Drowned Hopes

by Allan Cole

  "Not until recently," Ellen said. "Unfortunately, my brother controls said trust find." She sighed. "Which made me so pissed off that I didn’t touch the money for ages. I made my own way with my art. Something I was very proud of. Not a lot of artists can be self-supporting, you know?"

  "But then Jamaica hit the fan?" Sam guessed. Of course, it really wasn’t a guess. He’d pumped Ruth for the information.

  "Yeah – boy did it the fan," Ellen said, weariness returning. "Anyway, when I tried to get my money – my inheritance - Harry got his hooks in me again. Practically making me beg for what’s rightfully mine. Then doling it out, penny by penny."

  Sam asked, "Nobody else in the family to take your side?"

  Ellen shook her head. "My mother used to speak up for me," she said. "But she was pretty beaten down by my father. And now she’s… Well, sick. Like in Alzheimer’s sick."

  Sam brought the stroll to a halt. They were in front of the Rum Runner’s Club.

  The lunch hour was over and it was still a bit before the happy hour "two-for" madness advertised on the posters outside.

  He checked his watch. "Let’s get a drink," he suggested. "Get out of the sun."

  This was more than okay with Ellen and he escorted her inside.

  A definite party place at night – the Rum Runner’s Club was relatively quiet this time of day.

  The bandstand was empty, soft background music played on the stereo, and a few people were scattered around talking quietly and eating peel-your-own shrimp – one of the off-hour specialties at the Rum Runners.

  Sam and Ellen took their seats at a long empty bar. A tall, silver-haired bartender came over to them to see what they wanted. His nametag read: Phil. Ellen got a white wine spritzer, Sam stuck with his plain OJ.

  After Phil had delivered the drinks, he moved away to give them privacy. But as Sam spun his web, Phil kept glancing over at Ellen, concerned.

  After awhile Sam looked at his watch again and said, "I’ll give Danny a call and see what’s up." He patted his pockets. "Damn," he said. "Left my cell at home." He held out a hand. "Can I borrow yours?"

  Ellen blushed. "That’s another thing," she said. "They cut off my service for nonpayment. Which is pure baloney. I always pay my bills."

  She shook her head with great disgust. "But what I’m really worried about is getting a phone at home. They’ll probably give me the same run around the bank did. And I need to keep in close touch with my mom’s nursing home."

  Sam grinned one of his con man grins and dug into his pocket to fish out a thick wad of prepaid phone cards.

  "Let me introduce you to the Poor Man’s phone service," he said. Then he handed her a card. "They’re prepaid. Get ‘em at any drugstore… whatever. Never have to worry about the bill, because when the card runs out, so do you. Works on a cell phone and if you get basic service at home – which, since you have a sick mother and there could be an emergency, they have to provide by law, – you can use the pre-paids there as well."

  He gave her one of his broadest smiles and said, "Used to be folks who couldn’t afford a regular phone used the pay telephone on the corner, feeding it dimes and quarters. Now they’re either impossible to find, or when you do find them, they cost more than your rent."

  Ellen looked at thick wad of cards in his hand. "Why do you buy so many at a time?" she asked."

  Sam laughed. "Buy?" he said. "You must be kidding." But when he saw the shocked look on her face, he pretended it was a joke. Laughing, he said, "I was just being stupidly clever," he said. "Let’s just say that I have my ways."

  Ellen gave a nervous laugh. "Well, I guess it’s better than robbing banks," she said.

  "Actually, I never really robbed that many," Sam said. He saw the doubtful look on her face and moved on. "Oh, sure, that’s what I was busted for," he continued. "And I tell people that’s what I did. Bank robbing is considered one of the classier crimes. Like jewel thieves and cat burglars. But the truth is, that was only my third bank."

  He took a long drink of his OJ and gave Ellen a rueful grin. "I was helping a friend," he said. "A friend who ended up being not such a good friend after all."

  Ellen said, with much feeling – "I know how that goes."

  She drank a little of her wine, then asked shyly: "So… if it wasn’t banks…"

  She let it trail off. But Sam nodded, getting her drift. "Mainly, I robbed other crooks," he said.

  Ellen was puzzled. "Come again?" she asked.

  "I specialized in taking out strong arm men, pick pockets, muggers, con men, even armed robbers," he said. "I got pretty good spotting them. I’d follow them until they did the deed. Then I’d liberate the money they’d just stolen from some honest citizen."

  He grinned that boyish grin of his. Like, how could I have been so stupid? "Of course, I realize now I was only rationalizing," he said. "And that by putting a middle man, so to speak, between the innocent victim and me, I was trying to distance myself from moral responsibility."

  Sam laughed and said, "Before I was cured, my prison shrink thought I was a sociopath’s sociopath. Which I always thought was a pretty good line, you know? Something he could probably put in a book about oddballs like me."

  Despite herself, Ellen felt a little in awe at a criminal who only robbed other criminals. She said, awkwardly, "But… wasn’t that, you know… dangerous."

  Sam nodded. "Sort of," he said.

  Then he couldn’t help but add a brag, which was one of his weak points, he knew. One he was working on it.

  Even so, he slipped and added: "But they usually gave it up pretty fast when I explained how things were." And he held up a fist that looked like sledge hammer.

  Ellen shuddered and Sam realized he’d gone too far. So he did a quick verbal tap dance around his error. "But, I’m not the same man, Ellen," he said, sincere as could be, stirring his OJ with his finger, making the threatening hand seem smaller. "I’ve not only had extensive therapy, but I plan to become a psychologist myself. My dream is to open a clinic for ex-cons to help them stay straight and build a good life for themselves."

  He gave a self-depreciating laugh. "Who better to cure a thief," he said, "than a man who was one?"

  This got a smile from Ellen. "That’s an admirable goal," she said. "Ruth must be proud of you."

  Sam frowned a little. "Ruth?" he said. Then his face cleared. "Oh… sure… Ruthie has been very, you know, supportive."

  He held up a hand to catch the bartender’s attention. "Yo, Phil," he called. "Two more of the same, my friend."

  He turned back to Ellen. "Hold the fort while I use the gent’s room," he said. "And I’ll call Danny and see where we’re at with the check cashing."

  As he headed for the rest room Phil fetched another round. Ellen smiled at him politely and took a sip of her wine spritzer.

  "You pour a decent house wine," she said.

  "Oh, that’s not our house wine," Phil said. "The house wine is what we get when I drain the sink. This is the good stuff. It comes from Chile in steamed out gasoline cans."

  Ellen laughed. She toasted Phil and took another sip. "Thank God for the people of Chile," she said.

  Phil looked her over without being obvious about it. If someone had been watching they could see that he liked how she handled herself. And also that something was worrying him.

  Finally, he went for it. But not before testing the waters. "Are you and Sam coming back for the dance party tonight?" he asked. "We’ve got a pretty good group booked."

  Ellen hastened to correct Phil’s error. "Oh, no," she said. "I’m not with Sam."

  Then she realized that might sound a little odd. "I mean, I’m here with him now," she said. "But just as a friend."

  Ellen drank some of her wine, then added, "He’s helping me with a personal matter."

  She smiled. "If he goes dancing," she said, "I’m sure it’ll be Ruth he brings along."

  Phil looked at her speculatively. Then nodded. "That’s right," he said, "
Ruth’s his lady friend."

  He polished the bar, then asked, "I suppose you’re new to the area?"

  Ellen nodded. "I just moved into Ruth’s building a few days ago," she said. "Sam and I are neighbors."

  "So, you and… uh… Sam… just met, huh?" Phil asked.

  Ellen frowned. "What of it?" she asked.

  Phil started to answer, but then he saw Sam coming out of the rest room.

  He moved away, but not before saying, in a very low voice: "You seem like a nice lady. So be careful, huh?"

  Ellen didn’t know what to make of that. But before she could reply, Sam was at her side.

  "Danny came through," he said.

  Ellen clapped her hands in glee. "That’s wonderful news," she said.

  "Let’s go," Sam said. "He’s waiting for us."

  As he hurried Ellen out of the bar Phil stared after them, sadly shaking his head.

  *****

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ELLEN WAITED IN the Mustang while Sam went into the check cashing center to collect her money. She kept twisting her scarf, nervous as hell, expecting something to go wrong.

  Phil’s parting words of caution had her worried and she kept imagining Sam inside with Danny laughing at the stupid broad they’d just conned. They were probably splitting up her money now and Sam would bolt out the back door, never to be seen again. Or he could just tell everybody she was a liar and a crazy person and he’d never seen the check, much less touched her money.

  What could she do about it?

  Call Harry for help?

  She’d rather die in pauper’s prison. Except they didn’t have pauper’s prisons anymore. The world was much less civilized. You just died in an alley, or something. She’d end up being a bag lady in faded rags of her own design.

  Then Sam came walking out of the place, waving a thick manila envelope at her and her heart jumped as all the suspicions vanished. He tossed the envelope to her then vaulted into his seat and sped away.

  Excited, Ellen ripped the envelope open and dug out a handful of greenbacks. She waved them about and then let out a whoop of glee. She – Ellen Berman – had just beaten the system.

  "Screw you, Harry," she shouted into the wind.

  "You tell ‘em, girl," Sam shouted back, laughing with her. Enjoying her pleasure.

  Ellen hugged the fat envelope to her breast. "My brother’s going to have a fit when he realizes that I’ve gotten around him," she said. "I’ll bet he told the bank people to give me a hard time. But now I’ve beaten him at his own game."

  She turned to Sam. "How can I ever repay you?" she said.

  "Don’t try," Sam said. "Like the man said, pay ahead, not back. Help somebody else out of a jam someday."

  Ellen nodded. "I like that," she said. "Pay ahead, not back."

  She stuffed the money back into the envelope and fastened it. "Listen, if it’s not too much trouble," she said, "could you drop me off at my mother’s place? I was dreading seeing her before because I was already so damned depressed I was practically suicidal. But now – hell, I can take anything."

  "Can’t keep a good woman down, right?" Sam said.

  "Right," Ellen said, with deep, deep feeling.

  *****

  A little later Sam pulled up in front of a pleasant-looking South Florida nursing home on the northern edge of Boca Raton.

  As Ellen got out of the car, Sam asked, "Want me hang around?"

  "Thanks, but no," Ellen said. "I don’t know how long I’ll be."

  Sam nodded pleasantly. "Later," he said.

  He drove slowly off, checking his rear view mirror – watching Ellen enter the nursing home.

  The moment she vanished inside he stopped the car. He made sure she wasn’t coming back out again, then he did a fast U-turn and tucked his car beneath a large oak tree where he could see the entrance, but nobody could see him.

  Sam popped some pills and chewed. Turned on the radio. A Beatles song was playing: "Lady Madonna."

  He hummed along with the music, tapping time on the dash. After a few bars he suddenly grinned and started singing along: "… Who finds the money, When you pay the rent? Did you think that money was… Hea-ven sent?"

  *****

  Vivian Berman was glued to the television set – a rather elderly model – where a Perry Mason episode was just beginning. The volume was up loud – blasting out the show’s distinctive theme music.

  Mrs. Berman – who at seventy five was the picture of health – sat primly in a chair in front of the set. She was dressed as if she were about to go shopping. There was even a purse looped over one arm.

  The door opened and a nurse – Betty – escorted Ellen in. Ellen immediately went to her mother, then stood there awkwardly, not know what to say or do.

  Finally, she blurted, "Hello, Ma."

  She leaned down to kiss her, but this blocked Vivian’s view. Mrs. Berman gently edged Ellen away, craning her head to see the TV.

  "That’s nice, dear," her mother said absently.

  Ellen looked up at the nurse, bewildered. Betty smiled. "Your mom loves Perry Mason," she said. "Watches it faithfully this time every day."

  Ellen gave a shaky laugh. "She can remember when a TV show’s on," she said, "but not her own daughter."

  "You’ll break your heart if you take it personally, Ellen," the nurse said. "It’s plaque on the brain instead of the teeth. Nothing more."

  Ellen sighed. "I know," she said. "I’ll just sit here and keep her company."

  Betty nodded approvingly. "She likes company," she said, "Even though she doesn’t always know who people are, their presence seems to perk her up. And sometimes she surprises you and remembers certain people. You sister-in-law, for instance."

  "Rachel," Ellen said.

  "Yes, Rachel," Betty replied. "She’s very popular with your mother. A loving woman, she is."

  "What about Harry?" Ellen couldn’t help but ask as sibling rivalry reared its homely head. "Does she recognize my brother?"

  Betty thought a minute, then said, "I don’t think Mr. Berman’s ever been here," she said. Then, realizing this might be a touchy subject, she added, "Not during my shift, at any rate. He probably comes later in the day – after work. Or on the weekends."

  "Sure he does," Ellen said, feeling pleased at the answer, and mean-spirited at the same time for thinking that way.

  Betty started to close the door. "Just ring if you need me," she said.

  Ellen nodded. After the door closed, she pulled another chair next to her mother and sat. She looked around – it was quite a nice room. Comfortable. Decorated with some of her mother’s favorite things.

  Then a commercial came on and Mrs. Berman cut the sound with her remote. Even so, she kept her eyes on the tube, not Ellen.

  "Rachel doesn’t like the commercials," she said. "But I don’t mind. Sometimes you see something you need. Then you can turn the sound up with the remote."

  Ellen leaned close, giving it a try. "It’s me, Ma," she said. "Ellen… Your daughter."

  "Ellen went away to Jamaica," Mrs. Berman said. "Harry says she’s not coming back."

  "But, I’m here, Ma," Ellen protested. "Right here."

  "I keep thinking that maybe Harry’s wrong," Mrs. Berman said. "Or just being spiteful. He and Ellen never did get along." She sighed. "I miss Ellen." Another sigh. "She’s an artist. A real artist. And she’s so pretty too." She turned to Ellen and said, "She’ my daughter, you know."

  Tears streamed down Ellen’s face. She nodded. "Yes, Ma, I know," she said.

  Mrs. Berman rose from her chair. "Do you want to see my book of secrets?" she asked."

  "I’d love to, Ma," Ellen said.

  Mrs. Berman opened a bureau drawer and drew out a photo album. Clippings and loose photos stuck out of the sides.

  She resumed her seat and spread the book open on her lap. She pointed at a picture. "This is my Ellen," she said. "See how pretty she is?"

  Ellen leaned down to see a picture of h
erself when she was younger.

  "It’s before Ellen went crazy," Mrs. Berman said. "I didn’t think she was crazy. But Frank and Harry said she was. So we had to put her away so she couldn’t hurt herself. That’s what Frank and Harry said she wanted to do… hurt herself."

  "Oh, Ma," Ellen said in a soft voice. "I never did."

  Oblivious, Mrs. Berman turned the page. "Here’s Frank," she said.

  It was a picture on an older man, quite handsome.

  Ellen nodded. "Daddy," she said in a little voice.

  More pages were turned.

  "And here’s Harry… That’s when he was captain of the Yale boxing team."

  The picture showed a muscular young man in boxing togs, fists raised in the classic pose of a pugilist.

  Mrs. Berman turned to a graduation picture of the same young man. "That’s when he graduated," she said. She smiled proudly. "Top of his class, you know."

  "I know," Ellen said in that tiny voice.

  Mrs. Berman shut the book. She indicated the TV where Perry Mason was boring in on a suspect on the witness stand. "Perry’s going to get him, now," she said. "Then I have to take my nap. If you come back, I‘ll show you some more secrets. And maybe… I’ll show the biggest secret of all."

  Ellen got the hint. She leaned over and kissed her mother on the cheek. Mrs. Berman pulled her head away – not rudely. But she clearly didn’t want to be touched.

  "If you see Ellen," she said, "tell her to come and visit me, will you?"

  Ellen choked back tears. "Sure, Ma," she said. "I’ll tell Ellen."

  As she left, Mrs. Berman clicked the remote and the Perry Mason theme song boomed from the set.

  *****

  Outside, Sam looked up from a dog track racing form as a cab pulled in front of the nursing home. The horn honked and Ellen came running out.

  Sam thought she looked upset. The observation made him smile.

  Then she scrambled in and the cabbie drove away.

  When the taxi was out of sight, Sam slipped the racing form into the glove compartment, then climbed out of the car.

  Whistling "Lady Madonna," he walked to the front entrance of the nursing home, opened the door like he owned the joint, and strolled inside.