T.C. opened up his folder. “This is Stan’s record. He’s been arrested twice in the last three years for fraud. I called the arresting officer, a Lieutenant Robert Orian. He told me that Stan is well-known for using his charm and good looks to seduce wealthy women. It’s hardly an original bit. He bilks them for as much as he can and then gambles it away. He does, however, add a strange twist to the old game.”
“What?”
T.C. hesitated. “He doesn’t just walk away. He dumps them. He dumps them as cruelly as possible. Makes the women feel like worthless hunks of shit. One of his victims had a nervous breakdown. Another attempted suicide. Stan has been diagnosed as having a narcissistic personality disorder with a rather unhealthy hatred of the female sex. He knows how to hurt and degrade women, Laura, and he likes to do so.”
“Jesus.”
“I did a little more investigating,” T.C. continued. “Stan owes again. He owes big bucks to some bookie with a propensity for breaking bones.”
Laura sat up. “His hand?”
“Broken. Actually, it’s just his finger. Very mean break. Stan needs the money fast. You’re his new scam, Laura, but I’m not too worried about that. You can handle yourself.”
T.C. lifted the picture of Stan kissing Gloria and handed it to Laura. “But what about Gloria?”
THE patient read Sunday’s Boston Globe. He had always loved Sunday papers. During his college years, he and his roommates would emerge noontime Sunday from the dormitory after a particularly rough Saturday night, grab some brunch, and spread out with a few Sunday papers. By dinnertime, the newspapers resembled a floor covering.
It was a tradition he continued to maintain.
He put down the Parade Magazine section and rummaged through the different sections until he found the sports section. Usually he skipped the sports section and that surprised a lot of people. But lately, he had changed his thinking.
Section C. Page 1. An article by Mike Logan. The patient had always liked Mike Logan. He was a good reporter who had a genuine love for his job and the Boston Celtics.
CELTS GEARING UP FOR ROUGH ROAD
by Mike Logan
My team—our team—is in trouble, folks. Big trouble. You may remember last season’s Eastern Conference play-offs. The Celtics barely squeaked by the Chicago Bulls and the Detroit Pistons. And I mean barely. No room to spare for mistakes.
Then the Boys from Beantown faced the Los Angeles Lakers for the NBA Championship. Let’s face it. They should have lost. Had it not been for a last-minute miracle by David Baskin, the Celtics would not be the defending champions today.
Yes, other NBA teams are rising. And yes, the Celtics are sinking. Sinking fast.
It’s not their fault. The David Baskin tragedy was not their doing. But excuses don’t win championships. Great players, coaches, and organization do. The coaching is no problem. The same with Clip Arnstein’s organization.
Ah, but the players!
No one could argue about the talent of team center Earl Roberts or the outside shooting touch of Timmy Daniels or the ball handling of Johnny Dennison. They’re great. No doubt about it. But without White Lightning, this is just a good team. Not a great one. They need a great forward.
But how do they get one?
In the past Clip Arnstein, alias “The Miracle Worker,” came up with something. And why not this time? After all, the Celtics still have the best organization in basketball. The Miracle Worker thrives in these situations. Usually he digs up a surprise draft pick. But this year, even Clip admits the draft picks are mediocre at best. Maybe he’ll find a free agent. But no, the free-agent camp has produced no superstars. Maybe he’ll make another great trade. Uh-uh. The other teams don’t want to help out the Celtics and most organizations are afraid of getting burned by Clip.
So what’s left?
You got me. I’m a reporter. It’s not my job, thank God. Clip Arnstein is the ageless genius and he doesn’t even know. But when you’ve watched the Celtics as long as I have, you start to believe in miracles. Somebody will come along. Somebody will be the Celtic Savior.
The patient looked up. He had a pretty good idea who that somebody might be.
“STAN Baskin is here to see you.”
Laura felt her leg begin to shake. “Send him in.”
A few seconds later, Stan opened the door. He smiled brightly. “Hi, Laura.”
She tried to keep an even tone. “Come in, Stan.”
He closed the door behind him and kissed Laura on the cheek. “You look as beautiful as always.”
“Thank you. Won’t you sit down?”
He did so as the intercom buzzed.
“Laura?”
“Yes, Estelle?”
“Is it okay if I go to lunch now?”
“Go ahead.”
“I’ll be back in an hour.”
Laura realized her leg was shaking more than usual. She made a conscious effort to stop it. “I wanted to speak to you about your mall idea.”
“Yes?”
“Can you give me a few details on it?”
“Details?”
“Yes, I’d like to hear more about it.”
Stan sensed something different in her voice. “Not much to tell. It will be gorgeous when it’s finished. I’d say there will be about two hundred stores.”
“How many square feet?”
“Uh, I’m not sure.”
“Where is it going to be located?”
“In Boston.”
“Central Boston?”
“Sure.”
Laura leaned back. “But there’s no room to build something that large in central Boston. And you’ll need a lot more than a million dollars to get started.”
“Right but—”
“Who’s the contractor?”
“Contractor?”
“The builder.”
Stan’s smile was flicking like an old lightbulb. “I forgot his name.”
“And your lawyer has secured permission from city hall?”
“Uh, just about . . .”
“Well, don’t worry there. Teddy Hines at the mayor’s office is in charge of building permits. I’ll call him to make sure everything goes smoothly.”
His eyes darted around the room. “Don’t bother yourself with that, Laura.”
“No bother.” Laura started to feel more in control. “Tell me about your last deal in Michigan.”
“To be honest, it didn’t go very well.”
“I see,” Laura replied evenly.
“What?”
T.C. hesitated. “He doesn’t just walk away. He dumps them. He dumps them as cruelly as possible. Makes the women feel like worthless hunks of shit. One of his victims had a nervous breakdown. Another attempted suicide. Stan has been diagnosed as having a narcissistic personality disorder with a rather unhealthy hatred of the female sex. He knows how to hurt and degrade women, Laura, and he likes to do so.”
“Jesus.”
“I did a little more investigating,” T.C. continued. “Stan owes again. He owes big bucks to some bookie with a propensity for breaking bones.”
Laura sat up. “His hand?”
“Broken. Actually, it’s just his finger. Very mean break. Stan needs the money fast. You’re his new scam, Laura, but I’m not too worried about that. You can handle yourself.”
T.C. lifted the picture of Stan kissing Gloria and handed it to Laura. “But what about Gloria?”
THE patient read Sunday’s Boston Globe. He had always loved Sunday papers. During his college years, he and his roommates would emerge noontime Sunday from the dormitory after a particularly rough Saturday night, grab some brunch, and spread out with a few Sunday papers. By dinnertime, the newspapers resembled a floor covering.
It was a tradition he continued to maintain.
He put down the Parade Magazine section and rummaged through the different sections until he found the sports section. Usually he skipped the sports section and that surprised a lot of people. But lately, he had changed his thinking.
Section C. Page 1. An article by Mike Logan. The patient had always liked Mike Logan. He was a good reporter who had a genuine love for his job and the Boston Celtics.
CELTS GEARING UP FOR ROUGH ROAD
by Mike Logan
My team—our team—is in trouble, folks. Big trouble. You may remember last season’s Eastern Conference play-offs. The Celtics barely squeaked by the Chicago Bulls and the Detroit Pistons. And I mean barely. No room to spare for mistakes.
Then the Boys from Beantown faced the Los Angeles Lakers for the NBA Championship. Let’s face it. They should have lost. Had it not been for a last-minute miracle by David Baskin, the Celtics would not be the defending champions today.
Yes, other NBA teams are rising. And yes, the Celtics are sinking. Sinking fast.
It’s not their fault. The David Baskin tragedy was not their doing. But excuses don’t win championships. Great players, coaches, and organization do. The coaching is no problem. The same with Clip Arnstein’s organization.
Ah, but the players!
No one could argue about the talent of team center Earl Roberts or the outside shooting touch of Timmy Daniels or the ball handling of Johnny Dennison. They’re great. No doubt about it. But without White Lightning, this is just a good team. Not a great one. They need a great forward.
But how do they get one?
In the past Clip Arnstein, alias “The Miracle Worker,” came up with something. And why not this time? After all, the Celtics still have the best organization in basketball. The Miracle Worker thrives in these situations. Usually he digs up a surprise draft pick. But this year, even Clip admits the draft picks are mediocre at best. Maybe he’ll find a free agent. But no, the free-agent camp has produced no superstars. Maybe he’ll make another great trade. Uh-uh. The other teams don’t want to help out the Celtics and most organizations are afraid of getting burned by Clip.
So what’s left?
You got me. I’m a reporter. It’s not my job, thank God. Clip Arnstein is the ageless genius and he doesn’t even know. But when you’ve watched the Celtics as long as I have, you start to believe in miracles. Somebody will come along. Somebody will be the Celtic Savior.
The patient looked up. He had a pretty good idea who that somebody might be.
“STAN Baskin is here to see you.”
Laura felt her leg begin to shake. “Send him in.”
A few seconds later, Stan opened the door. He smiled brightly. “Hi, Laura.”
She tried to keep an even tone. “Come in, Stan.”
He closed the door behind him and kissed Laura on the cheek. “You look as beautiful as always.”
“Thank you. Won’t you sit down?”
He did so as the intercom buzzed.
“Laura?”
“Yes, Estelle?”
“Is it okay if I go to lunch now?”
“Go ahead.”
“I’ll be back in an hour.”
Laura realized her leg was shaking more than usual. She made a conscious effort to stop it. “I wanted to speak to you about your mall idea.”
“Yes?”
“Can you give me a few details on it?”
“Details?”
“Yes, I’d like to hear more about it.”
Stan sensed something different in her voice. “Not much to tell. It will be gorgeous when it’s finished. I’d say there will be about two hundred stores.”
“How many square feet?”
“Uh, I’m not sure.”
“Where is it going to be located?”
“In Boston.”
“Central Boston?”
“Sure.”
Laura leaned back. “But there’s no room to build something that large in central Boston. And you’ll need a lot more than a million dollars to get started.”
“Right but—”
“Who’s the contractor?”
“Contractor?”
“The builder.”
Stan’s smile was flicking like an old lightbulb. “I forgot his name.”
“And your lawyer has secured permission from city hall?”
“Uh, just about . . .”
“Well, don’t worry there. Teddy Hines at the mayor’s office is in charge of building permits. I’ll call him to make sure everything goes smoothly.”
His eyes darted around the room. “Don’t bother yourself with that, Laura.”
“No bother.” Laura started to feel more in control. “Tell me about your last deal in Michigan.”
“To be honest, it didn’t go very well.”
“I see,” Laura replied evenly.
