by Todd Cohen
I looked at McElroy and then I cried.
Chapter 96
Honk, honk!
I looked outside and saw that the Four Ones taxicab had arrived. Amy and I packed a combined small travel bag, and I grabbed the unopened yellow-and-white envelope from the kitchen table and gave the bag to the cabbie. We were on our way. We just had to get out of New York! Enough was enough. The taxi dropped us off at the Southwest Airlines terminal at the Long Island MacArthur Airport in Ronkonkoma. We were on our way to Miami Beach!
“Amy, it was Samuel Vicks and his family all along. Sam was the mastermind, the kingpin, the leader of the operation. I saved his life, and for what? We almost lost ours because of him. Who would have even thought that the old geezer was capable of doing what he did! And you, Ms. Amy Winters, saved my life!” I just looked and smiled at her.
“Well, MD, you resurrected mine!” Then we kissed.
Thanks to my dear friend Christian, we got a complimentary room at the W South Beach Hotel with all the trimmings. The flight was seamless. And my guest, Amy, looked magnificent.
“Your room, madam,” I said in my best impersonation of a bellhop, as we got off on the eighth floor.
“You shouldn’t have,” she politely protested, clearly not meaning it.
“Thanks to Mr. Larosse. It’s good to have connections.”
Near the center of the bed we saw a bottle of Moet & Chandon champagne with a letter.
“Dear Dawson, here is a little token of appreciation. Please treat yourself to something special at Art Miami. And remember to have fun! Many thanks,” Charley.
Inside the envelope was a check, for one hundred thousand dollars.
To Charley Weisberg, this was just a pittance. But to me this would be much more than a pittance. This would fund my new fresh start, especially at a trying time like this. You know, with no job, and any remaining assets of mine likely go to Shari and the kids. That was my own pre-drawn conclusion. And poor Charley Weisberg not only had to deal with the aftermath of Sandy, he lost his wife, God damn it! But I just couldn’t do it. I felt too guilty about taking this large sum of money! It was a principle thing. I made this argument to Amy over a glass of champagne. She gave a cogent and practical counter argument, and then acquiesced. Very un-Amy like!
“A toast, to our new adventure,” I laughed.
“A toast to us,” Amy smiled.
Amy, however, was more practical, and put her two cents into the pot.
“Matt, you could really use the money. You should feel comfortable with all you have been through. Your neighbor understood, even with his own loss.” she cajoled.
It just didn’t feel right. I picked up the check and looked at Amy, and she looked at me. And as I looked at her, I ripped it apart and threw the pieces in the air. We both laughed and then embraced and kissed. Like Rodin’s The Kiss.
The next morning, I awoke to a room-service breakfast orchestrated by Amy: fresh-squeezed orange juice, scrambled eggs, and whole-wheat toast with black coffee. The view was magnificent, on a terrace overlooking beautiful, serene Miami Beach. Amy brought out the DHL envelope.
“Aren’t you going to open it?” she asked.
“Sure, I just needed a clear head.” I took the hard, cardboard, legal-sized shipping envelope and pulled the opening tab, then pulled out the letter:
Dear Drs. Dawson and Shaw,
Morgan Capital Associates (MCA) is pleased to offer MATAL, Inc., funding on the following terms: 1) $50 million upon signing for a 17 percent stake in MATAL; 2) MCA will fund your FDA trial and when completed will invest another $50 million for an additional 17 percent stake in MATAL; 3) $50 million after FDA approval in which MCA will receive another 17-percent stake in MATAL; and 4) MCA will receive an 8-percent royalty for each and every MATAL system sold.
I hope that you find these terms acceptable.
Sincerely,
Frederick Morgan
“Not bad!” Amy said as she smiled broadly.
“Not a bad start,” I widely grinned back matching her excitement. “But Shaw will have an issue with the specifics of the terms. I guess its what you call negotiating.” I knew that Shaw would multiply the seventeen percent times three and come up with fifty one percent, which would give MCA majority interest in our company; anything else was a nonstarter from his vantage point. Second, the eight percent royalty would be a little hard to swallow in perpetuity. Lastly, Shaw was looking for more up-front capital. But, all in all, it was a very positive opener, especially in my jobless position. But, as Dr. Shaw always said, it’s not over till the fat lady sings. And for the present time, I was still unemployed.
“Another toast!” Amy proclaimed. “To your offer.”
“Well, it’s only an offer,” I surmised.
“Yes, but that offer will help to pay the bills.” Amy was my one and only true salvation. And even though it was warm in Miami, I knew that with Amy there would never be a better winter!
Chapter 97
The first day I was back and forth with Alex over the agreement. We were arguing points. I was too involved. But, on the plus side, I was able to partition my time. I spent only one hour on the phone with Alex. I kept my word!
But even that distraction was too much. I called him on day two. “Alex, your point is well taken, I will let you handle our counter offer with Morgan. The ball is in your court.”
All my focus was back to what mattered the most—Amy Winter! After three days of a beach paradise and great nightlife, and sex for that matter, in South Beach, we flew back to New York and arrived back at my place after midnight. Amy had to get back to work, and I had to get on with my life. The next day when I woke, it was cold and crisp, but clear and sunny over the bay. I could see a crystal-clear reflection of the Seafield Estate in Westhampton Beach overlooking Quantuck Bay. Amy was gone. She was not there to enjoy the view. She had left a note. Her firm had lots of business waiting for her, though mostly white-collar stuff.
The note read:
Dear MD,
I had to get back to work. I knew it would happen sooner rather than later. The last few weeks have been unbelievable to me. You are really something special. Call me after 4 p.m.
Love,
Amy
My place was a mess. I had to clean it up, showered, and then threw on my winter coat and went for a drive. Not to Mount Sinai, or to Hampton Bays but to the ocean. The Beach Bakery was open and I grabbed a cup of their new Gevalia coffee, an improvement from their old Green Mountain Stuff. I sat down in the bakery at one of their small tables and felt the vibration of my phone from my pocket. I guess I had turned off the ringtone sound.
Pulling out my iPhone, I saw the photo of my daughter. Bridgette, while the phone persistently continued to ring. I looked up at the date and it was December 15. It was the date that Bridge was supposed to hear from Hopkins regarding her early decision application. This was going to be either a very good or a very bad phone call.
I slid the accept-call button, and Bridgette started talking.
“Dad, guess what?” She didn’t wait. “I got into Johns Hopkins.”
“Congratulations,” I said as I burst into tears. “I cannot believe it! That is so amazing!” I knew how hard it was to get into that place these days, and I was so proud of her. “Hey, how are Jason and Mom?”
“They’re okay, Dad. Jason, well, is still at home, and Mom is Mom—she’s okay too.”
“Thanks for the call, Bridge. I’ve been a little preoccupied, but everything is turning out okay.” I felt a big sense of relief and pride, now that Bridgette was accepted to JHU. No need to hustle back to Port Washington and help her file her other college applications. What a relief!
I looked back at the phone and saw that there was one voicemail message from Alex. I hit the play button.
“Hey, MD, got my package from Morgan! Have meeting on Monday with Lippert to discuss. Will be setting up phone conference. Keep you posted.”
I turned off the pho
ne and then turned my attention back to my Bimmer, which was headed south over the bridge toward 105 Dune Road to the parking lot of Rogers Beach. The lot was completely empty. Rogers, the main Westhampton beach, consisted of—besides a large parking lot—a light-grey pavilion with a big deck and a closed concession stand, plus some benches. During the summer, this place was too crowded to park, but not today. Must have been in the thirties outside, temperature wise, so who would go to the beach? Not the surfers. Just someone like me to clear my head.
The ocean surf was rough and strong, a few seagulls were still there. The piping plovers and other sea creatures must have migrated south by now. A lot of beach had eroded during Sandy, but the remaining sand was clean. It looked like half the beach had washed away, sure to return, like it always had.
I walked down to the water and glanced at the swell. I then walked eastward towards Quogue, past the Surf Club, and past magnificent ocean front homes. And when I reached the Quogue Village Beach, or what was left of it, I just sat and cried. I cried for everything that had happened: the loss of my job and family. But then I stopped sobbing. I still and always will have my kids. Jason was not back at school, and now Bridgette will be going to my Alma Matter. And how about Amy? This was no fly-by-night romance.
I stopped crying and started to break into a grin. When I returned to Rogers and exited the pavilion, I saw a police car in the lot. I looked closer as I approached and glanced in the driver-side window. It was McElroy, eating an egg sandwich and sipping a coffee, with his engine still running. He didn’t even notice me. I banged on the window, and eventually he rolled it down.
“Dawson, get in,” he said.
I sat in the passenger seat, and while he finished his sandwich and enjoyed his coffee, I recounted my recent trials and tribulations. The loss of my job and the divorce papers filed by my wife were just events of life. But then he turned to me and gave me these words of advice.
“Dawson, I know that you feel like you’ve been screwed. But, Doc, let me tell you. You got your health. You are still a doctor, and you have a bright future.”
He proceeded to tell me about his life. McElroy had a son born with a rare type of leukemia, who had been through all sorts of chemotherapy and two bone transplants. He also had a wife who was battered and abused, as a child, and was in and out of mental institutions. Lastly, he had himself, the only breadwinner in the family, barely making enough money to pay their medical bills and survive on the other side of the highway in a small trailer park in East Quogue. He told me that the WBPD medical coverage was good enough to help his seven-year-old son survive and receive his cancer treatments, but the mental-health stuff was not covered at all. His mom had tried to help out while his wife was institutionalized. But she was now back at home, heavily medicated and undergoing therapy weekly.
“We each have our cross to bear,” he said as he turned to me. “But if you ever need to talk, Dawson, I’m here for you, man. I’m sorry for how I treated you when I first found you at the Weisberg’s place. I was just doing my job.”
“I knew that. I would have done the same in your shoes. Appreciate the advice. I am here for you as well. Here is my number if you need me.” I handed him my old Mount Sinai Medical Center business card, with my office number scratched out and my cell phone number written on top of it. And he handed me a Suffolk PBA card from the Westhampton Police Department, he wrote his name on the back, along with his cell number.
“You ever need anything, Dawson, you know how to get me.” McElroy just smiled at me.
“Always good to have a friend in the police department,” I said as I left his vehicle and smiled back.
“Bye, Dawson. And stay out of trouble,” he said.
And then I thought about the line I used for years and years at Mount Sinai—as I’ve always tried to practice conservative medicine and follow the Hippocratic Oath—namely, “Do no harm.” But that was not my line—that was somebody else’s line, namely, Hippocrates. My classic remark is and always has been:
“I don’t have to look for trouble—trouble will find me.”
This is what my colleagues, fellows, and students refer to as a Dawsonism, and for me, no statement has ever been more truthful!
Chapter 98
The rest of the day I called my kids to tell them again that I love them. First, I wanted to congratulate Bridgette again about Hopkins. I told her I loved her and made a date this week to take her out for Chinese food at her favorite place, Hunan Taste, in Greenvale.
I then called Jason and found out that Bridgette was correct. He was not going back to college. What was I thinking? He had struggled at school and needed time off. Had I been still at Mount Sinai, I could have found volunteer office work for him or some other job, perhaps even as an orderly in the operating room. I made a date to take him to the Barclay Center and see the Brooklyn Nets. “I love you Jason,” I said fervently.
I called my local attorney and found out that it was official. Shari and I were formally separated and divorce papers had been filed. He was trying to get us into mediation with a matrimonial attorney in Garden City, Alex Weiss. Alex was very good at cutting through the bullshit and getting a fair settlement for both parties. Shari apparently had agreed to our settlement in principle, as long as she got almost everything. All of our savings, or what’s left of it, the house in Port Washington, and our entire art collection. She also wanted to remain the beneficiary of my whole life-insurance policy. I had to commit to pay for the kids’ college and living expenses, provided I could find a job, and I got to keep the “shed.”
“I guess things could be worse,” I thought.
And then I remembered. Amy had told me to call her after four p.m. It was a quarter past already. I picked up my cell and dialed.
“Amy Winter, who is calling?”
“It’s MD. How’s it going?”
“Inundated at work. Can you meet me at seven p.m. in Riverhead? Just go past the circle and make a left on Main Street towards Tanger. You’ll pass the Riverhead Public Library on your right and then see a gas station. When you reach the gas station, stop, and go across the road to park in front of a little white barn. Oh, and bring a bottle of wine.”
I wrote down her directions, and at six forty-five, I grabbed a bottle of Ponzi Pinot Noir and drove north on 104 towards Riverhead. When I saw the gas station, I looked across the street towards the white barn. There were no signs, only a little handwritten chalkboard sign and an old white house from the 1800s. I walked down a little stone path and went inside to the restaurant.
“What kind of restaurant doesn’t have a sign?” I said as I met Amy.
“This one,” she said. “Farm Country Kitchen! It is my favorite restaurant.”
We sat at an old wooden table, just the two of us. After the hostess opened my bottle and poured two glasses, Amy made a toast.
Chapter 99
“To us,” she said. “To my newfound soul mate.”
We shared a fried artichoke appetizer with horseradish sauce and then a Caesar salad. Amy ordered their scallop entrée with guacamole on top. And I ordered a sandwich called the Maria Panini—a blend of chicken, mozzarella, pesto, red pepper, and some more fried artichoke.
We were so full we wanted to pass on desert, but Tom, the owner, insisted we try their bread pudding.
“On the house,” said Tom.
We shared a single order and then left to go back to the south shore.
“Amy, thanks for being there for me.”
“MD, you don’t have to thank me. I feel like I have a new lease on life, and I can’t wait to have more time with my MD!”
Right then I looked down at my phone. It was a new text from Cath Lab Gene!
“Call me ASAP—M-2-da-D!”
Up to eight years ago everybody in the Mount Sinai Cath Lab used to call me MD. But Cath Lab Gene started changing that. With his own brand of funk, he began to call me M-2-da-D. I texted him back, using my usual M-2-da-D retort: “U-2-da-Me!�
�� Then pressed send.
Within one minute I had Cath Lab Gene on the line.
“M-2-da-D, I heard what happened. But I also heard that Columbia just canned their Cath Lab director. Their lab is in an uproar. Dr. Myra’s team left en masse and went crosstown to Lenox Hill. The lab is up for grabs, and I just got a call from Braxton that he’s been looking for you. Our crew wants you to apply. We’d be happy to go with you and screw those Mount Sinai motherfuckers!”
I wasn’t even thinking about going back to work. That was the furthest thing from my mind, but probably the best thing I could do. I knew their Chief of Cardiology over the years—even had his number on my speed dial—Professor Joseph Braxton. He was a clinical cardiologist and cell biologist. Always very sociable at the American College of Cardiology and American Heart Association meetings. I knew him well enough to give a call, even though it was after nine p.m.
Chapter 100
“Hello, Joe. I heard from my old Chief Tech what happened in your Cath Lab. I guess you heard what happened to me at Mount Sinai. Is it true?” I was trying to conceal how interested I was in the position.
“Yes, MD, Myra’s gone. Bought out by Lenox Hill, and he took his entire team with him. I was just going to call you and see if you were interested. We’ve got lots of positions to fill. We’ll need to rebuild,” he said.
“Do you want to meet me?” I didn’t want to seem too eager, but I knew the uniqueness of this opportunity.
“Yes, how about tonight,” he shot back interestedly.
“Tonight? I’m in Riverhead.”
“Yes, tonight!” I felt the urgency in this response! His sharp intonation said everything. “This is an emergency for our hospital. Our team is gone! One night we have one of the best interventional cardiology teams and the next day they’re all gone. And we are one of the Top Cardiology Hospitals in US News and World Report. This is an embarrassment. What it really is is an emergency for our Board of Directors. Can you please meet me tonight? Anytime, anywhere.”