The Global War on Morris (21 page)

LAP DANCE

FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 24, 2004

R
icardo Montoyez loved a good lap dance. Particularly at the Merry-Go-Round Lounge in Melville. After weeks at the Bella Abzug Home for the Aged, it would be a pleasant and necessary diversion.

He had driven from Riverdale across the Whitestone Bridge and back to Long Island. He took the Long Island Expressway east toward Melville. At one point, near a sign that said
MANHASSET NEXT EXIT
he thought about that restaurant, Murphy's, and the receptionist, Victoria. The memory stirred his groin, which gave him the idea for the lap dance.

But first he would check on some business matters. Business before pleasure.

In Melville, he drove past the steel-and-glass valley of office buildings, including one that was known to house several US government offices. He pulled into the parking lot of a small, squat
building painted dark purple with a weather-beaten canopy of fading pink.

Even now, in late afternoon, there were several cars at the Merry-Go-Round Lounge, driven from the nearby offices of accountants, lawyers, engineers, bankers, and even an occasional federal employee taking a titillation break.

The club was dingy and cramped and reeked of stale beer. “Entertainers” prowled the floor in search of a parking spot on someone's lap. Guns N' Roses blared from overhead speakers.

The crowd was sparse. But paying customers didn't necessarily pay the bills here at the Merry-Go-Round.

Ernie, a wiry assistant manager who doubled as a bouncer, approached Montoyez and whispered, “A shipment came. It's in the back.”

Montoyez nodded and walked toward a door with an oversized red sign that said,
AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY
. He stepped inside.

The room was large and brightly lit. Dozens of plastic picnic coolers, red and blue, lined the walls. Water was puddled on a yellow linoleum floor.

A FedEx carton sat on a table. Montoyez read the shipping label. It came from AAA Pharmaceutical Wholesalers.

Just what the doctor ordered!

He peered into one of the coolers. Hundreds of tiny vials containing low doses of a medication called Epogen were immersed in a solution of soapy water. Their labels had all fallen off cleanly. Soon, freshly printed labels—falsely indicating a higher dose—would be applied to each vial. Cha-ching!

The miracle of modern medicine!

Of course, this markup might cause some inconvenience to the unsuspecting patient who injected the wrong dose into his blood stream: violent convulsions, extreme pain, permanent liver damage. Death.

But
, Montoyez figured,
isn't that the cost of doing business?

And besides, the risk of getting caught was low. Thanks to the lobbying clout of the pharmaceutical industry on Capitol Hill, regulations to keep America's pharmaceutical supplies safe by tracking their movements—through a strip club, for instance—had been thwarted. It was easier to recall a defective toaster oven than a counterfeit medication.

Maybe that will be my next gig, after I'm done profiting from the contamination of lifesaving medications. Maybe I'll become a pharmaceutical lobbyist.

He shuddered.

His business now in order, it was time for pleasure.

As soon as he reentered the club, his sixth sense detected trouble. He looked across the room, past the dancing and writhing Brandees and Stormees, and saw a man sitting by the stage, focusing on two massive and bare breasts approaching his face.

Junior G-Man.

Montoyez could tell by the discount suit, the blue polyester tie rumpled against a bluer polyester shirt. Plus the official identification on a lanyard dangling around his neck.

So much for the lap dance,
Montoyez thought as he headed for a back door.

Near the stage, a dancer named Summer Rayne bent toward the agent and accepted a five-dollar bill between her breasts.

Agent Russell sported an embarrassed smile.

YOM KIPPUR CONFESSION

SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 25, 2004

“I
t never rains on Yom Kippur!” Rona exclaimed.

A cool drizzle fell across Great Neck. Morris and Rona drove to Temple Beth Torah to the soft whooshing of his windshield wipers and the angry proclamations of callers to WFAN demanding that the Mets “trade away the whole friggin' team” before next spring.

Morris was anxious.

It was the strangest Day of Atonement of his life. A man who refuses to make waves generally doesn't have a lot of atoning to do. On this day, however, he had specific sins to acknowledge and some major forgiveness for which to beg. Morris was anxious to get things rolling, to wipe the slate clean.

Suddenly traffic on Middle Neck Road stopped, and brake lights glared at Morris through the rain-streaked windshield. In the distance, he saw the ominous swirl of police lights against the gray
sky.

“Oh my God!” cried Rona. “Something happened at the temple! On Yom Kippur of all days!”

Traffic nudged forward and the police lights grew more intense, along with Morris's anxiety. He was close enough to see that the Nassau County Police Department was detaining vehicles that were turning into the synagogue parking lot, and waving ahead those that weren't.

Morris eased his car to the checkpoint and lowered his window. He was always intimidated by police officers. For some reason, their presence induced guilt, as if he'd done something wrong. If the officer at the checkpoint had accused Morris of kidnapping the Lindbergh baby, he would have thought,
Well, they must know something I don't
, and extended his wrists for the handcuffing.

But there was no accusation. Just a question: “Are you a congregant?”

Before he could stammer his answer, Rona proclaimed: “Excuuuuuse me! He's second vice president of the Men's Club! Morris Feldstein!” Which made Morris wince.

The officer checked a list. And when he did, his eyes widened. “Go ahead,” the officer said warily.

The High Holy Day at Temple Beth Torah always attracted the high rollers: BMWs, Jaguars, Mercedes, and Lexuses. For a people who wandered in the wilderness for forty years, a Range Rover was now essential for a drive of forty yards. But today, the lot was unusually crowded with bland Fords and Chevys, as if the General Services Administration was having a surplus auto auction.

Morris found a spot, and he and Rona rushed toward the entrance. The Al Lieberman Vestibule was packed with the usual Yom Kippur crowd. They came to the synagogue once a year. They sat in God's general admission section to admit their sins. Then they rushed home to begin a new season of sinning.

On this Yom Kippur, however, Morris noticed many strange, new
faces.

T
om Fairbanks stood inside the Leonard Cooperman Auxiliary Catering Hall, set up to accommodate the overflow penitents from the main sanctuary. He scanned the crowded room and scowled. This undercover operation had all the subtlety of the Normandy Invasion. It would take, maybe, a half second to expose the Feds. They were the ones who propped yarmulkes crookedly on their scalps and seemed puzzled by prayer books printed from right to left. In this room, the G in G-Men meant gentile.

A
s second vice president of the Men's Club, Morris was entitled to two seats near the front of the main sanctuary, about ten rows from where the rabbi and the cantor led the services. Close enough to the action but far enough not to be noticed. But on this Yom Kippur, Morris sensed that as he and Rona worked their way up crowded aisles, several heads turned toward them, following their progress until they sat.

The congregation fell silent as the rabbi began the service:

“In the tribunal of heaven and the tribunal of earth, by the permission of God—blessed be He—and by the permission of this holy congregation, we hold it lawful to pray with the transgressors.”

For a moment, Morris thought the rabbi was staring straight at him.

The service continued. The congregation read silently and aloud, in English and Hebrew. They arrived at the core of the worship, the Amidah, a series of blessings recited silently while standing. And since it was a silent prayer, Morris took a liberty and asked God to bless the Mets and help them win the National League eastern division playoffs. But Morris also prayed for Rona and Jeffrey and Caryn.

And for himself.

Then they came to one of the most familiar Yom Kippur prayers, the “Al-Chet” (which Morris always pronounced with guttural
exaggeration as “al cccchhhhaaaayt”). It was a literal checklist of sins, to be recited one by one, each punctuated by a clenched fist beaten against the heart. It was the Super Bowl of sin, a collective gathering of Jews reciting transgressions and mistakes, crimes and misdemeanors, vices and violations. Confessions uttered through stammering lips, the words rising to heaven, like bringing out a soiled blanket and flapping it in the air and watching the dirt and dust carried off by the winds, chanted in tiny shuls and glittering synagogues throughout the world.

Morris began reading aloud sins of generality. All-purpose sins. One size fits all sins.

“For the sin which we have committed before You with immorality . . .

“And for the sin which we have committed before You by improper thoughts . . .

“For the sin which we have committed before You by a gathering of lewdness . . .

“For all these, God of pardon, pardon us, forgive us, atone for us.”

And he chanted some sins he didn't quite understand:

“For the sin which we have committed before You by casting off the yoke . . .

“And for the sins for which we are obligated to bring a burnt-offering . . .

“And for the sins for which we are obligated to bring a guilt-offering for a certain or doubtful trespass . . .

“For all these, God of pardon, pardon us, forgive us, atone for us.”

And then, pounding his fist against his chest a bit harder, Morris confessed some more. Silently. Urgently:

For the sin of putting a personal lunch with Victoria D'Amico at the Sunrise Diner on my Celfex credit card . . .

For the sin of coveting Doctor Kirleski's receptionist and taking her to the Bayview Motor Inn for a total of twenty-two minutes . . .

For the sin of calling in sick that Friday just so I could go to Boca
with Rona . . .

For the sin of fighting with Rona and referring to her clients as patients . . .

For all these, God of pardon, pardon me, forgive me, atone for me . . .

He closed his eyes. So tight that his face seemed twisted in pain. Trying to squeeze out the guilt and the sins and the anxiety.

And when he opened them, having confessed his sins, he couldn't help but wonder:
Why is everyone looking at me?

BABKA & BULLETS

SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 26, 2004

M
orris awoke the next morning and groggily wrapped his flannel robe around his striped pajamas, slipped his feet in his leather slippers, and lumbered outside in search of the morning
Newsday
, which was usually flung at his curb.

The morning was crisp, a sign that autumn was arriving on Long Island, and that maybe Morris's summer of tsuris was over. As if God had sent the fresh winds to cleanse Morris. A Yom Kippur miracle! He pulled his robe tight and shook off a chill.

Soundview Avenue was unusually busy, especially for a Sunday morning, as if an army of landscapers, utility companies, and home-improvement contractors had mounted a coordinated Fall Makeover of the block. For a moment, Morris thought that some kind of movie was being filmed and that he was the star. All the workers nearby seemed to pause for a split second to steal glances at him.

As he leaned to pick up the blue plastic bag that contained his
Newsday
, he noticed something else, something that confirmed that his paranoia might be deserved. His neighbor Col. McCord had left the sanctity of his gleaming driveway and was crossing the street. Toward Morris! Now the Feldstein Anxiety Anticipation Index was triggered. In the past, on that infrequent occasion when the Colonel and Morris made unavoidable eye contact, both would mumble a forced “Hi” while maintaining a thirty-foot barrier of road between them. But now the Colonel was almost sauntering toward Morris.

They stood face-to-face.

“Good morning!” said the Colonel cheerfully.

“Hello” was all that Morris could muster in response. He tried to flatten his sleep-whipped hair with his hand.

“Feels like fall is comin' in, huh?”

“Yes. Chilly.”

The Colonel turned his sharp nose into the air and sniffed. “I'd say fifty-six, maybe fifty-seven.”

“Yes. Fall” was all Morris could think to say. He began to turn away, clutching the
Newsday
against his chest.

And then the Colonel said, “The wife thought we should get together one night. For coffee.”

Oh God
, thought Morris.
Not that. Please, pass the cream, Colonel. But put down the AK-47 first
.

“Yes, I'll mention that to my wife. They can organize things.”

“How about tonight? Seven o'clock work?”

Morris felt a twinge in his stomach.
Tonight? Well, I have an appointment on cable TV with Cary Grant and Deborah Kerr at eight, and then I'm expecting Spencer Tracy and Katharine Hepburn at ten. So, no, tonight just isn't possible. But thank you anyway.

“Seven-thirty?” McCord offered.

The discomfort flared from his stomach to his lower chest.

This was not going in the right direction for Morris.

Another moral dilemma.

On one hand, saying no would be making waves. And lately, Morris was barely keeping his head above the darkening waves.

On the other hand, Morris could not fathom how to pass a Sunday evening with the McCords. The only thing they shared was the thirty feet of asphalt that separated them. What would they talk about? What's the dress code? Weekend casual or desert camouflage?
Just say no, Morris. Just look at the Colonel and tell him you cannot accept his invitation and maybe another time but thank you very much.

He heard the Colonel ask, “Eight okay?”

Morris Feldstein stood straight, gathered his shoulders, looked the Colonel directly in the eyes, and said, “Eight sounds fine.”

A
s they left for the trek across Soundview Avenue, Morris asked, “Are you sure a chocolate babka from Bruce's Bakery is appropriate?”

Rona held the white cardboard box tied with red-and-white string protectively close, as if it were the Hope Diamond. “Oh, Morris, who doesn't love Bruce's babka?”

A guy whose favorite meals are rations in Iraq,
thought Morris.

They proceeded across the street. Leaves were beginning to scatter on front lawns across Soundview Avenue, and Morris heard Rona emit a soft
brrrrr
against the cool night air. At night, the McCords' house had all the charm of a state prison. There were small lights directed at the perimeter of the lawn, larger lights aimed at every door and window, and several lights that bathed the entire property in a luminance so powerful that it might be detected by the International Space Station. Squinting, the Feldsteins approached the front door and rang the bell. Morris thought he heard the “Marines' Hymn” inside.

The door opened and Linda McCord appeared. Morris thought he last saw her on a
Leave It to Beaver
rerun. Coiffed blond hair, a face untouched by age, conservative dress, and even pearls around her neck. “Well, hello neighbors,” she said with a sparkling smile. “Come in. The Colonel is in the gun room. I'll get him.”

They stepped inside and Morris whispered, “It seems like a lovely house.”

“Morris, did she say ‘gun room' or ‘fun room?' ”

“I think the gun room is the fun room,” he replied.

A door opened, and the evening's master of ceremonies appeared.

He wore stiff khaki pants and a starched white shirt. And he greeted his guests by looking at his watch and saying, “Five after eight. Traffic?”

Rona and Morris exchanged nervous glances. And before either could stammer an excuse, the Colonel erupted into staccato bursts of laughter. The kind of laughter that sounds like a machine gun firing. Which seemed appropriate to Morris.

“C'mon in, neighbors. Linda, why don't you and Mrs. Feldstein set out the coffee in the living room? And I'll show Morris around.”

Morris wanted to say, “If I'm not back in an hour, call the police and check the fun room.” But he didn't.

“Follow me,” the Colonel said. As he was a colonel and officially outranked Morris, who was merely a second vice president at the synagogue Men's Club, Morris complied.

They walked through a dim hallway lined with a single row of black-and-white photographs hanging in perfect symmetry and framed in brown-varnished wood. Each photo featured primitive-looking camps of mud huts, guard towers, sand bags, and concertina wire.

Sure
, thought Morris.
We have Feldstein Family Fun Photos on display, and you have scenes from the movie
Platoon
.

“Some of my favorite places in the world, Morris!” the Colonel said happily. He pointed. “This is a forward operating base in Somalia. That one there is on the Kuwait-Iraq border during Desert Storm, before the shit show. That one, near Hanoi in seventy-two. And this one is—actually I can't tell you where it is without the appropriate security clearances. Do you have any security clearances, Morris?”

The best Morris could come up with was his Nassau County
All-Parks annual pass. “Not really,” he mumbled.

“That's too bad. I have a slide show that would knock your socks off.”

Literally
, thought Morris.

“Let's join the wives, eh? Smells like there's a Bruce's chocolate babka calling our names.”

Rona and Linda were sitting opposite each other on stiff leather couches, separated by a glass table covered with a coffee service and desserts. Morris noticed heavy brown curtains pulled tightly across a bay window. Near the fireplace, a big dog slept, his back heaving and sinking with every breath. The walls were adorned with the usual knickknacks you might pick up at a home goods store, if the name of the store was Wars “R” Us.

Rona was showing photos of the children, and Linda nodded at each one, her eyes glazed over. Then, with a tone of relief, Linda chirped, “Well, here are our two men! What have you been up to?”

“I've been showing Morris the front!” barked the Colonel.

Morris made a note to tell Rona later that by “front” the Colonel didn't mean his lawn.

Morris sat next to Rona, and as the Colonel positioned himself on the opposite couch, Morris saw something that brought the Feldstein Anxiety Anticipation Index to record-breaking levels.

As the Colonel sat, his khaki pants crept up on his left leg, revealing brown socks, an ankle holster, and a black pistol.

In the “Excuse me, your fly is open” category of social awkwardness, this was entirely new territory to Morris.
Pardon me, your Glock is showing.

The Colonel, realizing the exposure, tugged his cuff over the gun and said, “I've been all over the world but there's nothing like Bruce's babka!”

That bit of small talk out of the way Colonel McCord began his interrogation.

“Sooo . . . what do you think of the elections?”

Rona hesitated. Morris followed her eyes. She was watching him spilling sugar all over the saucer, missing most of his cup.

“It looks like a close race,” she offered.

“Nah,” McCord scoffed. “Bush in a landslide. How can any patriotic American vote for Kerry? Bush showed the world: You mess with America, you get a Hellfire missile so precise it'll find you in your tent and slice off your dick.”

Morris and Rona slurped their coffee at the same time.

“Language, Chuck,” said Linda.

The Colonel grumbled “Sorry,” then said, “anyway, Linda and I vote the three Gs: God, guns, and gays.”

Gottenyu
, thought Morris.

“Where do you stand on those issues?”

Morris popped a healthy chunk of babka into his mouth to avoid answering.

“Well, we're not exactly one of those gun nuts, if you know what I mean,” said Rona.

Morris assumed that “gun nut” was not a term appreciated by a man who wore a gun. On his ankle. For coffee and babka.

“And as for gays,” Rona continued to Morris's accelerated chewing, “Morris and I have always believed, ‘Live and let live.' ”

The Colonel smiled. “Yeah, that's a nice attitude. If you're living in a dream world. But I've seen the real world. And it's not too pretty. I mean, take the Muslims. You want to live and let them live in our country? When they're trying to impose their laws on us? How do you feel about that?”

“What time is it?” Morris croaked through a mouthful of babka.

“Well,” Rona exhaled, “I certainly don't want to surrender my civil liberties and tear up the Constitution out of fear. That would give the terrorists a victory. And besides, not every Muslim is a terrorist, you know.”

The Colonel fixed his eyes on Rona like a radar scanning for signs
of imminent threat. He leaned back in his chair, folded his hands and said, “My dear, if nine-eleven wasn't a wake-up call to this country, I don't know what is. And if we don't deal with the radicalization of Muslims right here in America, you can kiss it all good-bye. We're in a clash of civilizations, Mrs. Feldstein. It's the fourteenth century versus the twenty-first century. And if we don't buck up and do what's necessary, and even messy, the fourteenth century wins. At which point all your civil liberties are replaced with Sharia law. And something tells me that the Islamic States of America won't look too kindly on people like you.”

Morris wondered,
By “you” does he mean Jew? Or is he referring to social workers in general?

“Enough politics,” Linda chided her husband with the wave of a hand. “So, what do you do for entertainment? Any hobbies?”

“Yes,” the Colonel exclaimed. “Belong to any groups? Member of any organizations or associations?”

“Oh, you know. The usual. Hadassah, ORT, United Jewish Appeal. You're welcome to come to a meeting one day. They can be interesting.”

“That would be nice,” Linda responded in a tone that said,
We prefer to be with our own kind.

The Colonel leaned forward. “Getting back to the Muslims. Have you ever associated with a Muslim? Or Muslims?”

“Is it getting late?” Morris asked. “It seems late.”

“As a matter of fact, yes. And I found them to be very, very nice. But I'm not permitted to talk about that. For professional reasons,” Rona said.

“Professional reasons?”

“I'm a therapist to a nice group of young men. From Kuwait.”

Morris saw the Colonel's ankle start twitching. He prayed that it was because his foot had fallen asleep.

The clock began chiming eight thirty, and Morris thought he recognized it as the theme song to
Apocalypse Now
.

“A therapist?”

Strike one,
thought Morris

“For Muslims?”

Strike two. Maybe, if we leave now and serpentine across the street, we can get out of range before the first shots are fired.

The Colonel chewed on his babka.

McCord leaned forward and said, “Will you excuse me for a moment? I have to go upstairs to make a phone call.”