“Is this a joke?”
“No. Listen to me,” Lou pleased. “The guy who jumped was a financier named Abraham Bengloff who had just lost all his money. Instead of landing on Wall Street he landed on his son-in-law, Jacob Dubin, who had just lost all his money, too. Jacob Dubin had twin boys and a three-month old girl named Sylvia.”
“That’s got to be her,” I said, amazed by Lou Dewey.
“Wait, there’s more,” Lou said.
“How much more do we need?” I asked.
“I want you to hear this, Eddie,” he insisted. “It’s important to me.”
“I’m listening.”
“Do you believe there’s someone looking over us?” Lou asked.
“Everyone looks over us, Lou” I replied. “We’re short.”
“No, I mean do you believe in fate?” he said, trying a new tack.
“No,” I said. “I believe life is totally random.”
“Then, Mr. Random, see if you can explain this,” Louie challenged me. “Do you remember I told you the story about my grandfather, Ferris Dewey?”
“Didn’t he shovel shit against the tide in Atlantic City . . . or something like that?”
“That’s him,” Lou said. “And I told you he died jumping off a forty-foot high tower on the Steel Pier in Atlantic City.”
“Dixie the Diving Horse,” I recalled.
“Exactly,” Lou was thrilled I remembered his ancestry. “Well, he jumped the same day Abraham Bengloff jumped, October 29, 1929.”
“Amazing,’ I said. “Is all this information on the Internet?”
“Not all of it,” Lou said. “Bengloff and Dubin’s death were in the newspaper back then but Ferris Dewey died in obscurity. I only know about the connection because my grandfather’s jump became a family legend. Do you believe in fate now?”
“It sounds fateful to me,” I conceded. “Sylvia Dubin is Sylvia Goldman.”
“There’s one problem,” Lou added.
“What would that be?”
“According to the records, Sylvia Dubin drowned in 1932,” he told me.
Lou and I pieced together the computer puzzle of Sylvia’s past by creating an imperfect but plausible picture.
After Jacob Dubin and Abraham Bengloff banged heads in 1929, our research showed that their survivors moved to Long Beach, Long Island, where the family owned a large old house on the island’s south shore. Bengloff had invested in the house and three waterfront empty lots in 1922, seven years before the crash. The “summer home” was rarely used when the Bengloffs were wealthy but it became their only home during the Depression. They sold the three empty lots for cash.
Rachael Bengloff, Sylvia’s grandiose grandmother, was miserable without her millions, minions, and mansions. She became a recluse in the old house and protected the remaining family funds with fierce determination. She put money in trusts for her three grandchildren and kept the remainder away from her drunken daughter, Ethel.
Sylvia’s mother, Ethel Dubin, had changed her surname back to Bengloff after her father landed on her husband’s head. She was an alcoholic and a wanton woman at the time of the accident and things only got worse when she became a widow. She went from flapper to floozy, earning her liquor on her back if necessary. Prohibition was still the law, but there was no shortage of booze in Long Beach, thanks to the city’s perfect bootlegger’s bay and raucous speakeasies. When Prohibition ended in 1933, so did the life of Rachael Bengloff, who suffered a massive heart attack while reading her most recent bank statement.
The three children were left with their irrevocable trust funds under the supervision of their constantly intoxicated mother, who had outlived her era and her money. Three months after Rachael Bengloff died . . . three-year-old Sylvia was missing.
The police inspected Sylvia’s empty bedroom the morning Ethel Bengloff reported her daughter’s disappearance. They found an unmade bed and an open window facing the ocean. On the blustery beach, they discovered a trail of toys leading to the water. At the shoreline was a Raggedy Ann doll soaked by the sea. There were no footprints to follow but the wind and waves could have swept them away . . . along with the little girl. Sylvia was officially declared missing and presumed dead.
Ethel Bengloff was appointed trustee of her late daughter’s estate and used most of the money to destroy what was left of her health. Five years after her daughter’s disappearance, Ethel was found floating lifeless at the water’s edge.
“Maybe she wandered into the water in a drunken stupor,” I said to Lou as we compared notes during a telephone conversation.
“Filled with remorse?”
“Rum probably,” I decided.
Lou stated the obvious. “Sylvia didn’t disappear in the ocean, Eddie. She disappeared on dry land. Her mother took her to New York City and dumped her at an orphanage. The whole beach scene was staged.”
“That’s what it sounds like,” I said. “But how did the orphanage know Sylvia’s real name?”
“Maybe her mother left a note,” Lou guessed.
“Why would she leave a clue for the police?” I pointed out.
“Maybe she had the subconscious desire to get caught and punished,” Lou tried.
“Maybe her subconscious was so pickled she couldn’t think straight,” I said.
“She was able to think clearly enough to fake a crime scene,” he countered.
“Yes, and she was aware enough to keep her two sons while abandoning her daughter. Why would a mother do that?” I wondered. “I wish I could ask her.”
“Ask the twins,” Lou suggested.
“Very funny,” I said.
“I’m serious,” Lou insisted. “They’re eighty-three years old, alive and well, and still living in the same house in Long Beach.”
“How is that possible?” I stammered. “When their mother died, they became orphans, too.”
“A spinster aunt from their father’s side, Bertha Bengloff, became their guardian. As soon as the twins were of legal age, they put the old lady in a nursing home where she died, penniless. The boys were filthy rich by then from real estate. They’re heartless bastards.”
“They’re still Sylvia’s family,” I said. “We have to contact them.”
“Even though they haven’t seen her since she was three?” Lou asked.”
“In the eyes of the law they’re still family,” I said. “Besides, they were kids when this happened. Their mother told them their sister drowned. They believed her.”
“Maybe,” Lou said reluctantly. “But, from what I learned about these two sons of bitches, they’re terrible landlords, make no charitable donations, never married, and have no families.”
“It doesn’t matter. We still have to tell Sylvia’s lawyer they exist,” I said.
“I wouldn’t tell anyone anything just yet.”
“We still have a legal obligation,” I told him.
“We have a moral one, too,” Lou insisted. “Sylvia’s very vulnerable. That’s why you have to pay the twins a visit.”
“What makes you think they’ll meet with me?”
“They already agreed,” he told me.
“When?”
“Yesterday. I called and told them a representative of the state of New York wanted to meet with them about an unclaimed seven-figure trust.”
“They believed you?”
“Not at first,” Lou said. “They demanded a confirmation by e-mail on New York State stationary so I sent it to them, one with a State House return e-mail address. They wrote back agreeing to meet and I intercepted the message.”
I didn’t bother to ask him how.
The next day I flew to JFK from West Palm Beach International Airport on Blue Sky Airlines. On the three-hour flight, I read the file Lou Dewey had e-mailed me regarding the terrible twins. It read like a rap sheet of legal crimes. Evictions and foreclosures were among their nicer activities. They were sued for building violations, fraudulent marketing, and a myriad of moral malfeasance.
I rented a car and drove to Long Beach in a depressing drizzle. I learned from the road map that Long Beach is an island connected to the rest of Long Island by three bridges. I only had to cross the Atlantic Beach Bridge from JFK. Also, Long Beach was not named Long Beach because the beach is long. Long Beach was named Long Beach because it’s longer than it is wide. But that’s like naming me “Tall Eddie” for the same reason. It just isn’t so.
The entire city is maybe five miles long and less than a mile wide, with the maximum amount of housing squeezed onto a minimum amount of land. The city’s claim to fame is the ocean, but on this rainy day, the Atlantic only made things darker, damper, and drearier.
An annoying film of moisture hindered my view and reappeared immediately after the wipers streaked the windshield. I tried leaving the wipers on, but the glass wasn’t wet enough and the wiper blades snarled in protest. I was in windshield-wiper hell.
There wasn’t much traffic in Long Beach that morning, making my meandering manageable. I alternated between looking at the road and reading the directions given to me by the rent-a-car attendant, who wanted to know if I was friends with Billy Crystal who came from Long Beach. I assured the kid that Billy and I were close, and he said, “Cool.”
Armed with computerized, state-of-the-art directions, I got lost within a half hour and infuriated five minutes after that.
“Either rain or don’t . . . you son of a bitch,” I shouted, losing my patience with Mother Nature. I pounded the steering wheel with my palm but Mother Nature continued to ignore me, and I felt totally out of control. I hate driving lost.
Magically, a sign for Ocean Drive appeared through the windshield.
“It’s a miracle,” I decided.
Eighty-five Ocean Drive was a neat, old, two-story, white stucco house with a red roof. The Atlantic Ocean was the backyard.
Not bad.
Taking my folder, I went to the front door and rang the doorbell.
David and Solomon opened the door together and despite their names, they didn’t look biblical. They didn’t look likeable, either. They had sullen faces, suspicious eyes, and an air of superiority. I don’t know what they felt superior about. They were homely little guys, shaped like twin pears and their large, droopy white mustaches made me think of a Beatles song: “I Am the Walrus” (koo koo ka chu).
“I’m David Bengloff,” one of them said, not offering to shake my hand.
I noticed he had a mole to the left of his left eye.
“And you must be Solomon,” I said.
He didn’t have a mole. I could tell them apart.
They didn’t ask my name.
They sat on the sofa and I sat in a chair, a coffee table between us.
“What a great view,” I pointed at the ocean.
“Yes, we know,” David Bengloff said smugly.
It was going to be easy to hate these guys.
“Let’s talk about the trust that may belong to us,” David got down to business.
“There is no trust,” I smiled.
“We received an e-mail from the state of New York about a large, unclaimed trust,” David snapped at me.
“It’s a fake. A friend of mine sent it to you.”
“How dare you?” David fumed.
“We’re daring guys,” I said.
The twins stood simultaneously.
“This meeting is over,” David announced.
“This meeting hasn’t started,” I replied, calmly.
“Get out,” David shouted.
“Sit down and shut up.” I aimed my right index finger at them.
“W-w-who are you?” Solomon stammered, warily.
“Eddie Perlmutter,” I said, tossing a Boca Knight card across the table.
Solomon read the card. “You’re that crazy cop from Boston we read about.”
“The one who hunts Nazis in Florida,” David added to my résumé.
Solomon pointed at me with a shaky finger. “You’ve killed people,” he said.
“I’ve never killed twins,” I assured them.
They sat down.
“We’re not Nazis,” David said.
“Are you working for one of our competitors?” Solomon asked.
“I’m here regarding your sister, Sylvia.”
They exchanged confused glances.
“Our sister drowned seventy-three years ago,” Solomon said. “She was three.”
“Wrong. Your sister is seventy-six years old now,” I said. “And she’s a friend of mine.”
Neither of them responded.
“You knew she didn’t drown, didn’t you?” I stared at them.
They exchanged glances but didn’t answer.
“We don’t have to tell you anything,” Solomon said, asserting himself.
“It might be financially advisable for you to talk to me.” I chose my words carefully to get their attention.
“Is this about money?” Solomon asked. “Does our supposed sister want money?”
“She wants nothing,” I said. “She doesn’t even know you exist.”
They both looked surprised. “Then what do you want?” Solomon asked.
“Your sister’s life is ending,” I said. “I want to give it a beginning and a meaning.”
“I want my lawyer present,” David decided.
“You don’t need a lawyer,” I told them. “I’m not accusing you of anything.”
“He’s right, we have nothing to hide,” Solomon said. “You want to know what happened? One afternoon we saw our mother put Sylvia in a car and drive away.
“Did your mother leave you at home alone often?”
“All the time,” David said. “Our mother had problems.”
“I know all about your mother’s problems,” I said.
“You and everyone else,” David said. “We tried to wait for them but fell asleep. The next morning, we were told that our sister had wandered into the ocean and drowned. We never really knew what happened and we didn’t care. We hated her.”
“How could you hate your three-year-old sister?”
They looked at each other as if they had twin telepathy.
“There’s something you should see,” Solomon said solemnly. “Wait here.”
Tweedledee and Tweedledum left the room in lockstep.
They returned in minutes with Solomon carrying a letter-sized envelope. They sat down across from me again. He handed me the envelope.
“It took the two of you to get this for me?” I questioned them.
“Neither of us wanted to be in the room alone with you,” Solomon admitted.
“Our father wrote this letter to our mother minutes before his accidental death.”
“I know how your father and grandfather died,” I told them.
“You seem to know a lot about us,” David worried.
“I know all about you,” I said cryptically, hoping to scare the shit out of them.
“The stains on the letter are dried blood,” Solomon said. “It was found in my father’s shirt pocket by the funeral home and given to our mother. Read it.”
I removed the brittle paper from the envelope.
October 29, 1929
Ethel,
I’ve left you and taken our daughter with me. We will not return.
This is my only chance to save Sylvia from becoming infected with the Bengloff virus that kills the soul with greed, avarice, and indifference. Regrettably, I cannot save our sons who are already infected.
Your virus didn’t kill me, but it weakened me to the point where I was useless. I will never fully recover but I believe I can get better than I am now.
I want my daughter to lead a meaningful life and be remembered as someone who made the world a better place.
Don’t try to find us. We don’t want you in our lives. Jacob
I looked up from the letter.
“Obviously, your sister never saw this letter,” I said.
“No, but our mother did.” Solomon rolled
his eyes. “She became insanely angry and took it out on Sylvia every day. We call it the screaming years.”
“Meaning?”
David took a turn. “Sylvia was a colicky baby and cried a lot. After my mother read this letter she couldn’t stand the sight of Sylvia anymore. She would pick her up from her crib, shake her like a rag doll, and scream things like, ‘I hate you,’ or ‘You’re weak like your father,’ then she would drop Sylvia back in her crib and ignore her for hours.”
“What did the two of you do?” I wanted to know.
“We didn’t do anything,” Solomon said. “Our mother had read us our father’s letter over and over again to prove he loved Sylvia and hated us. So, of course, we hated her.”
“Did you scream at her, too?” I asked.
“No,” David said. “We laughed at her when she would cry.”
“Sylvia still dreams of a screaming witch and a laughing, two-headed boy,” I said.
I didn’t bother telling them she remembered nothing else.
“I suppose we could have looked like a two-headed boy to an infant,” David said.
“Did the screaming years ever end?” I asked them.
“Yes. One day, after one of our mother’s screaming and shaking fits Sylvia stopped crying and never cried again. In fact, she never spoke again.” David sighed. “It was strange. She just stared at us with her big, blood-red eyes all the time and never made a sound. I’ll never forget it.”
What was that all about? I asked myself.
“Then one day she was gone and we never saw her again,” David finished.
“Would you like to see her now?” I asked.
“What’s in it for us?” Solomon asked, and David nodded.
“Financially, nothing,” I told them. “She needs help.”
“Why don’t you help her?” Solomon asked sarcastically.
“I’d be honored,” I told him.
“But, you want money, right?” Solomon raised his eyes, suspiciously.
“I don’t want your money,” I said. “I want your permission to be your sister’s legal guardian and your guarantee that you will make no future claims against her.”
I produced a document and slid it across the table.
“Just sign this paper and you’ll never see me again.”
Boca Mournings Page 21
