When the Ice Melts

By Harry Lane Wurster

Three contemporary Philadelphians find themselves and their careers on thin ice when they are brought together in a drama of pursuit for power and status.

Chris Keller, a high profile public relations executive, who after a near fatal auto accident must come to terms with his alcoholism and a life changing decision he struggles to make.

Self-centered MaryJo Winston, acting CEO of a prominent center city PR firm, is in denial of her growing cocaine addiction which began during an early relationship with her lover, Carmen DeAngelo, a Philadelphia criminal defense lawyer and son of a past mob don and powerful South Philly Democrat.

When the Ice Melts delves into the souls of Chris, MaryJo and Carmen and the bittersweet twists and turns of their lives amidst Philadelphia politics and the eventual game changing event on Interstate 95.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: May 6, 2015
• ISBN: 9781483430300

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WURSTER

Copyright © 2015 Harry Lane Wurster.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of both publisher and author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

ISBN: 978-1-4834-3031-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4834-3030-0 (e)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Lulu Publishing Services rev. date: 04/30/2015

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Epilogue

CHAPTER 1

N o one heard his screams. The pain in his head and crumpled body was excruciating. The flames from the explosion lit up the starless sky. He felt the warmth of the fire and the cold of the snow bank where he had been thrown. He tasted blood. Then his universe went as black as the ice he never saw moments before from his speeding Porsche.

CHAPTER 2

A t one a.m. on this frigid, late December night, Ernst Keller’s bedside phone rang. It startled him and his heart began to race. He reached for the phone in the dim, moonlit room. Then he answered that night time call one fears the most. Paoli Hospital. His son, Chris, forty-two, had been brought to the emergency room at midnight. An automobile accident on Route 202.

Shocked and receiving no information on Chris’s condition, Ernst said he was on his way. His hand trembled when he put down the phone and turned on the bedside lamp. Then the familiar physical symptoms began: perspiration, the clamminess and a sudden chill. He pressed a hand in the middle of his chest; then quickly slipped a nitro under his tongue. Ernst struggled to compose himself as he threw on yesterday’s clothes and went downstairs.

In the kitchen his black lab lay sleeping next to his food and water. Ernst rushed out of the stone house that he and his late wife lived in for many years. Hurrying along the slippery walkway and kicking snow away from the bottom of the garage door he got into his car. After a couple of tries the engine kicked in. He pressed the accelerator and backed out of the garage on to a patch of ice. The car slid to one side narrowly missing a tree. Straightening the wheels, he backed out onto South Wayne Avenue and then left to Lancaster Pike and the hospital. Ernst switched on the radio to the news station KYW and navigated the few miles with extra caution, aware of black ice. Then seeing the sign for Paoli Hospital he sighed with relief, pulled into the parking lot and found a space near the emergency room entrance.

Ernst was about to turn off the engine when he heard the radio report of an overnight fiery single car accident on Route 202. He listened closely. The driver, Christopher Keller, a prominent center city public relations executive, had been ejected from his Porsche before it was burst in flames. Keller had been transported to Paoli Hospital where his condition is unknown. Police at the scene of the accident report that high speed and black ice contributed to the crash. Alcohol may also have been a factor.

Ernst, breathing heavily, rushed into the emergency room and introduced himself to the receptionist. I am Ernst Keller, Christopher Keller’s father. Do you have any information on his condition?

Doctor Ranson is attending to him and will advise you shortly. In the meantime, make yourself comfortable. There is coffee by the coat rack in the waiting room, Mr. Keller.

The over anxious father poured himself a cup of coffee. He took a seat among others waiting for word on a loved one or acquaintance behind the PERSONNEL ONLY swinging doors. Ernst leaned the back of his head against the wall, closed his eyes and folded his large hands on his lap.

The seventy-eight year old publisher of the Wayne Courier on the Mainline of suburban Philadelphia had had trouble getting to sleep last night. He lay awake late at night mulling over a call from the media giant, Granite International. Their president had made a more than reasonable unsolicited offer to buy his weekly newspaper. Granite was on a buyout spree of community newspapers surrounding the Philadelphia Inquirer. The Wayne Courier was the remaining part of the donut Granite needed to circle the wagon around the Inquirer’s suburban circulation and advertising revenue.

When his head titled forward from the wall, Ernst got up to get more coffee. You’ve got to stay alert. What’s with Chris? One hour and still no word. He walked across the room, filled his cup with black coffee and returned to his seat. The anxiety had peaked. How much longer, Doctor?

The double doors of the PERSONELL ONLY swung open and everyone looked at the surgeon in blue scrubs, cap and surgical mask dangling at his neck; who shall get some news? The surgeon surveyed the waiting room. Mr. Keller. Ernst leaped to his feet and when the doctor approached he noticed a trace of blood on the scrubs. Was it Chris’s?, he wondered. The surgeon, John Ranson, in his late fifties, extended his hand and introduced himself. Ernst heart raced, Is my son alive?

Yes, and if all goes well in surgery, he’ll recover, but that will take some time.

Ernst steadied himself on the arm of the chair. How serious are…

Doctor Ranson broke in. Please sit down, Mr. Keller.

The surgeon pulled the vacant chair next to Ernst and sat. Your son has some broken ribs, a fractured leg and probably a concussion. We are waiting for the MRI results and have set the leg.

Ernst dropped into the chair and forced air deep into his lungs. Can I see him?

Not yet. I’ll let you know when we know more. Dr. Ranson gently patted Ernst on the arm and returned through the swinging doors.

Ernst was relieved that Chris had survived that golden hour, those life threatening first sixty minutes when one survives or doesn’t. Now he had to wait patiently for more information; anxiously pacing the room with thoughts of what if’s, and unconsciously studying the zigzag pattern of the carpet. Ernst went to the men’s room to relieve himself and tension. Suddenly another sharp pain in his chest occurred. He put a nitro under his tongue and returned to the waiting room. Most of the seats were occupied now. He never realized that there was so much emergency room activity during the night. There were tears on some faces and muffled sounds of sobbing. Ernst glanced at the wall clock and slumped in his chair. Five a.m.; three hours and still no more on Chris. Trying to ease his anxiety, he picked up the morning Inquirer from a pile of magazines on the table. A front page headline caught his attention. ‘Ten U.S. Troops Killed By Insurgents In Iraq.’ More of the same. Damn it. Against the war from the beginning, Ernst turned to the sports section and tried to read an article about the Sixers overtime win against the Bulls. Then he heard his name again, rose from his chair and filled with apprehension, faced Doctor Ranson. The surgeon looked exhausted.

Mr. Keller, we’ve finished attending to your son’s most serious injuries. It went well. His condition is critical and he is being transferred to intensive care. Are you doing okay?

Ernst nodded. Yes, and thank you, most of all for probably saving Chris’s life.

Your son is lucky to be alive.

Yes. Was he… Ernst could hardly get the question out. Had he been drinking?

Dr. Ranson sighed, paused and answered, The ambulance crew found a couple empty miniature bottles of vodka, the kind you buy on airplanes, in his topcoat pocket.

Ernst eyes began to tear. His head dropped. I was afraid of that when I got the call.

The doctor saw the toll this was taking on Ernst. He put his arm around him. Mr. Keller, your son is going to be okay. He will be getting the best of care. Please go home and get some rest. I will call you with an update on his condition and tell you when you can come and see him. Then Dr. Ranson called another name and went to sit with a middle aged Latino couple. The three of them left the room.

Ernst put on his hat and topcoat and went out into the morning’s first light and bitter cold. He was not particularly religious, though his wife Irma had been. Relieved that Chris was alive, but angry about his heavy drinking, Ernst looked to the heavens and petitioned whomever or whatever to watch over his son. He got into his car and spoke out loud to an invisible Chris, clinging to his life, The booze, Chris, the god damn booze. Please stop.

CHAPTER 3

W hen the anesthesia wore off and Christopher Keller returned from a deep sleep in intensive care, he was disoriented and puzzled to find himself curtained off in a strange bed. When he heard the beeping monitor and saw all the tubes attached to him and the elevated broken leg it nearly scared him to death. He would learn later, that was exactly what Dr. Ranson and his team had worked frantically to avoid. Chris thought he had awakened from a very bad dream. A sudden burst of pain in his head made his whole body jerk. What the hell happened? he moaned. Chris panicked and tried sitting up, but it was too painful. He screamed. Two nurses came running. They reached his bed in time to restrain him as he was about to pull a tube from his arm. They sedated him and his baffled mind quickly went blank.

CHAPTER 4

E rnst Keller tried to keep busy through the weekend in an effort to ease the anguish over his son’s condition. The first thing he did after leaving the hospital Saturday morning was to go into his study and leave a message on Dr. Ellie Crawford’s answering machine. She and Chris were recently engaged. Ellie, at a weekend pediatrician’s conference in New York, was expected back on Monday. Since Ellie and Chris talked daily, he knew she would be concerned if she received no call. The machine recorded what had happened to Chris, but he left out the drinking, a growing concern of hers, also. He assured her that Chris was expected to make a full recovery and he would call back when he knew more.

Then he made another call, a reply to a message on his machine from Chris’s college teammate and best friend, Sammy Jefferson. Sammy, a center city FBI agent, had gotten the accident report from a friend in the police department. Ernst left a message, but this time he did mention Chris’s drinking. He hung up, closed his eyes