self-centered son of a bitch.

  I banged my forehead on the old man’s table in frustration and smelled something so foul it startled me like smelling salts. My head snapped back, and I pointed at the bowl in front of him.

  “Pacha,” he said defensively. “It’s the special.”

  I had heard of pacha (Pronounced Pah-Char). In the deep recesses of my oxygen deprived brain, I recalled an old Semitic recipe for skinless lamb’s feet (hooves removed), with garlic and water. Someone once told me that finely ground lamb’s balls were also used, but I never verified that.

  A wave of nausea swept up from my stomach, passed through my larynx then blew the lid off my epiglottis. Bagel and bile blasted from my mouth, covering the old man and his table.

  I breathed a sigh of relief and slumped onto the chair ac
ross from him.

  “Sorry,” I said, gasping for breath

  He looked at me, then at himself. He was a mess. He smiled incongruously as if he had just received a pleasant surprise. He stood up.

  “I’m not paying for this,” he announced, raising an index finger to the sky for emphasis. Without bothering to clean himself the old man shuffled twenty steps to the front door that was less than ten steps away.

  “Tanenbaum, you come back here” a man wearing an Al name tag shouted. “At least pay half, you cheap bastard.”

  Tanenbaum gave Al the finger and was gone.

  Al looked down at me. “Are you going to sue?” he asked.

  “No,” I said in a raspy voice. “It was my own fault.”

  “Damn right it was,” Al said irritably. “And who’s gonna pay for this mess?”

  “Mendel, stop it,” the nice fat lady who tried the Heimlich on me said. “The poor man almost died.”

  “It’s okay.” I smiled at the woman then looked at Al. “I’ll take care of the mess.”

  “I want cash,” Meyer insisted impatiently. “No charge cards.”

  A red spot appeared in front of my eyes, then another.

  My brain must have sent a warning signal to my face because Al backed away from me

  “Never mind,” he shrugged and turned his head. “Hay-zoos, bring your mop, Hay-zoooooos.”

  A small, dark man in an apron appeared from the kitchen holding a mop. “Oh mang,” he moaned. “Pah-cha puke.”

  “Sorry,” I said. I reached into my pocket, pulled out a ten dollar bill and handed it to Hay-zoos.

  The little guy smiled at me, putting the bill in his shirt pocket. “Thank you, my mang. Don’ feel bad. Pah-cha could make a goat puke.”

  I patted his shoulder and weaved unsteadily to another table. I sat down and inhaled several times before I became aware of being watched. I looked up and saw a group of Bagel Bush patrons watching me.

  “You alright, mister?” a take-charge little man asked me with genuine concern.

  I nodded gratefully and looked at the patrons of the Bagel Bush for the first time. I had been so preoccupied with my papers and nearly choking to death that I really hadn’t checked out the place. It was enlightening.