The Global War on Morris by Steve Israel Page B

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.
    â€œVon Eschenbach’s Syndrome,” he repeated. “It is an orphan disease. In remote areas of Africa.”
    â€œOh my God. A disease that only affects African orphans? How horrible.”
    â€œNo, 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.”
    â€œWhat are the symptoms?”
    â€œIt depends on the strain.”
    â€œThe strain?”
    â€œWell, of course. Von Eschenbach’s Syndrome comes in many strains.”
    Of course, thought Victoria. Everyone knows that!
    â€œThe 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.”
    â€œHorrible!” she agreed, with just a scent of reservation. “What kind of supplies do you need?”
    â€œWhat do you have?” he asked, almost urgently.
    â€œExcuse me?”
    There was an awkward silence. At a nearby table, someone bellowed, “Wait-uh, we need maw caw-fee heuh!”
    â€œI’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 knewshe 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