“The ball on top of Mrs. Goldman’s femur is broken completely off,” he said. “It’s bad.”
We were in the corridor outside Sylvia’s room. She was unconscious, lying motionless in her bed, looking very frail and impossibly old.
“What happens now?” I asked.
“Rehabilitation is out of the question,” he began. “She’s too weak. We can surgically give her an artificial hip but the operation could be very traumatic in her condition,” he said unemotionally. “Or we can put her in a long-term care center and make her as comfortable as possible. Statistically speaking, I think a care center is our best option.”
“Sylvia is not a statistic,” I protested.
“We’re all statistics in some category,” he told me. “Sylvia is one of two hundred and seventy thousand people over sixty-five who fracture a hip every year in this country. She could also become part of the thirty percent who die within the first twelve months of the injury. She’s a very frail eighty-year-old.”
“She’s not eighty yet,” I said, defending my girl.
“Her actual age isn’t the only problem,” the doctor said. “She’s elderly and brittle. Ninety percent of hip fractures are in women like her.”
“Why?”
“After menopause, a woman’s bones lose density,” he explained. “It’s called osteoporosis and one out of every two women over fifty will suffer an osteoporosis-related fracture at one time or another. I’m sorry to keep citing statistics but this is the reality we’re dealing with.”
“So, we operate or relocate,” I summarized. “Who decides?”
“Her family,” the doctor said.
“She has no family,” I explained. “She has a lawyer who takes care of her financial affairs through her late husband’s will. That’s it.”
“If the lawyer is her legal guardian he can make decisions for her,” Dr. Eisenstock speculated.
“I don’t know his status,” I said. “I’ll check it out.”
“Good luck,” the doctor said, shaking my hand, and continuing on his rounds.
I went into Sylvia’s room and stood by her bed. Her skin was pathetically pasty and deep wrinkles cut into her shallow face. I never cry . . . but if I did, that would have been a good time.
I had only known Sylvia Goldman for about a year and she had only known herself for fifty-six of her seventy-six years. The end of her life was drawing near but the beginning remained a mystery. Without a beginning, there could be no meaningful end, and I believed Sylvia Goldman’s life deserved meaning.
I called Sanford Kreiger when I got home and told him about my hospital visit. I gave him Dr. Eisenstock’s opinion about a nursing home.
“He’s probably right but there’s no legal guardian to make that decision,” he said.
“What about you?”
“I have the power of attorney,” he explained. “But I am not her legal guardian.”
“Who is?”
“No one.” Kreiger sighed. “She always said she didn’t need one.”
“She needs one now,” I said.
“A court would have to provide her with protective services,” he told me.
“How does that work?”
“First, we’d have to get a written opinion from a doctor, preferably a psychiatrist, stipulating that Sylvia can no longer take care of herself. Then a petition has to be filed with the Circuit Court of Palm Beach County saying that a diligent search for relatives had been made and none were found. The petition recommends a suitable guardian, and then we post the entire document in the legal notices section of the local newspaper to formerly inform the public of the intended action.”
“You could handle all that,” I said.
“I could do the legal work,” Kreiger said. “But her husband’s instructions prohibit me from looking into Sylvia’s past.”
“If we can’t prove there’s no family, we can’t appoint you as her guardian,” I observed.
“I’m not going to be her guardian,” Kreiger replied, rejecting the idea immediately.
“Why not?”
“I have a conflict of interest legally and I’m Sylvia’s age,” he said firmly. “She needs someone younger, with no conflict of interest . . . someone like you, Mr. Perlmutter.”
“I’m not qualified to be anyone’s guardian,” I said. “I have enough trouble taking care of myself. I’ll have to do some more investigating.”
“I wish you would just leave it alone,” Kreiger said.
“Sorry, I can’t do that,” I told him, and hung up the phone.
I went directly to Joy Feely’s office and met with Lou Dewey.
“Remember you told me you could find anyone with your computer?” I asked.
He was sitting with his feet on his desk.
“If they’re in cyberspace I can find them,” Lou said, nodding.
“Could you find a baby born in New York City in 1929?”
“I think so,” he said confidently. “New York started recording births in 1915. But we’re talking about thousands of babies. Can you narrow it down a little?”
“I’m looking for a girl,” I said.
“That’s a start. Do you have a name?”
“Sylvia, maybe,” I said.
“Sylvia Maybe is her name or maybe her name is Sylvia?”
“Maybe her name is Sylvia,” I clarified.
“Last name?”
“I have no idea,” I told him. “Her married name is Goldman.”
“Do you have any idea of the hospital she was born?”
“No.”
“County?”
“No.”
“Planet?”
“Be nice,” I said.
“Okay. So, all we know is that we’re looking for a baby girl born in 1929-”
“I’m not even sure it was 1929,” I interrupted him.
“Great. We have a baby girl, born maybe in 1929, maybe her name was Sylvia, and maybe she was born in New York. Right?”
“Right.”
“Is she a missing person?”
“No, she has a missing memory,” I said. “She’s seventy-six years old but only has fifty-six years of memories. And now she’s got Alzheimer’s, schizophrenia, plus she’s delusional.”
“Anything else?”
“She steals bagels.”
“That could be the clue we’re looking for,” Lou said and laughed. “Why at seventy-six does she suddenly want to find all those missing years.”
“Actually, she doesn’t,” I confessed. “I do.”
“Why?”
“She’s my friend,” I said. “Like you’re my friend and I have to find her a legal guardian. If she has family I need to know.”
“Enough said. What else can you think of that might help me find her?”
“Well, if she’s really seventy-six, she was born during the Depression,” I said. “Her family probably had financial problems like everyone else. Maybe they gave her up for adoption.”
“Wouldn’t she remember her adopted family?” Lou asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe she wasn’t adopted,” I tried. “Maybe she got stuck in an orphanage and became a ward of the state.”
“Lost in the system?”
“Possibly,” I said. “She has mental problems now. Maybe she had them then and was tranfered to an institution. Check it out.”
“I’ll look into mental facilities,” he said. “Anything else you can think of?”
I thought for a moment. “Yeah, she has a recurring dream,” I remembered. “She’s being tormented by a two-headed boy and a wicked witch. The witch is screaming at her, and the two-headed boy is laughing.
“What the hell is that all about?”
“She has no idea,” I said.
“What do you know about her husband?”
“I know he was a doctor.”
“What kind of doctor?”
“Some sort of shrink,” I shrugged.
“That might explain the crazine
ss,” Lou said, shaking his head. “I knew a kid in Atlantic City whose father and mother were shrinks. He was the most screwed-up kid in town.”
He was already tapping his computer keys when I let myself out.
Hate hums like an overloaded power line and fear smells like old sweat. Judge Jacobs and Randolph Buford were vibrating and giving off a fearful odor as they stared at each other from across the judge’s desk. Buford’s hands were clenched in his lap like a boxer waiting for the opening bell. He was flanked by the same two black officers who had wrestled him to the floor in the courtroom the day he shot himself in the foot. Both guards held Tasers by their sides. There would be no outbursts today.
Assistant District Attorney David Daniels sat to Buford’s left, looking very much like the professional man he was. He smelled of cologne and hummed a happy tune.
No hate. No fear. Cool.
Bobby Byrnes smelled uncertain and a little fearful.
Simon Kane, the Minister for Internal Agreements Litigation and Human Rights, sat to Daniels’s left, not looking as important as I knew he was. His hooded eyes and serious demeanor gave him a vaguely sinister appearance. He was dressed in a nondescript gray suit and a tie too pooped to pop. Kane looked like he had been carved from granite with a broken chisel. He was rough around the edges, wide, square, dense, and implacable. His hair was cropped close, like a soldier’s, but he was too old for soldiering. I guessed he was in his early fifties. He didn’t smell or hum. He vibrated.
Judge Avery Jacobs glanced at the documents on his desk then scanned the room.
“Everything seems to be in order,” the judge said, shuffling the papers needlessly.
The papers were perfect. We had approvals from the Ministry of Justice, the State Attorney General, Assistant DA Daniels, Bobby Byrnes, and Randolph Buford himself. The junior Nazi had even signed a document that held the Ministry harmless if he should die during his time in custody.
Signed sealed and delivered, I thought.
“This is highly unusual.” Jacobs sighed. “Pretrial diversions are rare in Florida, and this particular request is unprecedented.”
No one responded.
“Mr. Kane,” the judge said, turning to the minister. “Are you sure?”
“We believe we can rehabilitate this man,” Kane said. “If anyone can.”
Buford hummed with hatred.
“Your anger doesn’t frighten me,” Kane said to Buford, leaning forward and returning Buford’s baleful stare. “I have killed better men than you.”
“I’m not afraid of you,” Buford replied, unconvincingly.
“You should be,” Kane told him. Buford looked away first.
Judge Jacobs reached for a pen, poised it over the document, then quickly signed.
“It’s official,” he said, looking up. “When do you want the prisoner?”
“We would like him to arrive May fifth,” Kane said.
“Why that particular date?” Jacobs asked.
“It’s important to our program,” Kane assured the judge.
“Do any of you object to May fifth?” The judge surveyed the room.
“That’s nearly two months, your honor,” Bobby Byrnes said. “My client is being held in jail during all that time. It’s unreasonable.”
“Shut up,” Buford interrupted rudely. “It’s not safe for me on the streets anymore. I want to be held in protective custody until I leave.”
“Done,” the judge agreed.
“We want him delivered to us,” Kane announced.
“I’ll deliver him,” I said without hesitation. “I’ve transported prisoners before.”
“Do you have any problem with Mr. Perlmutter?” The judge turned to Daniels.
“He’s the perfect man for the job,” the assistant DA said, smiling.
“Mr. Kane?”
“I have no problem with Mr. Perlmutter,” he nodded.
“Mr. Byrnes?” The judge looked at the defense attorney.
“I have no problem, your honor,” Byrnes said.
“I have a problem,” Buford told the judge.
“You’ll just have to get over it,” Jacobs said.
Huuuummmmm.
The next day Edik phoned to tell me the Kuznetsovs had decided that the two hundred thousand dollars they had already stolen from the Dietrichs, combined with my silence, was a good trade. I told him we should meet in person.
I drove to Wilton Manors to meet with Edik. He was standing behind the bar polishing glasses when I arrived.
“Your nose doesn’t look so bad,” I told him as I sat on a bar stool.
“Fahk you,” he said. “Kuznetsovs ready to return Dietrichs in six weeks.”
“Why so long?” I protested.
“Much red tape to get Dietrichs out of country. Many people to pay off.”
“That shouldn’t take more than a month,” I insisted.
“There is other problem,” Edik added.
“Let me guess,” I said, analyzing the situation. “The Dietrichs have become drug dependent and the Kuznetsovs want to detox them before sending them back. It’s probably very difficult to get withdrawing drug addicts through airport security.”
“You catch on fast,” Edik nodded and pointed his index finger at his temple.
“What drugs have you been giving them?”
“GHB,” Edik said. “We give them shot in the ass every day.”
“Brilliant. The rape drug right into the bloodstream.” I shook my head. “You’re lucky you didn’t kill them. GHB is a degreasing solvent, you idiot.”
“I’m not idiot,” Edik defended himself.
“Of course, you are,” I insisted. “How did you know what dose to give them?”
“My seester told me,” he said.
“Is your sister a doctor?”
“No, she is criminal.”
Moron.
“They are fine,” Edik said, reading my mind. “They are in nursing home. Many doctors watching them.”
“Okay, so what’s the plan for their return?” I asked
“In about six weeks Dietrichs can be picked up at Frankfurt Airport.”
“Is there anything wrong with them besides the drugs?” I asked.
“They don’t eat much and are a little dopey,” he said, unconcerned. “But they’ll be fine. Dietrichs get better. Kuznetsovs get money and everyone lives happily ever after.”
Dumb shit.
I figured the Dietrichs were being given varying doses of GHB and nutrition intravenously to raise and lower their level of consciousness as needed. Lower the dose for “Sign this . . .” and raise the dose for “Go to sleep.” When their financial assets were totally exhausted, I felt certain the original plan called for the nursing home to become a hospice. Eventually the nourishment would be lowered, the drug dose increased, until the Dietrichs died.
I reached across the bar and grabbed Edik by his shirt collar.
“Everyone lives happily ever after in a fairy tale,” I growled. “This is no fahkin’ fairy tale. The Dietrichs would have died if their friends hadn’t suspected something. If anything happens to the Dietrichs, you’re going down.”
I released his neck.
I was walking to my car on Wilton Drive when my cell phone rang. I checked the caller ID.
“Lou,” I answered the phone. “What’s up?”
“It’s March fifteenth,” he said. “Happy birthday, Eddie. How does it feel to be sixty-one?”
“I can’t feel a thing,” I said. “How are you doing with Sylvia’s search?”
“I found three baby girls named Sylvia but one was black and two are dead.”
“What about the orphanages?” I asked.
“There were so many orphans during the Depression that it’s tough to narrow it down. Plus, you’re not even sure her original name was Sylvia or if she was really born in New York. How’s she doing, by the way?”
“She’s awake one minute, asleep the next,” I said. “No communication. Di
d you check out the two-headed boy dream?”
“I did,” Lou replied. “I didn’t find any two-headed boys but I did locate a six-hundred-pound woman with a beard and a three-balled monkey.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” I said, and hung up.
I started my own personal search for Sylvia Goldman by calling “Uno” Unitas, a former partner of mine in the homicide division of the Boston Police Department. His real first name was Lazlo but he was born with one testicle and his older sister nicknamed him Uno.
“It’s the Boca fuckin’ Knight,” Uno shouted into the phone. “How’s retirement?”
“I’ve been too busy to notice,” I said.
“I know all about it,” he said sincerely. “We’re all proud of you.”
“Thanks, Uno,” I said. “I’m calling for an information update.”
“Okay, here it is,” he said. “I’m still single, haven’t gotten laid in a month, still like to head butt drunk drivers and insist they stumbled, haven’t grown a second ball, and I’m five years from retirement.”
“I had a different update in mind,” I said, laughing. “Do you remember Dr. Kessler?”
“Sure, Sigmund Kessler,” Lazlo said. “The department shrink.”
“His name was Glenn,” I corrected him.
“You call me Uno,” Uno reminded me. “I call him Sigmund. Anyway, Kessler retired a while ago.”
“Do you have any idea where he is now?”
“Why? Are you still crazy?”
“Yes, but this has nothing to do with me,” I told him.
“He has a private practice in Cambridge,” Uno told me.
“He’s still working? How old is he?”
“Early seventies, maybe,” Uno said. “He’s famous now.”
“What did he do?”
“He wrote a book called Why Bad Golf Happens to Good People.”
“Who gives a shit why bad golf happens to good people?” I asked.
“Based on sales I’d say close to a million people care,” Uno told me.
“Where can I find him?” I asked.
“He’s listed in the phone book,” Uno said. “But hold on, I’ll get it for you.” He gave me the number and asked, “Why not use a shrink in Boca?”
“I always liked Kessler,” I said. “He had good judgment.”
Boca Mournings Page 18
