The Global War on Morris

by Steve Israel

  And the matches this matchmaker made!

  The multiple divorcées; the massive bellies; the balding scalps and comb-overs; the open shirts blossoming thick tangles of chest hair; the heavy cologne and clunky jewelry; the “father types” who were on the fast track to an assisted living facility; the “such-a-nice-guys” with the clammy handshakes and mumbled conversations; the players who never missed an opportunity to peer down her blouse; the loners, the losers, the louses. Either they were barely a step ahead of Jerry or barely a step behind. Ucccchhh.

  “Here it is!” He squinted at the business card in front of him. “Doris thinks this one is perfect.”

  Doris thought the “small businessman” who picked me up in a taxi was perfect. His small business was driving the taxi.

  “You’re making that face!” Dr. Kirleski warned.

  “What face?”

  “The face when you scrunch up your nose and curl down your lips. Like you’re swallowing bad medicine.”

  “It’s just that—”

  “Victoria. I met this guy myself. I wouldn’t steer you wrong. Call him. One date. What do you have to lose?”

  She unscrunched. “I’ll think about it, Doctor K. Your first appointment is almost here.”

  By the time she returned to her desk, she’d thought it over. She looked past the glass partition and out the waiting room porthole, toward her car, where the two unused Mets tickets sat, souvenirs of her loneliness. And she thought of another night, watching Sleepless in Seattle again, in that ratty “feel-sorry-for-myself” robe, with her fingertips saturated in popcorn oil.

  She picked up the card and read it:

  RICARDO MONTOYEZ

  Chairman of the Board

  VON ESCHENBACH’S SYNDROME FOUNDATION.

  Victoria D’Amico prided herself on her cynicism toward men. It was born and bred out of her marriage to that-bastard-Jerry-who-screwed-the-slut-behind-the-counter-and-kicked-me-to-the-curb. Still, she thought, cynicism may have been the armor that protected her from being hurt again, but it made a lousy companion.

  At some point Doris Kirleski’s inventory of damaged goods has to be exhausted. Somewhere, there has to be someone for me. My one true love.

  She cradled the business card in her palm.

  THE TOWEL ATTENDANT II

  WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 11, 2004

  Hassan could sense trouble. It smelled of suntan lotion and sounded like heavy chains clanking around someone’s neck. It always began the same way:

  “Can I get anuthuh towel?”

  From his unfortified station at the towel hut at the Paradise Hotel and Residences at Boca Raton, Hassan braced himself and said: “Sorry, sir. Only two towels per guest.” He pointed his olive-skinned finger to the large sign above him that said: TOWEL LIMIT: 2 TOWELS PER GUEST. THANK YOU.

  “It’s faw my wife. She’ll be down in a minute. C’mon dude, gimme a break.”

  “I’m sorry. Two towels per guest. When she comes—”

  “I’m paying four hundred freakin’ dolluhs a day and you won’t give me a freakin’ towel? Aw you freakin’ kiddin’ me? Lemme see yaw supervisa, moron.”

  “Her name isn’t moron. It’s Clareesha—”

  “No, she’s not the moron. Yaw the freakin’ moron. Why can’t you freakin’ people learn how to speak freakin’ English!”

  “I’m sorry sir. Only two towels per guest.”

  The tourist stormed away, his belly undulating with every step, his multiple gold necklaces clanking violently around his neck.

  Hassan squinted after him. Even in the late afternoon, as shadows extended their reach across the beach, the sun seemed strong. The chlorine tingled his nostrils and irritated his eyes. And he could feel that familiar pain building in his groin. The longer the summer, the worse the pain. He would try the tricks they had taught him in training camp. Focus on the mission, Hassan. Think only of the seventy-two virgins that await you in Paradise, Hassan. Before you know it, your cell will be activated, your mission complete, and you will join those seventy-two virgins and the pain will go away. Forever.

  Forever. That’s how long it seemed since he had been placed in America. Without a word from the home office in Tora Bora. Abandoned to the infidels, to the hordes of tourists with their incessant demands for more towels, to the temptations of the flesh.

  Waterboarding is not torture, Hassan thought. Waiting is torture.

  How much longer? How many more towels and arguments over towels?

  That morning, Hassan had sent yet another coded e-mail to his control officer. Just to remind him that he was there. With the others. Ready to strike. Waiting for the seventy-two virgins in Paradise.

  “Can we get tix to the concert?” said the e-mail.

  The answer was the same as all the others he had received for years. “Not tonite.”

  Don’t call us, we’ll call you. Meanwhile, wait. The seventy-two virgins aren’t going anywhere.

  THE BLIND DATE

  WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 11, 2004

  Victoria D’Amico had a theory about men. A theory that was formulated, tested, and validated by eighteen years with Jerry. Men were either good for nothing, or too good to be true. There was nothing in between. Nothing.

  She brought that theory into the dark-mahogany interior of Murphy’s Steakhouse in Manhasset, on the first blind date of her brand-new life without Jerry. And dared Ricardo Xavier Montoyez to disprove it.

  He wouldn’t.

  In the first place, Murphy’s Steakhouse was a little too good to be true. Not exactly the finest dining—filled with loud Long Islanders bellowing at each other as they chewed their steaks and gulped their wines—but at least two or three stars above Jerry’s favorite pizza place. Whenever a decision had to be made on where to eat, where to vacation, where to shop, Jerry would groan. When she suggested a trip to Paris, they ended up at Carlsbad Caverns. When she asked about “someplace exotic, like a Caribbean island,” he reminded her about the horrible sunburn he had contracted at the local beach. Instead they spent a week with his mother in Utica. And when they would go someplace that appealed to Victoria, like the annual Financial Planning Conference in Orlando, Jerry would crane his neck at every passing woman half his age, and flirt with the waitresses at restaurants. If only they knew, Victoria would think, that his favorite game at home was shooting spit-saturated, teeth-crushed pistachio shells from his lips into an ashtray, and letting her clean up “the missed three-point shots.”

  And then there was her date, who approached her from a corner of the bar, where he had been waiting. Too good to be true.

  It was as if central casting had dispatched him. A baritone voice laced with a silky, Ricardo Montalbán Spanish accent; short gray hair, swept to the back of his scalp with a sheen; and a wisp of a moustache that seemed carved into his deep olive complexion. An island of civility among turbulent waves of Mets, Yankees, Islanders, and Rangers jerseys, in orange and blue, and black and white, crashing up against the bar and clamoring for “anuthuh.”

  “I am Ricardo Xavier Montoyez,” he trumpeted, clasping her hand while executing the official US Department of State Guide to Official Protocol six-inch bow. “I have a table reserved and have already ordered some wine. A Pride Claret. I hope you like it.” He swept his arm forward, indicating that he would follow her. A refreshing change of pace from Jerry, who would walk six paces ahead of her at all times.

  The maître d’ led them on a zigzag pattern between the crowded tables, to the sounds of silverware clanking against plates and chairs scraping against the wood floors, frequent eruptions of laughter, and boisterous outbursts of Lawn-Guylish:

  “Dat’s awwwwwsum!”

  “Dya wanna go tuh ’thuh mawwl tuhmawruh?”

  “Waituh, we need maw
bread he-uh.”

  They settled into their chairs, and Ricardo looked as if he was preparing to deliver the six o’clock news. His long fingers smoothed a silk tie against his chest. He tugged on the back of his herringbone blazer so that it snapped snugly against his shoulders. He pinched each shirt cuff, coaxing it down his wrist until his gold cuff links peaked from his jacket sleeves. He folded both hands on the table, conducted a visual inspection of his manicured nails, leaned forward, and fixed his attention on Victoria.

  “Now. Tell me about yourself. I must know everything.”

  And that was it. He sealed his lips under the thin moustache, withdrew his hands to his lap, and listened.

  What do I do now? Victoria asked herself. She knew how to listen, but not how to be listened to. With Jerry, a tête-à-tête was mostly just tête. She wasn’t accustomed to a two-way conversation with a man in which more than one of the conversants actually showed signs of life.

  She was careful to avoid any talk of Jerry, because the words bastard, creep, friggin’, lyin’, cheatin’, and son of a bitch seemed inappropriate for a first date. So she spoke in generalities about her job with Dr. Kirleski, which seemed interesting to Ricardo. His eyes didn’t glaze over, and he didn’t yawn like a moose, and he didn’t bellow: “Holy crap, is this going to go on much longer because I’m starving over here!”

  When she finished, it was time to put him to the test. To establish whether he was good for nothing or too good to be true. She fixed on his eyes. They seemed amused, as if he were about to tell a joke.

  “So now it’s your turn,” she said, leaning forward as if to depose him.

  If eighteen years with Jerry left Victoria with any benefit whatsoever, it was that she had become a five-foot, six-inch, blond-haired, one-hundred-and-twenty-pound lie detector. She could sense evasions, excuses, and lies of all types: falsehoods and half-truths, fabrications and deceptions, and complete and total bullshit.

  “I am in global health care,” he replied, in a tone normally reserved for “I’m a CPA.”

  “What kind of health care?”

  “The von Eschenbach’s Syndrome Foundation.”

  “Never heard of it.” She knew her tone had all the grace of a chat at the Guantánamo prison. But that’s what men deserved. Never the benefit of the doubt. Because when you gave them the benefit of the doubt, they took it, and also took Angela, the countergirl at Paventi’s Pizzeria, and the Volvo, too. You gave them the benefit of the doubt, and they gave you the cable bill, the landscaping bill, a bad credit report, and eighteen wasted years.

  “Von Eschenbach’s Syndrome,” he repeated. “It is an orphan disease. In remote areas of Africa.”

  “Oh my God. A disease that only affects African orphans? How horrible.”

  “No, no. Not a disease affecting orphans. An orphan disease. There are some diseases, like von Eschenbach’s Syndrome, that affect so few people that they are abandoned by the medical establishment. They don’t represent enough profit potential to justify the investment in a cure.”

  Ricardo’s fingers, strong and prominent, now seemed to be attacking a cocktail napkin, shredding it into pieces that crumbled around his wine glass. “AIDS, malaria, cancer—they get all the attention. And all the money. Von Eschenbach’s Syndrome? Nothing.” He stared vacantly for a moment then shrugged. “We hired a publicity consultant. ‘Have a telethon,’ he told us. ‘Like Jerry Lewis.’ We tried. But it is impossible to get an A-list celebrity for a C-list disease. All the good ones are taken. We ended our efforts when Howie Mandel turned us down.”

  “What are the symptoms?”

  “It depends on the strain.”

  “The strain?”

  “Well, of course. Von Eschenbach’s Syndrome comes in many strains.”

  Of course, thought Victoria. Everyone knows that!

  “The most prevalent would be von Eschenbach’s Strain A. It begins with irritability and restlessness. Then lethargy, fatigue, disorientation, and nausea.”

  A night out with Jerry, she thought. “Oh my God! So there’s no cure? At all?”

  Ricardo’s olive cheeks twitched. He seemed to be gritting his teeth. And then he sighed. A long, troubled sigh. “That is what angers me so, Victoria. Our laboratory—in Côte d’Ivoire—is so close to a vaccine. But our work is slowed by the lack of medical supplies. No one wants to send medical supplies for research of an orphan disease in Africa.”

  “Horrible!” she agreed, with just a scent of reservation. “What kind of supplies do you need?”

  “What do you have?” he asked, almost urgently.

  “Excuse me?”

  There was an awkward silence. At a nearby table, someone bellowed, “Wait-uh, we need maw caw-fee heuh!”

  “I’m sorry,” Ricardo stammered. “I should not have asked that. Sometimes my work for the foundation interferes with other priorities. You should be my priority tonight, Victoria. Not seeking medical supplies for sick and dying children in Africa.”

  Something inside of Victoria flashed a warning. Like a blinking yellow light. Warning her that if any man was either too good to be true or good for nothing, he was sitting right across from her, doing his best Ricardo Montalbán imitation, trying to lure free medical samples out of the metal cabinet in Dr. Kirleski’s office. And maybe trying to lure Victoria into bed as well.

  She considered disregarding the warning. Not out of weakness or naïveté. Victoria was the type who sped up at yellow lights. She knew she should stop. But she would race through anyway. Maybe she was in a rush for companionship. Or maybe she was intrigued by the possibility that he was acting dishonestly with her. She could do the same; they would use each other for a night, and then resume their separate lives. Maybe this is what liberation from eighteen years of captivity was about. Beggars become choosers.

  Or maybe there was a possibility that von Eschenbach’s Syndrome was afflicting remote villages in Africa, and she should try to help.

  Or all of these things.

  And then she noticed something. The usual type of creep at the bar. Gawking at her. Only this gawk was different. Usually, Victoria’s gawkers would stare at her, then stare at their drink then stare back at her again. Usually there was a nauseatingly suggestive smile. Sometimes even a ridiculous wink that may have been learned back at the junior prom. Not this guy. This was a tight-lipped, no-blink, comatose-frozen stare. And it unnerved her.

  “Ucccch,” she said, scowling.

  “What is it, Victoria?” asked Ricardo.

  “Guy at the bar. Staring like that. I hate it!”

  Ricardo turned slowly. And when he saw the man at the bar, Victoria noticed his moustache seem to twitch, and his eyes seemed to fall cold. He swung his head back. “Yes, that is rude of him.”

  “Whatever. I get it all the time. Should we get menus?”

  “Yes, of course. But would you excuse me for a moment while I make a phone call?”

  As he left the table, Victoria thought, This is the part where he’s lying to his wife about why he won’t be home tonight . . . or calling in a cure for cancer.

  Ricardo Xavier Montoyez was doing neither.

  THE FDA

  THE SAME NIGHT

  In a blue sedan in a dark corner of Murphy’s parking lot, Special Investigator Anthony Leone slumped behind the steering wheel, thinking, Tell me how crime doesn’t pay? Lucky bastard’s inside having a steak dinner with the blonde. Me? I’m stuck out here all freaking night.

  Then he saw Montoyez emerge from the restaurant and present a stub to a parking valet.

  “Holy shit. Holy shit, holy shit,” he repeated as he fumbled for his cell phone then panted into it, “Subject’s leaving. Subject’s leaving. Alone.”

  “Stay with him,” a voice crackled.

  “What about her? The woman?”

  “Cooper will keep his eyes on th
e woman. You follow Montoyez. Stay . . . with . . . Montoyez.”

  “Roger. Follow Montoyez.”

  Two hundred and fifty miles away, in the Washington headquarters of the Food and Drug Administration William Sully thought, Stand by. Stand by. That’s all I do with Ricardo Xavier Montoyez. Stand by. Until he escapes. Then find him again. And . . . stand by.

  Sully pressed the tips of his fingers against a pain that throbbed deep between his eyes. He had been up most of the night, staring into a bank of computer screens. Now the images grew blurry. There were fuzzy black-and-white images of various Long Island neighborhoods, brought to Sully courtesy of the Nassau County Police Department’s Neighborhood Block Watch cameras. On another screen was Murphy’s Steakhouse. An electronic map of Long Island flickered on a third screen, its coastlines streaks of blue against a black background. Red orbs pulsated in the vicinity of Murphy’s.

  He sat in the Situation Room of the Food and Drug Administration Counterfeit Drug Investigation Division, surrounded by the video screens, speakers in all shapes and sizes, tangles of cables and wires, and an assortment of discarded soda cans dented from his grip. Four special agents stood behind him, on loan from the FDA Division of Sugar Substitutes–Office of Testing, Evaluation, and Compliance. Sully was building an investigative empire, plucking assets from the bowels of the federal government, where nobody would notice they were gone. He had become the master of the “Intra-agency Reverse Lateral Detail,” a little known bureaucratic maneuver that allowed employees to be transferred from one office to another “temporarily.” In Washington, that means forever.

  Ricardo Xavier Montoyez might be able to evade the law, but Sully could make federal employees vanish and then reappear in his budget lines. Now you see them, now you don’t.