Senator Fisch was quite surprised and more than a little worried when the chairman of the Subcommittee on Minorities, the Honorable Christopher Columbus (“C. C.”) Cacciatore (Ethnic-Democrat, N.J.), sent word to him, via an underling, that he wanted to see him. So far as Senator Fisch knew, he had been doing a good job. His record was perfect: everything that Senator C. C. Cacciatore had voted for he had voted for, and everything that the New Jersey senator had voted against Senator Jaws Fisch had also voted against
The Subcommittee on Minorities did not, of course, occupy all of Senator Cacciatore’s time and talents. The senator was chairman of the Senate Committee on Internal Operations. It was he who assigned office space, secretarial help, and, most important, it was his eagle eye that went over senatorial expense accounts.
Senators who defied Senator Cacciatore did so at their own peril. Those who were foolhardy enough to vote against some bill Senator Cacciatore favored soon found themselves installed in basement offices in, say, the Bethesda, Maryland, annex of the Smithsonian Institution and answering constituents’ mail on Sears, Roebuck portable typewriters, rather than conducting the nation’s business from one of the Senate office buildings with the best office equipment the taxpayers’ money could buy.
One of the Senate’s most cherished legends featured the foolhardy senator (most people felt he must have been drinking at the time) who had voted against Senator Cacciatore three times in a row. Senator Cacciatore had risen to that challenge with imagination and determination. The renegade senator’s mail had been returned to his constituents stamped NOT KNOWN AT THIS ADDRESS; the one telephone that was installed in his office in the Bureau of Indian Affairs was the kind that hung on the wall and required a dime to get it going; and, to put the cherry on the cake, when the senator had invoked the sacred senatorial privilege and arranged to catch a ride home on an Air Force plane, he’d “happened” to be seated on the last piston-engine transport aircraft in active service—which had “happened” to get itself re-routed after takeoff for a trip to Brisbane, Australia, via Buenos Aires, Capetown, and New Delhi.
Although his conscience was clear, Senator Jaws Fisch nevertheless prepared for his audience with Senator Cacciatore with great care. He stopped by the Capitol Liquor Store and picked up a case of the very best chianti. He dressed with care in his best Italian silk suit and Gucci loafers, and he doused himself liberally with an eau de cologne known as “Flora del Napoli.”
When he was finally ushered into the senator’s presence, he carried, conspicuously, a copy of Michelangelo, The World’s Greatest Genius under his arm. P. Kenyon Quirtman, his senior assistant for policy research, preceded him, carrying the case of chianti on his shoulders.
“Buono giorno, Don Christopher,” Senator Fisch said.
“Close your mouth, your teeth blind me,” the senator replied. He stood by patiently as Mr. Quirtman reverently opened the case of chianti and presented him with a raffia-wrapped bottle. The senator examined the bottle carefully.
“You’re a good boy, Fisch,” Senator Cacciatore said. “Not too bright, but you mean well. Next time, tell the man who the vino is for, and he’ll get you the good stuff.”
“Make a note of that, Quirtman,” Senator Fisch replied. “Nothing is too good for our beloved Senator Cacciatore.”
“That’s the idea,” the senator replied. “Keep that in mind.” He turned to Mr. Quirtman and dismissed him with a wave of his hand. Mr. Quirtman backed out of the room.
“So tell me, Jaws, how’s things?”
“Just fine, Senator, thank you kindly.”
“So where’s your manners? You’re not going to ask how’s things by me?”
“Of course I am,” Senator Fisch said. “I just didn’t want to seem forward, Senator.”
“So ask.”
“How are things with you, Senator Cacciatore?”
“Strange that you should ask, Fisch,” Senator Cacciatore said. “The truth of the matter is, I got a delicate little problem.”
“I’m sorry, truly sorry, to hear that.”
“That’s all you got to say? I tell you I got a delicate little problem, and all you got to say is that you’re sorry to hear about it? Maybe I misjudged you. Maybe you’d like to move your office to the Bureau of Indian Affairs.”
“Is there anything I can do, Senator, to help?” Senator Fisch asked.
“Strange that you should ask,” Senator Cacciatore said. “As it happens, I need a small favor.”
“Name it,” Senator Fisch replied instantly.
“Let me give you a word of advice, Fisch,” Senator Cacciatore said. “The distilled essence of my long years of public service.”
“Yes, sir?” Senator Fisch asked, sitting up on the edge of his chair.
“Never trust a Cuban,” Senator Cacciatore said. Senator Fisch took a notepad from the breast pocket of his Italian silk suit, and, moving his lips just a little, wrote those words down. “Never trust a Cuban,” he said, and looked at Senator Cacciatore again. “I’ll remember that, Senator Cacciatore. I’m grateful to you for sharing your wisdom with me.”
“I told you before, Fisch, don’t smile at me. Your teeth blind me.”
“Sorry, Senator,” Fisch said.
“Enough of this beating around the bush,” Senator Cacciatore said. “Let’s get to the heart of the matter. You tell me, Fisch—who was it who went personally to Miami to welcome a boat-load of Cuban refugees?”
“Let me think a moment,” Fisch replied. “It’s right on the tip of my tongue.”
“It was Christopher Columbus Cacciatore, that’s who it was!” the senator said.
“Of course! How stupid of me!”
“You said it, Fisch, not me,” the senator said. “And who was it got up on the floor of the Senate and made one of the most brilliant, touching, stirring, and very interesting speeches about how welcoming Cuban refugees to our shores was in the finest tradition of the nation?”
“That,” Senator Fisch cried triumphantly, “I know. Senator Barry Gold—”
“Christopher Columbus Cacciatore, that’s who!” Christopher Columbus Cacciatore said.
“Of course.”
“And going back to the very beginning, Fisch—who discovered Cuba?”
“Vasco de Gama?”
“Mama mia, you’re really dumb, Fisch, you know that?”
“If you say so, Senator,” Senator Fisch replied.
“Christopher Columbus discovered Cuba, that’s who discovered Cuba!” Senator Cacciatore said. “The great navigator.”
Scribbling furiously, Senator Fisch wrote “Christopher Columbus discovered Cuba” on his note pad.
“So we welcome these miserable refugees to our fair shores,” Senator Cacciatore said. “They come here with nothing but the clothing on their backs. Most of them can’t even speak English, for God’s sake. All they got, we gave them. Jobs, for example. Out of the goodness of our hearts, Fisch, and closing our eyes to the fact that most of them can’t even speak English, we gave them jobs—washing dishes, sweeping floors, digging ditches. Things like that.”
“That’s true, Senator,” Senator Fisch agreed.
“Certainly it’s true! I said it. We told them this was the land of opportunity, the great melting pot, that success is open to everybody willing to work and sacrifice for it.”
“Right,” Senator Fisch said. “We did that.”
“Not we, Fisch. Me. I gave that speech. It was one of my better ones.”
“Of course.”
“And how did they repay our generosity?”
“I don’t know, sir,” Senator Fisch said.
“They foreclosed on the Friendly Sons of Italy, that’s how!” the senator said, his outrage evident in his flushed face.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Why, what did you do, Fisch, burp?”
“I don’t quite follow you, Senator,” Senator Fisch said.
“Well, if you were listening to me instead of burping all
over, maybe you would have heard what I said. Pay attention this time. What I said was that those lousy Cubans foreclosed on the Friendly Sons of Italy.”
“They did that, did they?” Senator Fisch replied. “That certainly was beastly of them, wasn’t it?”
“You can say that again, Senator,” C. C. Cacciatore said.
“That certainly was beastly of them, wasn’t it?”
“You said it. Right out on the street,” the senator said. “When Pasquale d’Allesandro called me to tell me about it, he had to call from the gas station on the corner. And while he was making the call, some nefarious scoundrel made off with the Senator Cacciatore Memorial Oil Portrait of Christopher Columbus. They found it later. Some kids . . . obviously Cuban kids . . . had been using it for a bow-and-arrow target.”
“A portrait of Christopher Columbus? A sacrilege!”
“An oil portrait, painted by hand by my wife’s cousin’s nephew Gino,” the senator said. “I gave it to the Friendly Sons when they made me an honorable member.”
“That was certainly a generous gesture of you, Senator,” Senator Fisch said.
“Not only was it generous,” the senator replied, “it got the rotten painting out of the house. My wife’s cousin’s nephew Gino isn’t worth a pastafazool as a painter, you should excuse the expression.”
“Certainly,” Senator Fisch said. “But, Senator, I’m a little confused about how the Cubans connect with all this.”
“You’re not very bright, Fisch, as I already told you. Twice, I told you. They foreclosed on the Friendly Sons of Italy. That’s what they have to do with it!”
“How did they do that?”
“They sent the Dade County sheriff down to the Friendly Sons of Italy hall with a foreclosure notice. He threw the furniture, not to mention sixteen Friendly Sons, right out onto the street. Just because they were a little late with the mortgage payment.”
“How late?”
“What’s twelve, fifteen months? A fleeting instant in the history of the universe, that’s what it is. The Friendly Sons of Italy were a fleeting instant, no more, late with their mortgage payment, and those lousy Cubans had them foreclosed and evicted! That’s gratitude for you! Never trust a Cuban, Fisch—remember that!”
“I will, Senator, I will,” Fisch replied. “So the sheriff hired some Cubans to throw the Friendly Sons’ furniture out in the street. Outrageous! Beastly! They should have refused, of course.”
“You got it backwards, stupid,” Senator Cacciatore said. “The Cubans hired the sheriff to throw the Friendly Sons of Italy and their furniture out onto the street. He gets seventy-five bucks for an eviction, and a hundred and a quarter if he has to throw the furniture out too.”
“I see. And just where do the Cubans come in?”
“You wouldn’t believe it!”
“I guess I wouldn’t believe it if you told me,” Senator Fisch agreed.
“Guess who held the mortgage?”
“I give up.”
“The Great Melting Pot Savings & Loan, that’s who,” Senator Cacciatore said. “What do you think about that?”
“It’s a catchy name, I’ll say that,” Senator Fisch replied.
“So when Pasquale d’Allesandro called me up and told me the Friendly Sons had been evicted, I of course took appropriate action.”
“Which was?”
“I called the Great Melting Pot Savings & Loan in Miami,” the senator said. “And you know what they told me?” he asked rhetorically. “They told me, Christopher Columbus Cacciatore himself, to go soak my head in a plate of linguini! They said that the Friendly Sons were nothing but a noisy bunch of deadbeats, and that one of the reasons they’d been evicted was because they were trying to clean up the neighborhood. Can you beat that?”
“That’s awful, Senator,” Senator Fisch said.
“I didn’t take it lying down, of course,” Senator Cacciatore went on. “I got right on the phone and called my longtime, close, dear, and personal friend . . . Whatsisname? That bald-headed Irisher? The one who always smells of bourbon? He’s chairman of the Senate Committee on Savings and Loans. And he told me he’d look into it for me. Said he wanted to go to Miami anyway.”
“And, he, I gather, brought the situation into proper perspective, lent the confronting parties the benefit of his wisdom, and effected a compromise satisfying all?”
“You wouldn’t believe what they did to him!” Senator Cacciatore said. “Not in a million years. It’s sacrilege!”
“I suppose I wouldn’t believe what they did to him,” Senator Fisch agreed.
“The senator flew down there, of course, just as fast as the Air Force could get him there on a training flight,” Senator Cacciatore said. “And he put up, as he has put up since it was built, at the Winter Palace . . . you know the place, right down the street from the Fountainbleau?”
“I know the place,” Senator Fisch said. “A splendid hostelry for those of us in government who desperately need a brief respite from the heavy burden of our many duties.”
“Shows how much you know!” Senator Cacciatore snorted. “But I don’t want to egress—”
“I believe you mean to say ‘digress.’ ”
“Don’t you tell me what I mean to say!” Senator Cacciatore snapped. “I got a lot of seniority on you, Teeth, I mean Fisch, and don’t you forget it!”
“No, sir.”
“As I was saying. So . . . Whatsisname. You know, with the purple nose . . . the distinguished chairman of the Committee on Savings and Loans. Well, just as soon as he’d had a bite to eat, and a swim, and a massage, and a sun bath, he got right down to business. He got in the hotel’s limousine and went over to the Great Melting Pot Savings & Loan.”
“Well, I guess that put them in their place?”
“There wasn’t anybody that could speak English! What do you think about that?”
“Astounding!”
“So he called a cop, and the cop translated. Do you know that most of the cops in Miami speak Cuban? I wonder what the C.I.A. thinks about that! Right under our noses, our own cops speaking some foreign language.”
“Shocking.”
“So the cop finds out that the Great Melting Pot Savings & Loan is owned by the Land of Opportunity Bank & Trust Company.”
“That certainly sounds subversive,” Senator Fisch, who had caught the drift of things, said.
“The way these lousy Cubans pervert the true meaning of things has to be experienced to be believed,” Senator Cacciatore said. “Well, they don’t call Whatsisname ‘Old Horse Teeth’ for nothing. He wasn’t about to give up. So he got back in the limousine and went to the Land of Opportunity Bank & Trust Company. Great big building, forty stories high, overlooking Biscayne Bay. And guess what he found there?”
“More Cubans?”
“You’re not as dumb as you look, sometimes, Fisch. Right you are. Whatsisname found out that the Land of Opportunity Bank & Trust Company is a wholly-owned subsidiary of something called Cuba Libre Enterprises, Inc. Can you imagine anything more disrespectful toward our national image than naming a company after some drink?”
“Shocking!”
“Well, Whatsisname found out who owned Cuba Libre Enterprises, Inc. They were hiding out in the penthouse of ... you won’t believe this, Fisch.”
“I guess I won’t believe it,” Fisch said.
“The Winter Palace. Right up on top! Sitting up there, sucking on those stinking cigars, and looking down at all the decent folk of Miami Beach.”
“Outrageous!”
“Well, he went and spoke with them. He told them that, speaking as a U.S. senator, he felt that it was a pretty rotten thing for a bunch of lousy immigrants to foreclose a mortgage on a fine, patriotic, native group of one-hundred-percent Americans like the Friendly Sons of Italy.”
“And what did they say?”
“The mob . . . they call it the family, can you imagine that? ... is run by some old lady named Doña Antoinetta. You w
on’t believe what she did.”
“Try me, Senator.”
“She said she hadn’t liked purple-nosed Irishmen when she lived in Cuba, and nothing that had happened to her since she’d come to the United States had made her change her mind.”
“No!”
“Don’t interrupt, it gets worse. Guess what happened when he got back to his room?”
“I can’t imagine.”
“The manager of the Winter Palace ... a Cuban, of course . . . came knocking at the door. He had a bellboy with him and the house detective. The bellboy grabbed the complimentary bowl of fruit off the coffee table. The house detective went around counting glasses and towels and the stationery in the desk drawers. Then the manager said that they were sorry, but they needed the room, and Whatsisname would have to make other arrangements. He had thirty minutes to get out of the room.”
“I’ve never heard of a worse insult to a United States senator!”
“I have. Can you believe that the manager handed Whatsisname a bill? I mean, he actually expected a United States senator, Fisch, one of us, to pay not only for his hotel room and his food, but also for the swim in the pool, the extra towel, his suntan lotion, and, rubbing salt into the wound, even the use of the hotel limousine!”
“Senators never pay for that stuff,” Fisch said. “It’s what they call a fringe benefit. I mean, why give your life to serving the public if you can’t expect a little fringe benefit or two?”
“Precisely, my boy,” Senator Cacciatore said. “My thinking exactly.”
“Whatsisname isn’t going to take that insult to the dignity of the United States Senate lying down, is he?”
“Of course not, Fisch, and that’s where you come in.”
“I come in? What can I do?”
“Senator,” Senator Cacciatore said, putting down his glass of chianti and drawing himself up to his full five feet, six and three-quarter inches, “duty calls! You are now chairman of the United States Senate Subcommittee on F.B.I. and other Investigative Body Relations!”
“Senator,” Senator Fisch said, teeth flashing, cheeks flushing, boyish haircut wagging like a Scottie’s tail, “I’m truly and deeply honored. You have my assurance that I will leave no stone upturned, no—”
MASH 10 MASH goes to Miami Page 16
