Boca Mournings

by Steven M. Forman

  “Did I set a world’s record?”

  “No,” he said. “But you could have died if you weren’t in such good shape.”

  “Good shape?” I laughed. “My prostate’s the size of a bocce ball and my heart just qualified for NASCAR.”

  “You’re in good shape for your age,” he said.

  “Does anything improve with age?”

  “Wine.”

  “What made my heart slow down?”

  “First, we injected you with a medicine called Adenosine,” he said. “But it didn’t work.”

  “So?”

  “We used the defibrillators.”

  “The paddles,” I said in disbelief. I imaged myself flopping on the floor like a haddock. “I thought the paddles started your heart.”

  “The paddles are used to start or stop the heart with an electrical impulse a thousand times stronger than our own natural pacemakers.”

  “It sounds like getting hit by lightning,” I said. “Do I have heart damage?”

  “No, but I think you should have an ablation,” the doctor said.

  “I’m not pregnant.”

  “Ablation,” he said slowly, “not abortion. It’s a very effective procedure. Catheters are inserted into veins in the upper groin-” Dr. Farmelant began.

  “I don’t like things stuck in my groin,” I interrupted him.

  Me, neither, Mr. Johnson agreed.

  “It’s painless,” he promised. “Doctors advance the catheters to your heart with a fluoroscope and can record the electrical signals. If they can locate the exact spot where the SVT originates they can coagulate the tissue with radio waves.”

  “AM or FM?” I asked.

  “Eddie, stop joking,” Claudette reprimanded me.

  “Okay,” I said. “Could I die from this procedure? Is that serious enough?”

  “Nobody has died yet,” the doctor said. “However, the ablation may not work. In order to find the abnormalities, the doctor has to be able to induce your rapid heartbeat while he’s got you on the table. If he can’t find the abnormalities, he can’t fix them.”

  “Why wouldn’t he be able to find them?”

  “Good question,” the doctor said. “Picture yourself in a totally dark room. You can’t see a thing and you’re trying to locate a glass of water. If you find the glass, it will be easy to drink. The trick is to find the glass.”

  I actually understood the explanation. “What are my options?”

  “We can try medicine like beta-blockers,” he said. “But some men lose their sex drive from that kind of medication.”

  “Forget the blockers,” Claudette decided immediately. “He’s having the ablation.”

  Mr. Johnson seconded the motion.

  I nodded in agreement.

  “Okay, good,” Dr. Farmelant said. “I’ll get you Jeremy Rothstein. He’s known as the rhythm doctor.

  “I don’t want to learn to dance,” I said.

  “He’s the best,” the doctor assured me.

  “Only the best for my groin,” I agreed.

  Thank you, Mr. Johnson said.

  “Can I see Dewey now?”

  “Of course,” Dr. Farmelant said, and made his exit.

  “I’m glad you’re trying to learn new tricks, you old dog,” Claudette said when we were alone.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Taking computer lessons,” she explained. “I was surprised to hear that.”

  So was I.

  Lou Dewey appeared at the door. “How you doin’?” he asked self-consciously.

  “Claudette,” I said, squeezing her hand, “could you leave us alone?”

  “Of course,” Claudette said.

  She patted Dewey on his narrow shoulder on the way out.

  “Thank you,” she told the little man.

  Dewey just nodded and studied the floor. Claudette closed the door behind her.

  “Thanks for saving my life . . . you psychotic asshole,” I said.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Why did you try to run me over the other night and come to my rescue today?” I asked him.

  “You were standing in the middle of a busy street in the dark,” he defended himself.

  “I was by the side of the road,” I told him.

  “It was pitch-black for chrissakes.” He held out his hands palms up and shrugged. “What were you doing there?”

  “Fixing a pothole,” I told him.

  “Oh, pardon me,” Dewey said sarcastically. “I should have known. Everyone in Boca fixes potholes in the dark.”

  “Yeah, just like everyone in Boca passes on the right like a maniac,” I retaliated.

  “As a matter of fact, they do,” he said.

  I tried not to smile but failed. “So why did you save my life?” I asked him. “You knew I was going to bust you.”

  “I couldn’t let Superman die,” he said seriously.

  “I’m not Superman.”

  “Compared to me you are.”

  “Superman fights evil,” I said. “That would make us enemies.”

  “I’m not evil,” Dewey said. “I’m bad.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “An evil guy would have let you die,” he explained.

  “Okay, so you’re just a plain, ordinary bad guy.”

  “That’s right,” he nodded. “It’s in my DNA.”

  “Bullshit,” I told him.

  “No no . . . it’s true,” he insisted. “Look at you for instance. I read about your grandfather in the newspaper. He killed a thousand-pound polar bear with his bare hands and saved an entire country. He was a fearless hero . . . you have his genes . . . therefore you’re a fearless hero . . . ergo, Superman.”

  “He killed a five-hundred-pound brown bear with a knife and he only saved one girl who happened to become my grandmother.”

  “He was still a hero,” Dewey said, dismissing my clarification.

  “Yes, he was,” I agreed.

  “Well, my grandfather was a drunk and a stable hand for Dixie the Diving Horse in Atlantic City,” Dewey told me. “He actually shoveled shit against the tide for years. Then one day he jumped off the Steel Pier high-diving platform, riding on Dixie’s back. He broke his neck on a wave.”

  “Why did he do that?” I asked.

  “He wanted people to notice him,” Dewey said.

  “Did they?”

  “No,” Lou Dewey said. “The only Dewey in my family who ever got noticed in Atlantic City was my younger brother, Stewart.”

  “What did he do?” I asked.

  “He stepped on a land mine in Vietnam and came home in a box,” Lou told me. “Now there’s a PFC Stewart Dewey Memorial Park in Atlantic City.”

  “So, the city noticed him,” I said.

  “Not really,” Lou disagreed. “What the city noticed was the money I donated for the construction of the playground and the annual maintenance.”

  “You must have thought a lot of your brother,” I told him.

  “My brother was a schmuck,” Dewey said. “He didn’t have to go to Vietnam. He didn’t even have to go in the army. I could have fixed it with my connections.”

  “Political connections?”

  “Better.” Lou waved his hand dismissively. “I had wiseguy connections at the 500 Club.”

  “Skinny D’Amato’s place?”

  “You know Skinny?”

  “I know about Skinny and his club,” I clarified. “It was pretty famous. Lots of wiseguys hung out there.”

  “The best,” Lou said proudly. “They could fix anything.”

  “So, what happened with your brother?”

  “My father took Stewart drinking on the kid’s eighteenth birthday,” Dewey told me. “There was a marine recruiting office near one of the bars, and they both went in and tried to enlist. My father was rejected, of course, but my brother was welcomed with open arms.”

  “Did your father feel guilty?” I asked.

  “He d
idn’t even remember doing it,” Lou said. “Life was just a big blur to him. My mother, too.”

  “Wait a minute.” A thought flashed through my mind. “You said your brother’s name was Stewart?”

  He nodded.

  “Louie and Stewie Dewey?” I said in disbelief. “Your parents named their sons Louie and Stewie . . . Dewey?”

  “Drunks will do shit like that if no one stops them,” he said.

  I shook my head. “Amazing. So why did you come to Boca Raton?” I asked.

  “For the weather,” he answered.

  “I’d say you came here to commit computer fraud.”

  “Don’t I have the right to remain silent?”

  “Nothing you say will be used against you,” I said.

  “Do I have the Boca Knight’s word on that?”

  “I swear,” I pledged, holding up my right hand.

  He nodded.

  “I chose Boca because of a lesson I learned forty years ago, scamming people on the Boardwalk,” he began. “I grew up while Atlantic City was falling down. I was fourteen in 1964 when the Democratic National Convention was held there.”

  “Lyndon Johnson, right?”

  “Right - big ears, ugly wife.” He dismissed history with a shrug. “Anyway, all the old big hotels, the Breakers, the Chelsea, and the Traymore were gone. The Boardwalk had become a low-class place loaded with shell games, schlock souvenirs, bingo parlors, and pitchmen. While the city was falling apart I was just getting my act together. I conned tourists. I fixed businessmen up with hookers. I ran errands for the wiseguys. I was the king of three-card monte.

  “I know the game,” I said. “Try to pick the jack out of three cards shuffled on the table.”

  “Right.” Dewey sat forward in his chair. “I was the best there was. I used local kids as my shills. You know what a shill is?”

  “An assistant you pretend is winning to lure in the real marks,” I said. “And when the marks put their money down, they lose. Right?”

  “Right.” Dewey smiled.

  “So, what’s the lesson you learned?”

  “I’m getting there,” Dewey said. “One day I hired this nice, quiet kid from the neighborhood to be my shill. His name was Stan Starr, and he looked innocent enough to be a Jewish altar boy. His father, Joe, was a local bar owner and a tough guy. Anyway, Stan does a great job as my shill and we take some poor schmuck for everything he’s got. Well, this mark gets really pissed and follows Stan after the game. Stan’s clueless he’s being followed so he leads the mark right to me. The guy sees me pay Stan off under the boardwalk. Then he follows Stan home and tells Joe Starr the whole story. Joe gets furious. He smacks the shit out of Stan and makes him give the guy his money back. An hour later, Joe Starr has me against a storefront on the Boardwalk. He tells me if I ever use his son in a con again he’ll knock all my buck teeth out. He says Stan is gonna be a dentist and maybe he’ll fix my teeth some day if I don’t get them knocked out first. I’m scared shitless so I just nod. But then Joe says something that makes me laugh and he almost punches my lungs out.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He says his son is gonna marry Suzy Sherby, the butcher’s daughter.”

  “What’s so funny about that?”

  “The butcher’s daughter was prime meat, man,” Dewey said. “She wasn’t going to marry a wimp like Stanley.”

  “And you told his father that?”

  “I couldn’t help myself,” Dewey said. “Joe gets pissed and punches me so hard in the stomach he could have scratched my back with his knuckles. I collapse on the Boardwalk and start to turn blue. Joe squats down next to me and tells me this was just a warning and if I wanted to grow up without more brain damage than I was born with then . . . I had to promise not to use his son again.”

  “So, what’s the lesson?”

  “Here it is,” Dewey said. “Later that week I tell the story to Johnny Peepers, this big fat wiseguy at the 500 Club, and he wised me up. He told me never to screw with anyone who has a strong support system like Stan had Joe. And he also told me never to take a sucker for all he’s got because a man with nothing to lose is dangerous. Now, before I pick a mark I check the sucker’s support system.”

  “And you figured the old folks in Boca don’t have strong support systems.”

  Dewey nodded. “Old farts everywhere don’t have strong support systems,” he said.

  “What about their kids?” I asked.

  “Most kids have problems of their own,” he said. “Besides, everything you need to know about anyone is on the Internet. You just have to know where to look. I can tell who has successful, supportive kids and friends and I can tell who’s on their own.”

  “Don’t you feel bad stealing from the elderly?” I asked. “You must have some compassion.”

  “I never steal enough from any one person to really hurt them,” he explained. “Is that compassion?”

  “Sounds more like caution to me,” I decided.

  “So, I guess I’m cautiously compassionate,” he said. “The truth is I really don’t want to hurt anyone badly. It’s more like a game to me. I keep score with money.”

  “You don’t seem to spend a lot of money,” I observed. “You live in a small apartment and drive an old Cadillac.”

  “I buy what I need, not what I want.”

  “Are you married?”

  “Who would marry me?”

  “Do you have a girlfriend?”

  “I have a favorite hooker,” he said.

  “If you don’t spend the money you steal, why do you steal it?”

  “For the love of the game,” he smiled.

  “Seriously, why not quit while you’re ahead? Retire.”

  “Why don’t you?” He laughed. “You couldn’t retire any more than I could. We both like the action. You’re high power. I’m high tech.”

  “Speaking of high tech, how did you learn so much about computers at your age?”

  “I got into the industry early,” Lou said. “In 1983 I saw Time magazine choose the computer as the Man of the Year. Imagine that. The 1982 Man of the Year was a fuckin’ machine. Then in ‘84, Skinny D’Amato died and I put two and two together. Skinny’s world was the past and the computer was the future. I wanted to be part of the future so I started taking courses in 1984 when IBM came out with their first personal computer. I learned everything there was to learn, and by the late eighties the whole world was computerizing. Since I had connections in the gambling business I helped computerize casinos from Atlantic City to Las Vegas. It was fun and I made a bundle. But after a while everyone was doing it and the profit potential went down. It got tough to make a living legitimately so I found other ways.”

  “You found computer crime and then I found you,” I summarized.

  “You trying to say that crime doesn’t pay,” he said, laughing. “In all due respect to the Boca Knight . . . I wouldn’t call tracking me down your finest hour as a cop. You were filling a pothole in the dark and I almost ran you over. The odds of that happening are about as high as getting struck by lightning in a fallout shelter.”

  He laughed and so did I. He was a funny little ferret. He was also a human contradiction and I wondered what to do with him. Twenty years ago, I would have taken him directly to jail even if he had saved my life. Now I was confused.

  “Go home, Louie,” I said impulsively.

  “You’re kidding, right?” he asked in surprise.

  “I need time to think,” I snapped at him, irritated by my indecision. “And if you disappear I’ll track you down.”

  “I believe you,” he said. “But if I was going to take off . . . I’d be gone already.”

  “Why didn’t you run?”

  “I’m not sure,” he said, looking me in the eye. “Why aren’t you turning me over to the cops right now?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Maybe it’s an age thing,” Lou speculated. “Maybe we’re not who we used to be.”

&
nbsp; “Get out of here, Louie,” I said, irritated at the thought.

  “I’m outta here,” the little man said, and he scurried out the door.

  I put my hands behind my head on the pillow and stared up at the ceiling, wondering what was happening to me.

  I closed my eyes for what seemed like a minute, and when I woke up I was on an operating table.

  A heart ablation is an out-of-body experience inside your body.

  “There’s your heart,” Dr. Jeremy Rothstein said while we both looked at a television monitor above our heads. “And there’s the fluoroscope on its way to the area.”

  “This is so cooool,” I said under the influence of intravenous Valium.

  “Now I’m going to try to make your heart race.”

  THUD-THUD-THUD!

  Whoa!

  “That was easy,” Dr. Rothstein said encouragingly “That’s great. Now say good night, Eddie.

  “Good night, Eddie,” I closed my eyes for what seemed like a second.

  “Welcome back,” I heard the doctor saying through a fog. “You’ve been gone for quite a while,” he told me.

  “Do I have rhythm now?”

  “Hopefully. Let’s see.”

  Suddenly my heart was racing again.

  “I think one of us just failed the test,” I said.

  “Apparently, we have more work to do,” Dr. Rothstein said. “See you shortly.”

  “Don’t call me Shorty,” I said.

  When I woke up I felt like I was floating.

  “I think we got it all this time,” the doctor said, fiddling with his toys. “Feel anything?”

  “Just the slow beating of my heart,” I said.

  After two more unsuccessful attempts to make my heart race, Dr. Rothstein let up on the accelerator.

  “You’ve got rhythm,” he announced. “You can resume normal activity tomorrow.”

  “That’s great,” I said. “Can I have more Valium?”

  I drifted off to sleep again.

  I was awakened by the sound of a foghorn and the smell of low tide.

  “That’s wonderful, Sorrell.” I heard a woman’s voice say.

  That stinks, I thought.

  “Bobbie, this gas is killing me,” unseen Sorrell said.

  Me too.

  I assumed Bobbie was his wife, his mother, his daughter, or his sister because no one else would stay in that room.