“Don’t mind if I do,” Wrong Way said, taking a healthy pull at the bottle.
“Perhaps just a teensy-weensy taste,” Reverend Mother said, joining them and practically snatching the bottle from Wrong Way’s hand. She tipped it up, and there was a steady glug-glug sound lasting a full thirty seconds. “I always get so thirsty when I fly,” she said, handing the bottle, finally, to Colonel de la Chevaux.
Colonel de la Chevaux, as they say, drank deeply at the only available well and then handed the bottle back to Wrong Way.
“Wrong Way,” he said, glancing up at the sky, through which a gooney bird, a Sabreliner and a DC-8 endlessly circled around the field, “what the hell is a that?”
“Jeez, Horsey,” Wrong Way replied, “I forgot. Tubby’s up there. I better get him down.” He began to clamber back up the rope ladder. As Reverend Mother and Colonel de la Chevaux watched him, there came upon the still air the faint sound of a voice pathetically repeating, over and over, “Spruce Harbor International, please come in. Spruce Harbor International, please come in.”
Chapter Eleven
“So, Horsey,” the Secretary of State said minutes later, when he came down the steps of Air Force Three, “so how’s by you?”
“You should have told me you were coming,” Colonel de la Chevaux replied, draping a massive friendly arm around the secretary’s shoulders and offering him the bottle of Old White Stagg with the other hand. “We flew right over Washington, we could have picked you up.”
“I just happened to be in the neighborhood,” the secretary said, “so I said, why not drop by and say hello?”
“We’re here because our babies were lonely,” Reverend Mother said.
“You should excuse me,” the secretary said. “I don’t think I got that right.”
“Shake hands with the nice man,” Reverend Mother said. “First you, Darling, and then Beauregard.”
Darling, the slightly smaller of the two Scottish wolfhounds, obediently sat down on her haunches and extended her paw to be shaken. It was a new trick, and Darling really hadn’t had the opportunity to polish it. The paw she extended to the secretary struck him in the belly.
The wind was knocked out of him, and he put his hands on his somewhat less than perfectly flat abdomen. Beauregard, Darling’s brother, then put out his paw, and he wasn’t any better at it than Darling. The second extended paw send the secretary over backward. Darling and Beauregard, quite understandably mistaking this acrobatic motion as the canine gesture of submission, immediately stood over him and licked his face, to show him there were no hard feelings.
“Isn’t that sweet?” Reverend Mother cooed. “They like you, Tubby!”
“And I like them,” the secretary said, without much conviction. “Nice doggies.”
“You should be flattered,” Reverend Mother went on, pulling Darling and Beauregard off him with her shepherd’s crook. “They don’t like everybody.”
“You don’t mean it,” the secretary said, getting to his feet and mopping his face, where he had been kissed, with his handkerchief.
“They got one sniff of Hot Lips’s fairies and ran them out of International Headquarters,” Horsey de la Chevaux said. “Right down Canal Street, past the Trade Center and into the Mississippi River.”
“Horsey,” Reverend Mother said, “I thought we had agreed we weren’t going to bring that up. It was a simple misunderstanding.”
“I forgot,” Horsey said.
“And you also forgot and used that word again,” she said.
“Fairies, you mean?”
“That’s what I mean,” she said.
“So, what brings you two to Spruce Harbor?” the secretary asked.
“Darling and Beauregard told me they were lonely for their brothers and sister,” Reverend Mother said. “So we decided to have a little reunion.”
“With who?” the secretary asked.
“With their brothers and sister, of course,” Hot Lips said.
“You mean there’s more?” the secretary said.
“Well, you remember Wee Black Doggie, of course,” Hot Lips said.
“How could I forget?” the secretary replied.
“And then there’s Duchess, and Wolfie-Baby, and Alfred the dog,” Hot Lips said. “It’s going to be quite a reunion.”
“Oy vay!” the secretary said. He turned and looked over his shoulder. Air Force Six-Two-Six had landed, and the door was open. Senator J. Ellwood Fisch stood in the door.
“Oh vay!” the secretary said again. “Him, I don’t need.” A horrible thought crossed his mind. “Horsey, tell me, he’s a friend of yours?”
Horsey looked at Senator Fisch. He shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. “Never saw him before.”
“Me, either,” Reverend Mother said. “Although he does look something like my choir director. Maybe they’re brothers or something.”
“So, for old times’ sake,” the secretary said, “do me the favor. Don’t ask questions. Just get me out of here before that idiot sees me.”
“You got it, Tubby,” Wrong Way replied. He loaded the secretary and Reverend Mother in the cab of his pickup truck. Horsey, Darling and Beauregard got into the bed, and with a painful clash of gears the truck drove away.
Senator Fisch, who had been ordered by Senator Christopher Columbus Cacciatore to “see what the hell’s going on out there,” ran after the truck, shouting:
“Say there! I’m Senator Fisch! Might I have a moment of your time?”
For some reason, this annoyed Darling and Beauregard. It was all that Horsey could do to keep them in the truck.
As Senator Fisch walked disconsolately back to Air Force Six-Two-Six to report his failure, Navy Gooney Bird Nine-Two-Three landed, turned around on the runway, and taxied up beside the other aircraft.
Steeling himself for the ordeal, its pilot rose reluctantly from his chair and made his way into the passenger compartment. Admiral J. Kingswood Saltee, who had taken a wee cup of grog to settle his stomach before they had taken off, another wee cup as they lumbered into the sky, and several other cups en route, was sitting in a chair, mouth open, uniform cap somewhat askew, eyes closed and snoring loudly.
The pilot shook his arm. Nothing happened, so he shook it again. The admiral opened his eyes.
“Sir, we’re on the ground at Spruce Harbor,” the pilot reported.
“Just resting my eyes a moment,” the admiral said. He examined the empty glass in his hand. “Put a drop in there, will you, Commander? A little pick-me-up is always in order before inspecting the honor guard.”
“Admiral,” the pilot said, “about the honors ...”
“You mean, they’re not ready with my honors?” He looked out the window. “Why, there’s nobody out there but a couple of funny-looking civilians. Who are those idiots, anyway?”
“Admiral, I believe that’s Senator Cacciatore and Senator Fisch,” the pilot said.
“That’s the trouble with national defense,” Admiral Saltee said. “How can we be expected to do our job with some lousy senator always snooping around finding fault?” He looked out the other window. “My God, that looks like Air Force three!”
“No, sir,” the pilot said, “that’s Chevaux Petroleum One.”
“Chevaux Petroleum One?”
“Yes, sir. Air Force Three is parked on the other side of it.”
“Tell you what, Commander,” Admiral Saltee said. “I have decided to dispense with honors. Lieutenant (j.g.) J. P. Jones is somewhere in the area ...”
“Lieutenant J. P. Jones,” the pilot said, describing what could have been, but what was not, a Grecian urn, with his hand, "that Lieutenant Jones?”
“That Lieutenant Jones,” the admiral replied. “Get in touch with her, and have her lay on a car for me. I’ll just take a little nap while I’m waiting.”
“Aye, aye, Admiral,” the commander replied.
Several hours before this happened, Mr. T. Alfred Crumley, administrator of the Spruce Ha
rbor Medical Center, had been informed by Mr. Taylor P. Jambon that Miss Patience Throckbottom Worthington would be checking out and instructed to make arrangements to have her fan mail forwarded to Vienna, Austria.
Mr. Jambon’s announcement posed for Mr. Crumley a certain delicate problem. Mr. Jambon had not mentioned Miss Worthington’s bill, which by now was rather substantial. It had not occurred to Mr. Crumley to raise the vulgar subject of money on Miss Worthington’s admission. One simply does not, Mr. Crumley had decided, raise vulgar subjects to personages such as America’s most beloved thespian.
Mr. Crumley believed, as indeed did most of the English-speaking world, that Miss Worthington was sole heir to the tradition and worldly goods of the distinguished acting family of which she was the sole surviving legitimate member. And she was. What the English-speaking world did not know, because it was hard to believe, was that the Worthingtons, to a man (and woman), had spent the vast sums they had earned on the stage, the silver screen and the boob tube as fast (and sometimes far faster) than they had earned them.
Patience Throckbottom Worthington, America’s most beloved thespian, didn’t have a dime. Not that this sad financial state in any way affected her standard of living. At her father’s knee she had learned the secrets of how to live well while without funds. The first secret was never to let it appear that you are either broke or poor. Only the poor, and those who appear poor, have their credit questioned. The rich (and those who are thought to be rich) have unlimited credit; their creditors wish to believe that they will be paid, facts and nasty rumors about the cash values of the customer being grandly ignored.
The second secret was how to deal with those people who control credit. These generally fell into two categories, the tough successful credit-granters (bank presidents and the like) before whom normal people, Category I, were the easiest of all to handle. One simply insulted them, got their names wrong, and spilled drinks in their laps. That quickly tamed them. They simply were unable to believe that someone not in awe of them, someone who treated them with evident scorn and distain, could possibly have any financial worries.
Category II, those who handled credit for other people (mobile-home salesmen, hotel clerks and hospital administrators, and the like), were accustomed to being abused by their betters and would thus wait patiently through the most virulent tirade, at which point, bloody but unbowed, they would ask, “Now, about this overdue bill?”
Category II creditors, obviously, had to be treated, differently. The Worthington technique over the years had been to treat them with bucketsful of charm, to make them believe that they were far better than was the case and that only one Worthington or another could see the beauty in them. This kept them from bringing up the vulgar subject of money for long periods, but one day, inevitably, the question of the bill would be raised. At this point, after murmuring about nurturing a viper at one’s breast, it was only necessary to tell them what you really thought about them and had been thinking all the time.
And so it was when Mr. T. Alfred Crumley presented himself at the foot of the bed of Patience Throckbottom Worthington, in her private room, southern exposure, equipped with theatrical-makeup mirror, refrigerator, portable bar, color television and some other standard nonhospital items she had gently insisted upon.
“I understand, dear lady,” Mr. Crumley began, “that you are soon to leave us.”
“Quite so, my dear Mr. Crumley,” Patience had replied, in the soft voice which for thirty years had thrilled millions of Americans as she read Dickens’ A Christmas Carol on Christmas Eve, first on radio and later on television. Combined with the look she gave him from her gentle blue eyes, it should have been enough to shut him up for a week.
“We shall miss you, Miss Worthington,” Mr. Crumley said. “Your presence at Spruce Harbor Medical Center has enriched the lives of all who have been privileged in some way to serve you.”
“The show, Mr. Crumley, as I’m sure someone of your deep sensitivity and high intelligence is very much aware, must go on!”
“Your dedication to your art brings tears to my eyes,” T. Alfred replied, dabbing at them with a fresh hankie.
“I am, you know,” she said, deciding to press home the advantage, “going to Vienna, Austria, there to make a few simple appeals on behalf of America’s starving pups and pussies.”
“So I understand, dear lady.”
“Mr. Taylor P. Jambon himself has asked me to make them,” Patience said. “As ill and in such pain as I am, as you know yourself so well, my dear Mr. Crumley, this will mean a considerable sacrifice on my part. But no sacrifice is too great where darling puppies and sweet pussies are concerned. And who could possibly refuse a tearful entreaty from Mr. Taylor P. Jambon, famous gourmet and animal lover?”
“Who indeed, dear lady?” Mr. Crumley replied.
“A small corner of my heart shall always be reserved for the Spruce Harbor Medical Center and its splendid administrator,” Patience said. “I shall never forget you, Alfred .... I may call you Alfred, mayn’t I?”
T. Alfred Crumley stopped dabbing at his eyes with his hankie and blew his nose rather loudly into it. With tear-filled eyes, he looked at America’s most beloved thespian.
“About your bill, Miss Worthington?” he began.
“Blat!” Miss Worthington said.
T. Alfred Crumley was simply not used to hearing language like that, except, of course, from such crass and low-life personages as the chief of surgery, Dr. Hawkeye, Pierce, and his crony, Trapper John McIntyre. He really couldn’t believe his ears.
“Pardon me, dear lady?” he said.
“Something wrong with your bleeping ears, you bleeping four-eyed jackass?” Miss Worthington inquired.
“Miss Worthington!”
“How dare you come in here, you bleeping ignoramus, and ask me about your miserable bleeping bill?”
T. Alfred Crumley stared at her, open-mouthed.
“Get your blat the bleep out of here, you bleeping creep, before I forget I’m a bleeping lady,” Patience went on.
“But the bill!”
“Bleep you and your bleeping bill,” Patience said, and reaching beside her placed her hand on a certain item of hospital equipment designed to spare patients the necessity of walking barefoot across chilly floors to the inside plumbing.
Her aim, fortunately for Mr. Crumley, was a little off, possibly because she was on her second bottle of Old White Stagg Blended Kentucky Bourbon. The bedpan missed him by six inches before careening off the color television’s cathode-ray tube, which shattered.
The bedpan was followed by the telephone.
“Well!” Mr. Crumley sniffed. “We’ll see about this!”
“Out, out!” Miss Worthington screamed, as she tossed one of the Old White Stagg Blended Kentucky Bourbon bottles at him. So piqued was she that she threw the wrong (or quarter-full, rather than empty) bottle.
“Now see what the bleep you made me do!” she screamed. “Your bill! You have the bleeping nerve to ask me, you blap, about your bleeping bill! I’ll tell you what you can do with your bleeping bill!” And she did.
T. Alfred Crumley fled. After spending a few minutes alone in the mop closet to regain his composure, he decided to bring the matter to the attention of the chief of staff. That luminary, so said the Professional Personnel Locator Board, was at the Board of Health. That posed other problems. There was nothing the chief of staff hated more than to be called off the twelfth hole; he grew quite as livid and profane as Miss Worthington. “Golf, goddamnit,” is as he had said more than once to Mr. Crumley, “is what it’s all about. Can’t you see that, Crumley?”
In the absence of the chief of staff, the chief of surgery was the senior ranking medical officer. Mr. Crumley knew that Dr. Pierce was in the establishment. As he had walked by the chief of surgery’s office, he had been able to quite clearly hear the bloodcurdling sound Alfred the dog made as he playfully gnawed on a three-foot section of oxen thighbone.
; Straightening his shoulders and taking a deep breath, he knocked at Hawkeye Pierce’s office. The sound of the bone crunching stopped and was replaced by a deep-pitched growl.
“Go away, Crumbum,” Hawkeye called cheerfully from inside. “You know that you’re not one of Alfred’s favorite people.”
“Dr. Pierce, I have to see you on a matter of the most pressing importance,” Mr. Crumley called, and after a moment the door opened a crack. Hawkeye sniffed.
“My God, Crumbum, you reek of Old White Stagg!” Hawkeye said. “Shame on you!”
“That dreadful woman threw a bottle of it at me,” Mr. Crumley said. “And I’d hate to tell you what else.”
“What dreadful woman?”
“Miss Patience Throckbottom Worthington, that’s who!”
“America’s most beloved thespian? That Patience Throckbottom Worthington?”
“She’s leaving the hospital.”
“Well, then, your problems are over, aren’t they?”
“Without paying her bill! When I brought it up, ever so tactfully, she called me a ... I refuse to sully me lips with the language she used.”
“No!”
“Yes!”
“And what precisely is it you wish of me?” Hawkeye asked.
“In the absence of the chief of staff, you are the senior physician in the hospital,” Crumley said.
“Bill collecting is not in my department,” Hawkeye said. “Sorry, Crumbum.”
“That’s Crumley, Doctor,” Mr. Crumley said. “I keep telling you that, and you just can’t seem to remember.”
“On the other hand, Crumbum,” Hawkeye went on, “maintaining the peace and tranquility of this place is my business. Getting that broad out of here would certainly have a beneficial effect on the other patients.”
“Not with her bill unpaid!” T. Alfred Crumley protested.
“What about her ardent fan, Taylor P. Jambon?” Hawkeye asked. “Can we get the money out of him?”
“I hadn’t thought of Mr. Jambon,” T. Alfred Crumley confessed. “I truly hate to bring up something ... distasteful ... like this to America’s famed gourmet and animal lover.”
MASH 09 MASH goes to Vienna Page 12
