AP: That was a really rotten thing to say, Jack.
CP: Or running around in his underwear IN PUBLIC, EITHER.
AP: I THINK YOU REALLY THINK THIS IS FUNNY.
CP: Well, you have to admit, it is a trifle HUMOROUS.
AP: Good night, Monsignor Clancy.
CP: Come on, Bob. Don’t get sore at me . . . I’ll be damned, he hung up.
Call one ended here.
B. Call number two:
AP: Chancellory of the Diocese of Greater Miami and the Florida Keys.
CP: Let me speak to Monsignor Moran.
AP: I’m sorry, sir, Monsignor Moran is not available at the moment.
CP: What do you mean, he’s not available?
AP: What’s the matter, you deaf or something? I MEAN HE’S NOT AVAILABLE. THAT MEANS YOU CAN’T TALK TO HIM.
CP: I HAVE TO TALK TO HIM.
AP: May I suggest, sir, that you call back IN THE MORNING AND ASK FOR SISTER MARY Magdalene? Sister is the Monsignor’s SECRETARY, AND SHE MIGHT BE ABLE TO HELP YOU.
CP: He’s asleep, isn’t he? I mean, he didn’t GO TO THE MOVIES OR ANYTHING?
AP: If it makes you any happier, yes, Monsignor Moran is asleep. And you wouldn’t want to disturb him, would YOU?
CP: Wake him up! Wake him up!
AP: Oh, I’m sorry, sir. That’s out of the QUESTION.
CP: This is an emergency!
AP: In that case, sir, I’ll put you through to Sister Mary Magdalene at the convent. She always stays up to watch Johnny Carson.
CP: No! I don’t want to speak to Sister Mary Magdalene. I want to speak to Monsignor Moran.
AP: As I’VE TOLD YOU BEFORE, SIR, THAT’S IMPOSSIBLE. The Monsignor needs his rest.
CP: Don’t make me laugh! I’m the one who needs HIS rest.
AP: If there’s nothing else, sir, I must break off the connection.
CP: Listen to me, young woman, if you don’t wake Monsignor Moran up and TELL HIM HIS FRIEND PATRICK MICHAEL IS ON THE PHONE, HE’S NOT GOING TO LIKE IT.
AP: Those are the first names of our beLOVED BISHOP. I HOPE FOR YOUR SAKE THAT YOU’RE NOT TAKING THEM IN VAIN.
CP: Just tell him, for the love of God, JUST TELL him!
AP: Very well…
AP(2): Monsignor Moran.
AP: Monsignor, I’m terribly sorry to bother you after you’ve retired, but there’s this persistent character on the line who insists on speaking to you. He says his name is Patrick Michael. I tried to get him to talk to Sister Mary Magdalene, but he insists on speaking to YOU.
AP(2): You just tell Mr. Michael to CALL BACK DURING OFFICE HOURS— WAIT A MINUTE. Put him through, operator.
CP: Bob?
AP(2): Is this who I think it is?
CP: No names, Bob.
AP(2): Yes, sir, Your Excellency.
CP: Go easy on that “Your Excellency” business, too, Bob.
AP(2): Yes, sir.
CP: Now LISTEN CAREFULLY, BOB. I WANT YOU TO GO DOWN TO THE GARAGE AND GET OUT THE LIMOUSINE. I WANT YOU TO DRIVE IT YOURSELF, AND BEFORE YOU START OUT, CLOSE ALL THOSE LITTLE CURTAINS IN THE BACK, THE ONES THAT KEEP PEOPLE FROM looking in. That’s very important.
AP(2): Yes, sir.
CP: Then come out to the airport and get ME.
AP(2): Yes, sir. Right away. You’ll be in THE V.I.P. LOUNGE AS USUAL?
CP: No. I’ll be behind the “Hi, my name is Bobbsie, fly me to New York” sign.
AP(2): Sir?
CP: You KNOW THE ONE, BOB. THE BLONDE IN THE COWBOY HAT AND ALMOST NOTHING ELSE.
AP(2): I’ll leave right away, sir. I hope I’ll be able to find you all right, sir.
CP: About that, Bob.
AP(2): Sir?
CP: When you get to the sign, Bob, you’ll see someone in flowing robes and a burnoose.
AP(2): A what? Flowing robes and a what?
CP: A burnoose. What the Arabs wear on THEIR HEADS TO KEEP THE SUN OFF AND THE SAND OUT.
AP(2): Yes, sir, of course.
CP: In the strictest confidence, Bob, that’ll be me.
AP(2): Sir?
CP: Just get the car and come down here, Monsignor!
Call two ended here.
5. The investigation, including telephonic surveillance, will of course continue, UNDER THE PERSONAL GUIDANCE OF THE UNDERSIGNED.
6. Analysis of all information gathered to DATE INDICATES THE FOLLOWING.
A. The large granite and marble building LOCATED ADJACENT TO THE CATHEDRAL OF St. John and bearing a brass sign reading “Chancellory of the Diocese of Greater Miami and the Florida Keys” is more than likely the Chancellory of the Diocese of Greater Miami and the Florida Keys.
B. The suspect identified as Patrick Michael O’Grogarty, allegedly Bishop of the Diocese of Greater Miami and the Florida Keys—
(1) Has a drinking problem, and/or
(2) Is a little flaky, and/or
(3) Has SECRET CONNECTIONS OF AN UNKNOWN NATURE WITH ONE OR MORE OF THE OIL-EXPORTING COUNTRIES.
7. In COMPLIANCE WITH THE PROVISIONS OF F.B.I. Regulation 110.C4, “Relations with the United States Postal Service,” this office is today forwarding, via United Parcel service, one Bible (King James Version), which is surplus to the needs of this office and which this office was unable to return FOR CREDIT.
Birch Beebe, agent in charge
Chapter Twelve
The Baroness d’Iberville slipped into the royal cabin of the Air Hussid airplane and knelt beside one of the two beds, taking great care with the tray she carried. The tray held a silver coffee pot, a Meissen china cup and saucer, and a bottle of Courvoisier cognac.
Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov lay on the bed on his back, his legs spread, his arms at his sides, his mouth hanging slightly open, his eyes tightly closed. He was snoring loudly. So loudly, in fact, that a sympathetic vibration had been set up with the covering of the NO SMOKING FASTEN SEAT BELTS sign on the wall. It rattled alarmingly with every exhaled breath.
The baroness set the tray on the bedside table, carefully poured the Meissen cup half full of steaming coffee, and then uncorked the bottle of cognac. She waved the open neck of the bottle back and forth.
The massive left nostril of Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov twitched. Then the right nostril twitched. And finally both nostrils twitched in unison. The massive head turned toward the neck of the cognac bottle like a radar antenna locking in on an intercontinental ballistic missile. The nostrils shuddered, and one eye opened.
“Are you out of your mind?” Boris asked. “Can’t you see that I’m rooming with an archbishop? Have you no shame? No control of your baser emotions whatever?”
“The archbishop isn’t here,” the baroness replied. “He said he couldn’t stand the noise in here.”
“No wonder. I’ve never heard a cup of coffee poured so noisily.”
“Should I put a little cognac in the coffee, Cher Boris?”
“Make it half and half,” he said. “I’m a sick man.”
She poured cognac into the coffee cup, filling it. Boris took it from her and drained it in two gulps. He turned and looked out the window.
“Thank God!”
“For what?” the baroness asked.
“I had the most terrifying nightmare. I dreamed I... never mind. Where are we?”
“Half an hour or so from Spruce Harbor, Maine,” the baroness said.
“What the hell are we going to do in Spruce Harbor, Maine?”
“We’re going to pick up Hawkeye and Trapper John,” the baroness said.
“What for?”
“To take them to Miami, Florida.”
“I’ve never heard of anything so idiotic!” he said. “Whose preposterous idea was this?”
“Why, yours, of course, Cher Boris,” she said.
“In that case, there must be a good reason. Give me a little more of the coffee, and don’t be so stingy with the brandy this time.”
Up in the front of the aircraft, where the pilots and crew
usually had their parties, things were quiet and businesslike. The pilot now flying the aircraft didn’t like to monkey around when he was at the controls.
The Air Hussid plane was a DC-9. Normally, his Royal Highness Prince Hassan ad Kayam travelled in a Le Discorde, but for this trip, this had been quite out of the question. For one thing, while Le Discorde aircraft flew fast, they didn’t fly very far. A nonstop Paris-Prudhoe Bay, Alaska, trip was impossible. For another, Le Discorde made so much noise when landing and taking off that a coalition had been formed by various special-interest lobbies—who normally couldn’t stand the sight of each other, but who had buried the hatchet briefly—to convince the United States Congress that permitting Le Discorde aircraft to land anywhere in the United States would so enrage all voters of all persuasions within one hundred miles of the field that not one person who voted to give it landing rights would ever be returned to any political office whatsoever.
Faced with what the politicians called “the cold fact that Le Discorde poses awful threats to the environment and the mental stability of the country,” the Congress had wisely denied the aircraft landing rights anywhere in the United States. That, unfortunately, included Prudhoe Bay, Alaska.
“Boston Area Control,” the pilot of the Air Hussid DC-9 now said, “Air Hussid Twelve at three zero thousand feet over Montreal. Estimate Spruce Harbor International in twenty-five minutes. Request permission to begin descent for approach to Spruce Harbor.”
“Air Hussid Twelve, Boston Area Control. A word to the wise, fella. We don’t like wise guys. Spruce Harbor International, my eye!”
“Boston, I say again, Air Hussid Twelve requests permission to leave three zero thousand to begin approach to Spruce Harbor International.”
“Air Hussid Twelve, Boston. O.K., wise guy, you got it. Boston clears Air Hussid Twelve for descent from three zero thousand feet for approach to Spruce Harbor International. Boston advises Air Hussid Twelve we have you on radar, and you better try to get into Spruce Harbor.”
“Roger, Boston. Air Hussid Twelve leaving three zero thousand at this time,” the pilot said. He changed his radio frequency. “Spruce Harbor International, Air Hussid Twelve.”
There was no reply.
“Spruce Harbor International, this is Air Hussid Twelve.”
“Aircraft calling Spruce Harbor International is advised that Spruce Harbor International is closed to all traffic for an indefinite period.”
“That you, Wrong Way?” the pilot of Air Hussid Twelve said.
“I hope this isn’t who I think it is,” Spruce Harbor replied.
“Why, Wrong Way, why do you say that?” the pilot asked.
“It’s not nice to lie to an archbishop, that’s why,” Spruce Harbor said.
“For the time being, Wrong Way, just think of me as an ordinary pilot whose Air Transport Rating is multi-engine, unlimited horsepower,” Archbishop Mulcahy replied.* “Air Hussid Twelve passing through two five thousand, estimate Spruce Harbor International Airport as well as the airport’s chief (and only) control tower operator, was, to coin a phrase, on the horns of a dilemma.
(* His Eminence, sometime chaplain of the Cajun Air Force, had been taught to fly by the chief pilot of the aviation division, Chevaux Petroleum Corporation, International. When the Federal Aviation Administration was reluctant to issue an Air Transport Rating for DC-9 and Boeing 747 aircraft to a fifty-six-year-old pilot with two hundred thirty-five hours total flying time, His Eminence was licensed by the Royal Camel, Horse, and Aviation Ministry, Kingdom of Hussid, at the personal direction of the king himself. His Royal Highness, it will be remembered, once publicly referred to the archbishop as “my kind of infidel.” The details may be found in M*A*S*H Goes to Las Vegas (published by Pocket Books and an absolute steal at only $1.50).)
At five minutes past eleven the previous evening, Mr. Napolitano had received a telephone call from Dr. John Francis Xavier (“Trapper John”) McIntyre, who had been calling from the residence of Dr. Benjamin Franklin (“Hawkeye”) Pierce.
Dr. McIntyre had informed Mr. Napolitano that they had just had a very long-distance telephone call from a Mr. B. A. Korsky-Rimsakov, and that it was their studied medical judgment that Mr. Korsky-Rimsakov had been at the grape.
“Setting new standards,” Hawkeye Pierce had chimed in on the extension phone, “even for him. He’s hallucinating. He said that he was calling from the top of the Eiffel Tower, off the top of which he was flying a paper airplane with the Painless Pole. Now you know that’s absolutely beyond credibility.”
“They don’t let people fly paper airplanes off the Eiffel Tower, you mean?” Wrong Way had replied.
“No,” Hawkeye had said. “What’s incredible is that he’s with the Painless Pole. The Painless Pole solemnly vowed, many a time, that if he ever made it back to Hamtramck, it would take an earthquake to get him out. And they don’t have earthquakes in Hamtramck. Riots, strikes, insurrections, sure, but no earthquakes.”
“Maybe he got married,” Wrong Way had suggested. “That sometimes changes people.”
“My God!” Trapper John had said. “The Lindbergh of Maine may be onto something!”
“Now listen to me, Wrong Way,” Hawkeye Pierce had said sternly. “If, within the next seventy-two hours, any airplane bigger than Stanley K. Warczinski’s Piper Cub asks for permission to land at Spruce Harbor, you tell them the field is closed for an indefinite period.”
“I can’t do that, Hawkeye,” Wrong Way, a faithful, if part-time, employee of the Federal Aviation Administration had replied. “It’s against Federal regulations.”
“The Hotsy-Totsy Club, 111 South Maple Street, Bangor,” Trapper John had said.
“Miss Lotsa Bazoom,” Hawkeye had said.
“It’s closed, it’s closed,” Mr. Napolitano had quickly replied.
Mr. Napolitano, attending the state convention of the Loyal Sons of Italy, held six months before in Bangor, Maine, had dallied for several hours at the Hotsy-Totsy Club and Massage Parlor at 111 South Maple Street. Certain photographs of Mr. Napolitano and the star chanteuse and masseuse, Miss Lotsa Bazoom, taken while she was toning up to Mr. Napolitano’s muscles, had shortly thereafter come onto the market.
Mr. Napolitano, whose expenses had exceeded the $37.50 Mrs. Napolitano had allowed him for the convention, had been in no position, money-wise, to purchase the photographs. At that point, Miss Bazoom and her employer, one Duke Jones, had, out of the goodness of their hearts, offered to show the photographs to Mrs. Napolitano and ask her if she wouldn’t like to purchase them for the family album.
Mr. Napolitano had then telephoned Dr. Pierce in an attempt to float an instant emergency loan. Dr. Pierce had rather sternly told him that he made it a practice never to loan money to purchase naughty photographs. He had, however, made a telephone call to a friend of a friend. Shortly thereafter, the Hotsy-Totsy Club and Massage Parlor had been visited by eight very large state troopers, who had suggested to Miss Bazoom and Mr. Jones that they would be far, far happier in far-off Montreal, and that, since they would want to be able to travel swiftly, they would have to simply abandon their collection of art photographs.
The state trooper sergeant and Doctors Pierce and McIntyre had had many a merry chuckle as they viewed the photographs. They really had had no idea how well massage had caught on among the upper crust of politicians in Maine, or, to judge from the smiles on the politicians’ faces, what a pleasant experience it could be. As a small memento of the incident, Dr. McIntyre had kept some photographs of Miss Bazoom working, as it were, on the Honorable Moosenose Bartlett, Mayor of Spruce Harbor, and Dr. Pierce had kept the set of six eight-by-ten glossy photographs of Miss Bazoom and Wrong Way Napolitano.
Neither healer had ever had any trouble thereafter getting airline reservations on even the shortest of notice; and, since they had come to Mr. Napolitano’s aid, their baggage had never been so much as rudely jostled, much less scratched or sent to Karachi, Pakistan, in error.
“Air Hussid passing through two zero thousand,” His Eminence said. “Estimate Spruce Harbor International in one five minutes.”
Wrong Way Napolitano bit the bullet. He reached for the telephone and dialed a number from memory.
“Wrong Way, Miz Pierce,” he said when that lady had answered. “The Doc there?”
“No, he’s at the hospital. Anything I can do?”
Wrong Way had a sudden inspiration. “How do you Protestants feel about lying to a Catholic archbishop?” he asked—and then recognized that he had been merely chasing a wisp of hope. “Forget it,” he said. “Thanks anyway.” He hung up and dialed another number from memory.
“Spruce Harbor Medical Center.”
“This is the Federal Aviation Administration calling for Dr. Benjamin F. Pierce,” he said as officiously as he could.
“Hawkeye’s in conference with Trapper John, Wrong Way,” the operator said. “Is it important enough to disturb him in there?”
“It’s an emergency,” Wrong Way said. “Put me through.”
“This better be an emergency,” the familiar voice of Hawkeye Pierce said a moment later. “I am in conference with Dr. McIntyre.”
“I hope he made you a strong drink, Hawkeye,” Wrong Way said. “You ain’t gonna like what I’m about to tell you.”
“It’s that male model from the airport,” Hawkeye said, loud enough for Wrong Way to hear, although the comment' was ostensibly directed to John Francis Xavier McIntyre, M.D., F.A.C.S. “Do you think the bad news he’s about to tell us is going to be anything like the bad news he’s going to find at home after the good Mrs. Napolitano gets her illustrated how-to-do-it course in the fine points of massage?”
“Hawkeye, you wouldn’t!” Wrong Way moaned.
“Not unless you let an airplane carrying Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov land at Spruce Harbor International, I won’t.”
“How about a plane with His Eminence John Patrick Mulcahy, Archbishop of Swengchan?” Wrong Way asked desperately.
“That’s a plane of a different color,” Hawkeye replied. “You mean, the archbishop’s coming here?”
MASH 10 MASH goes to Miami Page 13
