by Todd Cohen
“Yes, Doc. I left Caracas nearly twenty years ago, to find a better life. That I did, in the good old U-S-of-A. And yes, your home town.”
“What a coincidence!” Imagine, six degrees of separation always at play.
“Nice weather we’re having. Florida has much better weather than Long Island, especially in the winter. I dread our winters.”
“Yes, but not for long,” said Eli. “Looks like we’re not quite over hurricane season. Forecast shows there may be something brewing!”
“A hurricane? I don’t see a cloud in sight.”
“Down here, there is always a storm.” He paused. “Around the corner. But most of the time, they are not much. Occasionally, we get an Irene like you guys did last year. I was up in Port working during that one.”
He was referring to Hurricane Irene. Last year, it was supposed to blow through. But instead, it wreaked havoc on the Eastern Seaboard, including Long Island. My basement flooded out east at Westhampton Beach and the dock was mangled. But not too bad, for all that media hype. I was one of the lucky ones. Fortunately, Irene was not as destructive as it was billed.
“Help yourself to the paper and please feel free to drink the bottled water I left in back,” he said.
“Thank you, Eli. I will.” I grabbed the water bottle. Twisted off the cap and took a few swigs.
Within no time we were cruising across the MacArthur Causeway. The water was a luscious turquoise. Quite different than the olive green, almost brownish waters up in New York. And the multitude of palm trees made the place look like a Caribbean resort. Eli turned down to Alton Road and then made a right onto Seventeenth Street. The large modern edifice known as the Miami Convention Center was perched there on our left.
“We’re here,” said Eli.
Chapter 18
The car stopped right in front of the center, and the driver went out to the trunk to retrieve my briefcase, and then opened my door. I handed him a twenty, which he quickly pushed aside.
“No need to, Dr. Dawson. Tab and tip are covered,” he said.
“No, keep it,” I replied, insisting.
“Thanks, Dr. Dawson,” Eli responded.
I walked briskly into the convention center and met Dr. Smillar at the door.
“Your session is in fifteen minutes,” he said. “The Speaker Ready Room is on your right.”
Dr. Smillar was a thin, grey-haired, six-foot-tall, aging man, probably in his mid-seventies, if not older. He was my mentor, the man who helped start my career. He also was the moderator for the late-morning session where I was giving my presentation.
The title for the session was “Novel Platforms Enhancing Percutaneous Coronary Interventions.” My talk was the first of the session: “The Effects of Magnetic Stenting on Endothelialization.” I was able to ride the so-called wave of magnetic fields as they were applied to stents, but this time my talk was quite different.
The room could fit only 5,000, and it was standing room only.
Dr. Smillar made the usual introductions.
“Our first speaker is a well-known cardiologist from Mount Sinai. He got his start with me at Stanford and went for bigger and better things in New York. He’s got a magnetic personality and is none other than Dr. Matthew Dawson.”
The audience gave a strong round of applause, one I never took for granted. I always opened my talk with a famous painting by a contemporary artist. The slide this time was of a mostly black-and-white image that looked like a large black moth on white canvas, with a few blotches of yellow ochre and a line of green. Two of the large black bands went from top to bottom, with a black egg shape in between. There were two more large black eggs on the right side of the second band.
“Who knows the artist?” I asked.
“Motherwell!” shouted someone from the audience.
“That’s right,” I responded. “I hope your Mother’s well. Yes, this is entitled Elegy to the Spanish Republic, 108, painted between 1965 and 1967. It is an oil on canvas, part of the permanent collection of the MoMA. The American-born artist Robert Motherwell painted it. Motherwell was a member of the New York School of Abstract Expressionist artists in the 1950s and 1960s, along with Jackson Pollock, Mark Rothko, and others.”
I threw this image up on the screen, almost as a joke to break the ice. The audience might be smart enough to recognize this artist, but most surely would not understand the symbolism. Motherwell used black blotches and color in his Elegy to the Spanish Republic pieces, and they were supposed to represent the testicles under a dead bull. I guess you could say I had a lot of balls to put such an image up at a major medical meeting. Truth be told, this little bit of internal humor helped take the stress out of my plenary talks.
“He married another famous Abstract Expressionist artist. Do you know her name?”
Silence.
“Helen Frankenthaler. Born in 1928, Helen recently passed away, at the age of eighty-three, after a long illness. She remained active, painting almost to the very end. As cardiologists, our job is to keep our patients vibrant and active as long as possible. And that is why we do what we do. Frankly speaking.”
I then went into magnetic theory—our early trials and their results—and by the end of the talk I heard a roar from the crowd.
“Any questions?” asked Dr. Smillar.
After I fended off two, I was greeted by a couple of my former colleagues from Stanford and then went outside the lecture hall. And there he was.
Chapter 19
I had only met him once. This meeting was entirely unexpected. I thought I recognized the same pinstriped blue suit as last time. There he was, with his slender, tall figure and grey hair, waiting in the wings to talk to me. It was Frederick Morgan.
“Dr. Dawson, how are you doing? Long time no see!” he said to break the ice.
“Fine. Any progress?” I calmly questioned.
“Morgan Capital is prepared to make MATAL an offer. I’ve reviewed the details with Sid and we have a term sheet we’d like to prepare for you. I wanted to make sure that I connected in person and let you know we will be moving forward.”
I knew that this was good news, but I also knew that nothing is a done deal until the papers are signed. I had to keep my cool.
“Good, “I responded. “Just shoot it over to Dr. Shaw and Mr. Lippert when you’re ready. I look forward to working out this deal,” I said with a somewhat subdued affect.
“Will do. You should hear from me in the next few weeks. Take care, now.” He showed the enthusiasm of a stone. Not even a smile. But the meeting was not by chance. He made the trip down south in all likelihood to convey this personal message. I meandered to a quiet place next to a large picture frame window, just outside the auditorium, and pulled out my phone and within seconds I got him.
“Dr. Shaw, how may I be of service?”
“Alex, good news! I just ran into Fred Morgan. They’re going to prepare a term sheet. Hopefully they will work out the details and shoot something to us in the next few weeks.” It was hard to control my excitement. But Alex always put a damper on my expectations.
“MD, keep your cool! Let’s see what they send. You know they will try to get MATAL for a song and a dance. Please, keep your patience.”
“I will, Shaw! See you soon.”
I left the convention center, and there was a much more familiar face just outside. Like Morgan, this gentleman was tall and slender and was also not a doctor. But unlike Morgan he was much younger, in his late forties, with a receding hairline. He was dressed a little more flamboyantly, with a yellow Yves Saint Laurent suit, white dress shirt, and pink tie.
Christian Larosse was an art dealer, one of three principal owners of the Freedman Park Larosse Art Gallery. His name was added to those of the other two senior partners, Freedman and Park, just this past month. Christian flew down to Miami for two reasons: one was to celebrate his recent appointment as a partner in the gallery, and the other was to meet up with me. Freedman Park Larosse was on
e of the oldest established dealers in New York City. They were originally located on Fifty-Seventh Street on the Upper East Side and recently moved to Chelsea like so many blue-chip art galleries in the last twenty years. Freedman Park, as they were still known to most of their clientele, had an impressive array of contemporary art. Most of it, however, too recent for my taste: artists like Jeff Koons and Damien Hirst. But they still had my favorites: Hans Hofmann, Helen Frankenthaler, Robert Motherwell, Morris Louis, Kenneth Noland, Wolf Kahn, Jasper Johns, David Hockney, Alex Katz, Richard Diebenkorn and Wayne Thiebaud. Christian got me started with my print collection when I first arrived in New York. He was down here scouting out spaces for a private venue alongside the upcoming Art Miami meeting slated for the beginning of December.
We jumped in a cab and headed to where all the action is, namely, South Beach. We pulled up to Joe’s Stone Crab restaurant, where one of Christian’s art associates had saved us a table. Joe’s does not take reservations, but it would have been worth the wait. That is, unless you were pressed for time, as I was. We sat down and ordered the Stone Crab appetizer, and I ordered a Caesar Salad with shrimp. It was delicious.
“MD, I would like to get you more involved in the art scene in Miami. Freedman Park is holding a hotel room for you in the beginning of December at Art Miami. The hotel is on me.”
Art Miami is the world’s second largest art event, just behind Art Basel in Switzerland. In fact, it is officially called Art Basel-Miami. This event even dwarfs the large art fairs in New York City held simultaneously at the Armory, Pier 92, and Pier 94, as well as the other contemporaneous fairs. Christian was hoping I would take the next step in the art world and actually acquire a significant painting such as a Diebenkorn work on paper or small Thiebaud oil.
I was afraid to tell Christian I had no money to buy such a work. I just listened and enjoyed the lunch, shocked by Christian’s generosity and even more shocked that it included a complimentary suite at the very chic W South Beach Hotel on Collins Avenue for three nights in December, including a flight for Shari and myself. I savored every bite of my salad and finished it off with a sparkling Perrier with a twist of lime. Bidding Christian a fine adieu—“See you in December”—I grabbed a cab to the airport and flew back to LaGuardia and was home back lying in bed next to Shari by midnight.
Fresh from my trip, and my revelation regarding my own contribution to my marriage’s demise, I hopped into bed with renewed hope.
“I’m back,” I whispered softly in Shari’s ear. I awoke her from a sound sleep.
“Welcome back,” she said.
This night she did not smell of alcohol. Something was different. I rolled over and snuggled next to her. I even thought that she might have spooned back into me. I can’t remember the last time she did that.
Chapter 20
The rest of the week was a wash—not many patients, and just the finishing touches to my latest magnetic stent research paper. Finally, I completed the cover letter and the online journal submission. It took till Sunday until I could breathe a sigh of relief.
The next day I drove in early. The LIE was a breeze before six a.m. The ride into the city went too smoothly. I made the usual trip to the doctor’s lounge and then up to the Cath Lab. Not much to do for me personally, although the lab was beginning to heat up.
Suddenly, 4400 showed on my pager. I knew that number, administration. Specifically, I knew it as the extension that led to the hospital CEO’s office. The CEO of Mount Sinai was none other than James Anderson. Everybody knew Mr. Anderson. He did radio and television commercials promoting the hospital. I called the number and got his secretary, Arlene.
“Dr. Dawson, are you available to meet with Mr. Anderson at eleven a.m.?” she asked.
Whenever I got a call from Mr. Anderson, I knew there was not much option, other than adjusting my schedule to accommodate him. In the past, I may have been involved in a very complicated procedure and would really be unable to meet him. This time, I was not so lucky.
At eleven a.m. I walked inside the administrative office. The secretaries to the CEO, CFO, and COO each had their own desk. Arlene sat to the right.
“Want a cup of coffee, Dr. Dawson?” she said.
“Please,” I replied.
She walked over. “What would you like—French Vanilla, Hazelnut, Dark Roast?”
“Dark Roast is fine, with a little bit of skim milk.” I said. She prepared the cup, gave it to me, and then said, “Mr. Anderson is ready to see you now.”
I walked around her desk, then into the CEO’s office. Much larger than any other office in the hospital, it had the traditional large wooden desk flanked by chairs, but another area was off to the side and consisted of two couches facing each other, spilt by a square, centered table, not unlike our family room. Instead of sitting on the couches like we usually did, he chose to stay behind the desk, directing me to “take a seat.”
I sat down. “So, what’s up?” Anderson proceeded to get up and walk over to where I was sitting. He never took a seat but just kept standing.
“Matt, Mount Sinai has been very fortunate to have you here. You have done some great things for our hospital. But the time has come to let someone else take the helm. I’m sorry, but I am going to have to let you go. The hospital can no longer afford a director that isn’t bringing in the bacon.”
Did I hear him right? Going to have to let me go—is that what he said? Not me. Doesn’t he know what the lab was like before I got here? What I was able to accomplish?
“But, Mr. Anderson, my lack of patients is directly related to the hospital’s decisions not to purchase any of my large cardiology referral practices. This had nothing to do with me,” I quibbled.
“I know that, Matt, but that’s just the way it is. You’ll have three months’ severance, and of course collect your pension when you reach sixty-five. But your job is finished effective immediately. Would you please give me the key to your office?” he asked, but it was no question.
I gave him the key and walked out, much like a dog with his head drooping between his front paws. Squirming out the back door of the hospital into the doctors’ parking lot, I gave one look back towards “the Mount,” and drove home.
Chapter 21
I drove through the Midtown Tunnel back to Port Washington. None of this made any sense. I did not turn on the radio, and I did not call anyone. I just felt like shit! When I reached my house, I pulled my car into the garage port and opened the side door. Shari was not expecting me. “How often am I home at one p.m.? How would she take the news?” I thought. “She’s not going to be happy about this!”
In the kitchen, I threw my car keys on the hook in the mudroom and tossed my wallet into the drawer on the kitchen island. The place seemed deserted until I heard a pounding sound coming from upstairs. First, I thought it was someone beating a carpet out the window to get rid of dirt. But the sound continued and just kept getting louder and louder as I approached. As I walked to the stairs, I heard a noise that had more of a spring type sound. A “boinging” followed by a female groan.
“OH! Fuck me! Fuck me harder! Harder!”
“Ah, shit! That was my wife,” I screamed to myself as I felt a pain as sharp as a knife jabbing me right in the middle of my chest.
“This couldn’t be,” I thought.
I ran up to the bedroom, and there she was, curled up, banging some young blond motherfucker! Must have been half my age. He was on top of her, with his blue jeans down to his ankles. She was on the bottom, with some skimpy black erotic outfit and spiked heels. An outfit I had never EVER seen before!
“What the fuck is going on here?” I screamed in disbelief.
That blond motherfucker pulled himself out of my wife and threw on his jeans, grabbed his shirt, and ran like a bat out of hell out the door.
“Ah, shit!” Shari screamed.
“What the hell! I shouted back. I was beet red, steaming with anger. My heart was racing, and sweat pouring down my fa
ce and across my chest. The medical term was diaphoretic. There was nothing to discuss! I just needed to get away. I grabbed my keys from the mudroom, hopped in my car, and raced crosstown to my oldest and dearest friend.
Chapter 22
I’ve known Alex almost as long as I have known my wife. For all these years, I thought that his non-American accent plus olive skin might have gotten him mistaken for a terrorist, though he’d been a United States citizen for nearly twenty years. But now I saw Shaw in a different light. He could have easily made a living as a celebrity look-a-like for Steven Seagal. But that aside, he just looked plain dangerous, but he was hardly so. That is, of course, unless you messed with him. Like Seagal, he spoke softly, which masked the martial arts mayhem within. Shaw, however, was also a brilliant and skilled scientist, with Israeli defense expertise. But what’s a middle-aged man doing with a slicked-back black pony-tail? Who are you kidding, Shaw?
I used to joke with him about his religion.
“Question: What kind of money do you spend?”
“Answer: Jew dough.”
“Question: How do you make bread on the Hebrew holiday of Passover?”
“Answer: With Jew dough.” The all-purpose answer, I thought.
“Question: What kind of martial arts do you practice?”
“Answer: Judo!”
Oh, no, not again. He laughed.
And lastly:
“Question: Do you know Puerto Rican Judo?”
“Answer: Jew got a knife. Jew got a gun.”
I was with Alex when a gang of hoodlums, in East New York, attacked us. He made a number of moves that could only be described as Bruce Lee-like, and within three minutes all seven were reeling in pain on the ground. His Krav Maga skills and language fluency were just a part of it. Although he never told me where he worked, I could only guess that it was in some top-secret military or security service. But for, and with whom, I did not know. There seemed to be nothing he didn’t know or wasn’t an expert in. But most importantly, especially after today, Alex was my closest friend, and that was what I needed.