The Global War on Morris by Steve Israel Page A

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.”
    â€œI 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:
    â€œDat’s awwwwwsum!”
    â€œDya wanna go tuh ’thuh mawwl tuhmawruh?”
    â€œWaituh, 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.
    â€œNow. 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.
    â€œSo 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 senseevasions, excuses, and lies of all types: falsehoods and half-truths, fabrications and deceptions, and complete and total bullshit.
    â€œI am in global health care,” he replied, in a tone normally reserved for “I’m a CPA.”
    â€œWhat kind of health care?”
    â€œThe von Eschenbach’s Syndrome Foundation.”
    â€œNever 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,