WATER WORKS: 2) MORTONLAND
Sunday Funnies: A Serial Novel of Intrigue, Lunacy & H2O
2.
"Morton Levi's office," says a female voice.
I say, "Is he there?"
The voice says, "Who's calling?"
I say, "Jay Sandak."
"Does he know you?"
"Future tense. Mister Pikestaff sent me."
"I'll pass you to Morton's phone person. She'll put you on the phone list."
The line first clicks into oblivion then crackles alive with a second female voice. "This is Priscilla."
"Priscilla, I understand you are the guardian of something called the phone list?"
"And you are Mister Sandak?" says Priscilla.
“Yes. Is Morton in now?"
"Yes."
"Will you connect me to him?"
"No. The first step is the phone list. He'll see your name, then I'll call you back to tell you if he's going to call you."
My yuk-o-meter is already switched on.
With no return call by 4:30, I phone for a second dose of Mortonland.
"No," says Priscilla.
"No?"
"You're not supposed to be on the phone list, Mister Sandak. You need the appointment secretary. Morton saw your name on my list and said, 'He needs an appointment.'"
"Okay, let's make one."
"I can't do that. I have to transfer you to the appointment secretary."
Twenty seconds pass.
"This is Tracy," says a new voice.
"Hi, Tracy. My name is Jay Sandak. The phone list person says I need the appointment person."
"Yes, your name is on my list," says Tracy. "Let me see. A week from Thursday at 4 p.m. I can give you 20 minutes."
“I was hoping for something sooner. And longer.”
Tracy clacks her keyboard. "Tuesday 10 a.m. for 30 minutes?"
“That’s more like it.”
3.
I stroll up Fifth Avenue to the General Motors Building and ascend to the 38th floor, occupied in full by Morton Levi Investments, Inc.
A receptionist scrutinizes me through glass doors, which unbolt by remote.
"Jay Sandak to see Mr. Levi.”
"What time is your appointment?"
"Ten."
"He's running late. Have a seat."
The waiting room offers a spectacular view of Central Park. It oozes with madness. Not the park, the waiting room. Oil paintings of devils and upside down airplanes and distorted farm animals.
It is past 10:30 when Tracy appears. I follow her down a corridor lined with more madness: crocodiles and mad dogs, a surreality that would terrify Salvador Dali. At the end of this gauntlet she opens a door and ushers me inside.
Morton Levi is seated at the far end of his large corner office, enthroned upon a leather club chair, yakking on a phone.
He cradles the receiver and rises.
"Jay Sandak.”
Our palms connect.
"Morton Levi. Call me Morton." The phone rings. "Please sit down" he says, and answers his phone. "The president of Hungary? I'll call him back in 20 minutes. Hold my calls." Morton is elegantly dressed in a Ralph Lauren Purple Label pinstripe suit and black Gucci slip-on loafers with brass bits, and fine hosiery sporting peacocks. His starched white shirt is monogrammed MPL, featuring French cuffs linked with gold-coins.
Facing me on the wall is a large portrait of a New York City taxi cab, painted naively in bold yellow, framed by the words Honk! Honk! Honk! running around its rim.
"Interesting picture," I comment.
"Outsider Art," says Morton. "Known as Art Brut in Europe. Art by artists who have never been trained. It's a school—a non-school, actually—encompassing Folk Art and Visionary Art."
"Visionary?"
"Art by the mentally insane. I possess the largest collection of schizophrenic art in the world. See that painting?"
I follow Morton's index finger with my eyes and focus on a giant eyeball with two legs.
"Gugging," he says.
"Excuse me?"
"One of the Gugging artists. Zurich. Where visionary art was pioneered at the beginning of the 20th century. That artist was institutionalized at Gugging for 60 years. He was a very sick man."
"I get that.”
"Paranoid schizophrenia," Morton adds, admiring his treasured work of art. “Can you see the talent he had?”
All I can see is a giant eyeball on legs. But in the interest of diplomacy I turn the question around. “What do you see?”
Replies Morton, “Visionary artists see connections we can’t. Patterns we ignore. They draw from a place of primal truth—ugly, uncomfortable, but honest. How can I help you?"
"Pikestaff sent me. I need cover for an assignment."
"Of course. We already do that for Norm."
Norm is Pikestaff’s first name.
"For this one,” I say, “I may need your personal involvement, not just your name."
"Fine. No problem. What is it?"
"Water."
"Water? Since when is the CIA interested in water?"
"As you now, it is CIA's responsibility to be aware of anything that might affect the security of the United States. A lack of fresh water around the world may eventually lead to war. Countries will fight over water rights and, as usual, we'll get hauled into the fray."
Morton's brain is already converting geo-politics into dollars and cents.
"Look at a map," I continue. "Any map. You'll see that every major city was built on a river. Then look at a demographic map and you'll see most of the world's population is concentrated near water—lakes, rivers. Society has forgotten how important water is. Now we pollute and kill the rivers that gave life to cities. This attitude is going to cause big trouble for humankind. Our interest is in something called the Dulci Acqua Consortium." I study Morton. "Heard of it?"
Morton shakes his head.
"Dulci Acqua is trying to buy up the world's water problems. If or when they solve the water problems, they'll own the water."
Morton switches from a headshake to a head-nod in mid-swing. "I like it. When you find out who they are, tell me. I'll buy them."
Why not? Problem solved.
"The reason I'm here,” I say, “is to ask your help for finding out who they are." I smile. "But once we do that, I'll be happy to broker a deal."
Morton picks up the phone. "Get me the president of Hungary." He waits. "Dulci Acqua Consortium, Mister President. Who are they?" Morton listens. "Thank you, I’ll call you back." He parks the phone and looks at me. "The President of Hungary also wants to know who they are. How can I help?"
"I need a business card that says I'm working for you, and a phone line on your switchboard with call-forward to my voicemail in Washington. I'm going to put the word out that Morton Levi Investments has become interested in water. I'd guess that anyone with the slightest interest in water, beyond drinking it, will start lining up around the corner for funding."
"I'll back you up on one condition,” says Morton. “Every innovation on water that comes out of this, you send to me for possible investment."
"Fine,” I say. “And I'm in for two points of anything you buy."
"Done. Will a handshake suffice?”
“We shake.”
“Susan will arrange whatever you need."
"Susan?"
"My logistics person." Morton picks up a ringing phone and looks at me, like, you're excused.
On the way out, it occurs to me that Morton’s visionary art collection reflects the billionaire himself.