The Global War on Morris (28 page)

*REEING *ELDSTEIN

SATURDAY, MAY 30, 2009

T
he black sedan, arranged courtesy of the Department of Defense, slipped through a gate at the Stewart Air National Guard Base.

It turned south on the New York State Thruway, leaving behind the distant ridges of the Catskill Mountains. Sitting alone in the rear, Morris smiled. It seemed a lifetime ago when he brought Jeffrey and Caryn camping in the Catskills (as well as Rona, who succumbed to the kids' entreaties but not without leaving them with a full weekend's worth of guilt scars about being “eaten alive” by mosquitoes). The car drove across the Tappan Zee Bridge, then through low hills that skirted the Hudson River. Before long Morris was winding through the suburbs of Westchester. Then the car crept across the Bronx, brakes squealing in stop-and-go traffic. Morris felt asphyxiated by the boxy apartment buildings that loomed everywhere, by the subway cars that rattled back and forth, by the dull yellow lights that peeked
at him from the grimy walls of bridges and overpasses plastered with graffiti.
Still, it could be worse
, he thought.

It could be Guantánamo.

Finally, Morris saw it. He was almost free.

It welcomed him to Long Island with both of its massive steel arms stretched across Little Neck Bay, green lights twinkling their familiar greeting from end to end, all the way to the top of its graceful towers, so high they seemed able to touch planes as they approached LaGuardia Airport. The Throgs Neck Bridge. Joining Long Island and the Bronx geographically, but no more than that. Because one end had nothing to do with the other. It wasn't simply a bridge.

It separated two worlds for Morris.

Halfway across, Morris smiled as the car veered right, under the green-and-white sign that said
EASTERN LONG ISLAND
. The car curved onto the Cross Island Parkway, where Morris gazed at the tiny lights of a few boats in the cool water, hovering near the protective embrace of the bridge.

Close. They were getting close.

They exited onto Northern Boulevard, in urbanized Queens. But with every block eastward, it became more gentrified, until Morris saw the glittering familiar storefronts, the clothing stores and bakeries, and the little Italian restaurants. The places that fed Morris his dinner almost every night, ladled from white cartons, aluminum tins, and Styrofoam containers.

Morris thought,
Five more minutes and I'll be home. Maybe Rona and I will have a little bite to eat. Because almost five years without a pastrami on rye had to set some kind of record. And after dinner, maybe I'll relax a little. In the RoyaLounger 8000. Maybe watch a movie. And I'll worry about tomorrow, tomorrow.

But Great Neck had something else in mind for Morris.

“G
ottenyu!”

Middle Neck Road looked like Times Square on New Year's Eve.
Thousands of people blocked the street, whooping and chanting and laughing in the crisp night air. They waved signs that said
FREE FELDSTEIN!
,
WELCOME HOME, MORRIS!
, and
WE MISSED MO!
The Nassau County Police, New York State Troopers, and Village of Great Neck Police were out in force, the lights of their vehicles flashing constantly, so that the whole thing looked like disco night to Morris.

The police parted the crowd away from Morris's car as it eased forward.

“Mor-ris! Mor-ris!” He heard them chant.

The car pulled to the front of a red carpet unfurled from the curb to the entrance of the Great Neck Cinema. Morris had to shield his eyes from the glare of the giant marquee:

*REEING *ELDSTEIN. A *ILM BY CARYN *ELDSTEIN

WELCOME HOME MORIS!!!

The theater had run out of Fs and was low on Rs. Times were tough in the movie theater business.

A figure appeared at the car window. It was vaguely familiar to Morris. A wide grin spread across fleshy cheeks. Giving Morris a thumbs-up with both hands.

The Senator from New York.

The Senator opened the door. Dozens of cameras jostled for position behind him. Morris squinted at the lights. He felt the Senator's hands lock around his wrists and pull him from the car. He remembered for a moment the last time he had strepped out of a vehicle in Great Neck.

The Senator wrapped Morris in a bear hug (making sure that the Senator's face was to the front of the cameras). Then he pivoted Morris toward the press and shouted, “Let me be the first to say, Welcome home, Morris Feldstein!” He locked hands with Morris and thrust them into the air. As if they had just been nominated to a presidential ticket.

The crowd roared. Morris smiled meekly, and waved as if it were only Colonel McCord standing across the street instead of half of Great Neck.

Morris had never had a receiving line. So many
machers
! The Senator stood shoulder to shoulder with Morris, refusing to cede any ground in the war for camera angles. The Mayor of Great Neck Village and his entire Village Council was there, presenting him with a parchment proclamation affixed with a gold seal and red ribbon, saying whereas this and whereas that until resolving that the day was officially “Morris Feldstein Day.” It was nearly nine
PM
, and there wasn't much left of Morris Feldstein day for Morris to enjoy. The Great Neck Village Merchants Association pressed some discount coupons into his hand, just in case he felt the urgent need to stop off on the way to freedom to procure a home audio system from Great Neck Audio or a leaf blower from Village Hardware. There were hearty congratulations from the Rotarians, the Kiwanians, and the green-jacketed, silver-haired members of the BPO Elks. The Rabbi and the entire board of the Temple presented him with a golden shofar and a nice plaque referencing the call for freedom. And all of this activity unfolded to the accompaniment of the Great Neck High School band's rendition of the theme song to
Rocky
.

He stepped into the theater lobby, where Rona was waiting, across the room, looking no different from when he had last seen her. A lifetime ago.

“Hi Morris,” she said. She bit her lip to squelch a sob, but that just made her shoulders shudder. Once that happened, the tears flowed. And instead of heaving her shoulders, she thrust them forward, rushing toward him, and this time he knew how to hug. His arms stretched wide.

Just before they made contact, the Senator slipped between them. Grabbing both their hands, then joining them. As if orchestrating the official handshake between two foreign leaders at the signing of a peace treaty.

Morris and Rona hugged to an explosion of flashbulbs. Hugged so tightly that Morris felt as if he were losing his breath. But it was okay. Because at that point, he didn't mind suffocating—not that way, with Rona's arms wrapped around him and her wet cheeks pressing into his neck.

She pulled away and stared at him, stroking his face to make sure he was really there. “Look, I could never get you out of the house to go to a movie. Now you're in one! Could you
plotz
?”

They sat in the front row. Morris and Rona and Jeffrey and Caryn. And the Senator. Morris turned his head behind him. He saw Dr. Kirleski. Victoria blew him a kiss and giggled. The front desk clerk from the Bayview Motor Inn sat next to the waitress from the Sunrise Diner. Winking.

The lights dimmed and the theater fell silent. The screen glowed and a granular image came into focus: the medical office building where Morris showed up that day and found the courage to talk to Dr. Kirleski's receptionist. Which is how, and when, all his tsuris began.

When the final credit rolled—the one flashing Caryn's name—Morris and Rona went up the aisle and out the doors to a brand-new car donated by the Greater New York Automobile Dealers Association. A Cadillac with a trunk large enough to hold a full year's supply of Celfex Pharmaceutical samples. And when the doors closed with a cushioned thud, they were alone.

Finally alone.

Morris stared ahead.

Rona sighed. Not a sigh of guilt or sadness. Just a content sigh.

Morris turned to her. “So
nu
? I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do now.”

“Look,” said Rona, “the last time you were home, we were supposed to have Chinese takeout.”

“You mean—”

“God fahbid we have a bite to eat. You're skin and bones, Morris.
Let's go home. I brought in dinner. And taped some Mets games for you to watch. From all the seasons you missed.”

They drove to Soundview Avenue, where a brown bag filled with white cartons from the Great Neck Mandarin Gourmet awaited. And Morris's RoyaLounger 8000. And over four hundred Mets games, faithfully recorded by Rona.

Morris wasn't in the mood to watch the Mets. And he wasn't really in the mood for Chinese.

So he looked straight at Rona and said, “No thanks. I'd rather eat kosher deli.”

Which made Rona smile.

That night, Rona ate Chinese food. And Morris devoured a pastrami on rye.

And there was no tsuris.

THE NSA

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 3, 2012

W
illiam Sully, who had moved from agency to agency in the federal bureaucracy, sat in his spacious new office at Fort Meade, Maryland, enjoying the distant view, across his giant mahogany desk, of plush couches, an antique coffee table, and landscape oil paintings. All had arrived in a recent trade with the Smithsonian Institution (now the proud recipient of vintage chemistry laboratory equipment from Sully's former employer, the FDA). There was also a fine Wedgwood coffee set, ready to serve distinguished visitors, or undistinguished visitors, or any visitors at all. Which seemed unlikely since hardly anyone was aware of William Sully's transfer.

He had himself put on “temporary detail” with the title Acting Deputy Assistant Director of the Division of Intelligence, Office of Foreign Intelligence, Bureau of Analysis and Surveillance, Special Programs Section. He had a desk the size of an aircraft carrier and
a nice view, through parted yellow drapes, of the rolling hills of Maryland.

Sully had almost forgotten Ricardo Montoyez and his counterfeit drug operation. He was onto new threats. Countless threats.

He glanced at a wall-mounted television. Vice President Joe Biden was revving up a crowd at a Labor Day rally in Detroit. Biden thundered: “You want to know whether we're better off? I've got a little bumper sticker for you:
OSAMA BIN LADEN IS DEAD AND GENERAL MOTORS IS ALIVE!
”

The crowd roared.

True
, Sully thought. There had been many changes in recent years. George Bush was in Texas; Barack Obama was in the White House. In Afghanistan, where the 9-11 War on Terror began, al-Qaeda was on the run. In Iraq, where the War on Terror was diverted, American troops had exited. At home, the Great Recession was starting to mend.

And yet, some things in Washington didn't change at all. They just grew bigger. Much bigger.

Which is exactly why Sully transferred himself to the National Security Agency.

He ran a hand over his short cropped hair, leaned toward his computer, and released a satisfied sigh. Thousands of NSA-intercepted telephone records scrolled across the screen. A torrent of calls, foreign and domestic. Records of phone calls made and phone calls received. Suspicious calls. Curious calls. Hard to explain calls. Connections that sparked the interest of a sophisticated NSA computer program, an NSA intel analyst, an attorney at the Department of Justice, and an anonymous judge at something called the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Court.

Sure there were a few times when the Feds may have inadvertently spied on the harmless phone conversations of innocent Americans. Few, as in thousands. Or hundreds of thousands. Maybe millions. No one knew. The whole matter was classified.

But that was a small price to pay for freedom, wasn't it?

Sully stared at the screen as a smile spread across his face. A proud smile.

NICK was all grown up.

And growing all the time.

EPILOGUE

T
om Fairbanks remains in Melville, staring angrily at colored pins on his sprawling map of Long Island. Convinced of conspiracies behind every pizza place, Chinese takeout, nail salon, and Starbucks from one end of Long Island to the other.

William Sully, formerly of the Food and Drug Administration and the National Security Agency, transferred himself to a new federal post. He now heads the Special Investigations Unit in the Department of Commerce/Office of the Undersecretary for Waterways Management/Bureau of Clean Drinking Water/Division of Sewage Infrastructure/Office of Compliance/Department of Monitoring & Evaluation. Over six hundred agents work for Sully. They aren't quite sure what they do exactly.

Ricardo Montoyez is still at large. He was last seen slipping out of a Red Lobster in Toledo, leaving his fiancée behind. She worked as a
part-time cashier in the local Walmart. In the pharmacy department.

Azad and Pervez relocated together to upstate New York. Pervez co-owns and cooks at a highly popular hibachi restaurant, Tokyo Joe's Steak 'n Sushi. Azad works there as a comic deejay during weeknight happy hours. They are developing a cooking show for a local Public Access channel.

Achmed owns Virgin Office Cleaning. He received a huge contract from the General Services Administration, tidying offices in the Pentagon.

Hassan's cooperation with federal authorities led to the breakup of the Abu al-Zarqawi Martyrs of Militancy Brigade. Today he is Assistant Director of Security at the corporate headquarters of Paradise Global Ventures, LLC. He is married with one daughter. She is the only student at Scottsdale Road Preschool named Rona.

Victoria D'Amico is happily remarried. She fell in love with one of the federal agents who interrogated her for three days after Morris's capture. He “is-everything-Jerry-wasn't-but-I-still-wish-nothing-but-the-best-for-that-miserable-SOB-and-the-pizza-slut-he-left–me-for.”

As for Caryn, the eventual success of
Freeing Feldstein
launched her career in film and social commentary. Following the release of her sequel,
Feldstein: Finally Free
, she negotiated a six-picture deal with HBO Films. Next month she begins shooting
Male Strippers: Not So Undercover
.

Today, Morris and Rona Feldstein live in their condo in Boca Raton. They moved out of Great Neck so that Rona could escape the “yentas” and “get some peace and quiet.” There, she opened up a social work practice focusing on Great Neck residents who live part-time in Florida and have developed what she calls SAD, “Snowbird Anxiety Disorder.” Morris won election to The Residences at Paradise Homeowners Association Board of Directors. He is trying to avoid being swept into a battle between the clubhouse mint-green paint versus lime-green paint factions.

Among other waves.