The Global War on Morris by Steve Israel Page B

the most watched reality TV show in the noon slot in the New York media market.
    Leone sat in the diner parking lot, trying to ignore the discomfort of his thighs sticking to his pants legs and his pants legs sticking to the seat. “Sure, they sit inside an air-conditioned diner, eating the Deluxe Chicken Souvlaki Melt plus a nice bread basket. Me? I’m sitting in a 1984 Ford Furnace with a broken air conditioner!”
    When the sweat became unbearable, he left the car and walked across the parking lot. Inside, he reasoned, he would steal a glanceof Victoria and whatever criminal mastermind she was meeting for lunch. Plus, he might as well grab a cup of coffee to go while gulping down as much cool air as he could. He pushed against the glass doors. A gust of cool air dried his sweat-saturated shirt. He took a seat at the counter, scanned a glass shelf of pastries, and ordered his coffee. Then he swiveled on his stool until Victoria came into view.
    Right there. With a middle-aged, schlubby-looking guy who seemed nervous if not petrified. With wide eyes and thinning hair. Looking more like an oppressed accountant than a possible link in a global pharmaceutical counterfeiting conspiracy.
    Now who is that? thought Leone as he walked away from the diner. He returned to his car, sipped for a few minutes, and then wondered why the hell he didn’t order ice-coffee on a day like today, a hot, sweltering day in a federal government vehicle with a broken air conditioner. Sure, you’re a crook, a terrorist, a perp, you get your air conditioner fixed one-two-three. You work for the Feds, you gotta fill out a Federal Fleet Repair Request—OMB Form GSA-FFRR-NY/36F/AC and wait till winter for it to get fixed .
    Finally, the two emerged. First Victoria, chic round sunglasses covering her eyes, her blond hair bouncing as she walked. Behind her, Morris, squinting in the sun, shuffling his feet to keep up with her, looking left and right as if afraid to be noticed. On his FDA-­issued camera, Leone recorded what he thought was the most fumbled and awkward handshake ever. Victoria leaning into a tentative hug, Morris jutting arms out to shake her hand, Victoria backing off the hug and offering her palm instead, their hands colliding like kids playing patty-cake. Then Morris nodding, Victoria cocking her head and skipping off as her shoulders shook through a giggle. And Morris fumbling for his keys.
    Leone prepared to follow Victoria. But first he pointed his handheld ScanTag-3000 through his windshield, toward the license plate of Morris’s car. He squeezed a trigger and heard a soft beep.
    â€œScanning complete,” advised a woman’s robotic voice.
    â€œStand by” she directed.
    Then, from the small ridges in the unit, just under Leone’s thumb, she confirmed: “New York License Plate K-two-J-two-seven-four.”
    And the winner is . . . Leone thought to himself.
    â€œLicense registered to . . . Morris . . . Feldstein.”
    â€œMorris Feldstein,” repeated Leone.
    â€œFile transmitted,” the voice announced.
    â€œM ooor . . . iiis . . . feellld . . . steeen.” Bill Sully stretched the name as if thinning out each syllable would make Morris more transparent, revealing a hidden danger about the man. “Mister Mooor . . . iiis . . . feellld . . . steeen.”
    He had just been handed a thin blue manila folder with Morris’s name scrawled in black Sharpie across the tab. Sully loved the smell of fresh Sharpie on a coated manila folder. Crisp, pungent, enough to sting his eyes.
    He opened the folder.
    â€œMooor . . . iiis . . . feellld . . . steeen. Let’s see what you’re all about.”
    There wasn’t much about him. Sully dug through twelve pages of prompt credit card and mortgage payments, driver’s license photos, a manageable and modest