MASH 09 MASH goes to Vienna

by Richard Hooker+William Butterworth

  “You’ll have to talk to Seymour about that, Jaws,” Don Rhotten said. “He handles that end. I don’t like to get messed up with details.”

  “I wouldn’t think of interfering with your work as a journalist,” the senator said. “All I was going to was ask you to stand on the right.”

  “On the right of what?”

  “Of me,” the senator said. “That way the camera’ll get my left profile. My left profile is the better of the two.”

  “I’m sure that can be arranged,” Don Rhotten said. “What the hell, we’re pals, aren’t we?”

  They ordered drinks. The bartender delivered the drinks and a bowl of sugar.

  “What’s that?” Don Rhotten asked.

  “Sugar,” the bartender said.

  “I’d rather have pretzels, if it’s all the same to you.”

  “All we have is sugar,” the bartender said.

  “How strange!”

  “What’s the cord coming out of the bottom of the bowl?”

  “That keeps the sugar warm,” the bartender said.

  “Of course,” Senator Fisch said. “I should have known right off.”

  “I knew right off,” Don Rhotten said. “If you had asked me, I could have told you.”

  “Drink up, gentlemen,” the bartender said. “The next two are on the house.”

  “You don’t say?” the senator and Mr. Rhotten said, in unison, and tossed down their drinks.

  “Boy, that was some drink!” the senator said. “You always make them that strong?”

  “We try to please,” the bartender said, refilling their glasses.

  “You speak English very well,” Don Rhotten said. “And coming from me, you can take that as a real compliment. I’m Don Rhotten, the famous television newscaster and sage.”

  “Thank you very much, sir,” the bartender said. “It’s a great honor and pleasure to meet you.”

  “I always make it a point to be nice to the little people,” Don Rhotten said.

  “I confine that sort of thing to those who can vote for me,” the senator said. “One can only spread oneself so thin, I always say.”

  “You’re the famous Senator Fisch, aren’t you?” the bartender asked.

  “Why yes, my good man, I am,” the senator replied. “And I agree, Don, he does speak excellent English. He actually has a good speaking voice. Sounds something like that awful Harley Hazardous, when you come to think of it.”

  “Don’t be silly, Jaws,” Don Rhotten said. “What would Harley Hazardous be doing wearing a full beard and tending bar in Vienna, Austria?”

  “You’re right, of course,” Senator Fisch said.

  “So you’re the famous Senator J. Ellwood Fisch, Radical-liberal of California, are you?” the bartender said, speaking, the senator thought, a little loudly.

  “It is I,” the senator said.

  “And this gentleman is Don Rhotten of ‘Waldo Maldemer and the Evening News with Don Rhotten’ ?”

  “I didn’t know we were telecast here,” Don Rhotten said. “But yes, it is I. In the flesh, so to speak.”

  “And what brings you two to Vienna?” the bartender asked. Fisch looked at him a little oddly.

  “Something wrong with the sugar?”

  “No, why do you ask?”

  “You keep bending down over the bowl everytime you talk.”

  “Just bowing, just bowing,” the bartender said. “You were telling me what you two were doing here?”

  “You mean in Vienna,” Don Rhotten asked, “or here in the bar?”

  “Here in Vienna and in the bar,” the bartender asked.

  Don Rhotten looked around the bar. There were no other customers except a gray-haired old lady in a trench coat and her caged canary.

  “What’s that old lady doing with the canary?” Don Rhotten asked.

  “She comes in every day about this time and feeds it sugar,” the bartender said.

  “What’s the whirring noise?” Don Rhotten asked.

  “I don’t hear any whirring noise,” the bartender said. “Here you go, Mr. Rhotten. Another little snort on the house.”

  “Just between you and me, bartender ... what did you say your name was?”

  “Hans,” the bartender said. “Hans Schicklegruber.”

  “Well, just between you and me and the senator, Hans, we’re looking for a little action. Where’s the topless broads?”

  “Topless broads?” Hans Schicklegruber said.

  “You deaf or what?”

  “Maybe if you spoke up a little,” Hans said.

  “Where’s the topless broads?” Don Rhotten practically shouted.

  “Is that what you’re doing in Vienna, gentlemen?” Hans shouted back. “Looking for topless broads?”

  “Why not?” Senator Fisch replied. “I like to get my teeth into something different every once in a while.”

  “You can drink to that,” Hans said, serving another drink. “There’s only one little problem, gentlemen. Topless broads don’t come cheap.”

  “Not to worry, Hans,” the senator said grandly. “Providing they take credit cards.” He handed one to Hans. “Get us two, charge it to that card, and put a little something on it for yourself.”

  “It’s kind of dark in here, Senator,” Hans said. “What does it say on this thing?”

  “It’s an American Express card,” the senator replied grandly. “Issued to APPLE for the exclusive use of Senator J. Ellwood Fisch.”

  “What’s apple?”

  “The Association of Pup and Pussy Lovers in Earnest,” the senator replied. “It’s as good as gold.”

  “I didn’t quite get that, Senator.”

  “I said it’s an American Express credit card,” the senator shouted, “issued to Senator J. Ellwood Fisch, that’s me. The Association of Pup and Pussy Lovers in Earnest will pay for it.”

  “And you want me to get you a couple of topless broads and charge it to this credit card?”

  “You got it, Hans,” the senator said.

  “Das ist ein wrap!” the gray-haired lady suddenly shouted. They turned to look at her. She was running out of the bar with surprising agility for an old lady, pushing the canary cage ahead of her.

  “What’s that all about?” Senator Fisch said, turning to Hans. He was nowhere in sight.

  “Where’d he go?” the senator inquired.

  “After the broads, probably,” Don Rhotten said. “At least he left the bottle.”

  “I wonder why he took the sugar bowl?” the senator mused, reaching for the bottle.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Snookums,” said the Dowager Duchess of Folkestone to her consort, Mr. Angus MacKenzie, V.C., “can you ever find it in your heart to forgive me?”

  “I’ll give it some thought,” Mr. MacKenzie replied, “and let ye know after a bit.”

  “You forgive her, Angus” Reverend Mother Emeritus Margaret H. W. Wilson said, in the nature of an order. “Or else!”

  “I forgive you,” Angus said grandly.

  “It’s just that I know how attractive you are to the gentle sex,” the dowager duchess said.

  “I am that,” Angus agreed.

  “That I thought, perhaps in a moment of weakness. ...”

  “With that ugly old woman?” Angus said. “Now, that's unforgivable.”

  “He’s got a point there, Hot Lips,” Hawkeye said.

  “Shut up, Hawkeye,” Hot Lips said.

  “And she did give you two dozen roses,” the duchess went on.

  “I told you, Florabelle, and I told you,” Angus said, “she was throwing them flowers at the dogs!”

  “I found it hard to believe that anyone would attempt to harm those harmless puppies,” the duchess said.

  “To know the lady is to loathe her,” Trapper John said.

  “Until,” the duchess went on, “Colonel de la Chevaux told me what APPLE does with the money they collect.”

  “With what’s left over after they pay Taylor P.
Jambon and the senator their consultant’s fees,” Horsey said. “Gee, I wish we was all back in Louisiana.”

  “Why do you say that, Colonel?” the dowager duchess asked. “Aren’t you having a good time here?”

  “I’m having a fine time, Florabelle,” Horsey said. “I was just thinking that if we were all back in Louisiana, and since that Taylor P. Jambon and Senator Fisch like animals so much, I would let them play with a couple of my Louisiana alligators.”

  “That would constitute cruelty to alligators, Horsey,” Trapper John said.

  “But the swamp rat,” Boris said, “has given me an idea. Since it is my idea, it is naturally a brilliant idea, one which will solve the problem of what to do about all these people. Where’s Harley and Trench Coat Wally?”

  “Wally’s getting his film developed,” Trapper replied. “And Harley Hazardous is trying to unglue his beard,” Hawkeye said.

  “We’re not through with that beard,” Boris said. “Somebody find him and tell him to glue it back on.”

  “What’s on your mind, Old Bull Bellow?” Hawkeye asked.

  “Your Grace,” Boris said, turning to Florabelle. “Certainly, at some time, someone of your exquisite beauty has entertained thoughts of a career on the boards.”

  “Oh, Boris,” Florabelle, “that must be the secret of your attraction to women. You can read their innermost secret thoughts!”

  “My God!” Boris said. “I hope not! What I was thinking, sweetie, was that we stage a little drama before the cameras.”

  “What kind of a drama?” Angus inquired. “That’s me bride yer talkin’ to, Boris. I’ve seen those home movies you and Doc Yancey make, you know.”

  “I hope I’m not interrupting anything?” Trench Coat Wally Michaels said, coming into the suite.

  “How’s the film?” Hawkeye asked.

  “Perfect,” Trench Coat Wally said. “That’s why I’m here. I carried out my part of the bargain, and now the big fella has to carry out his.”

  “Throwing Rotten Don into the fountain will have to wait a bit,” Boris said. “We have need of your cinematographic talent, Trench Coat Wally.”

  “A deal’s a deal,” Trench Coat Wally said. “Are you going to throw him into the fountain or not?”

  “Of course I will,” Boris said. “But wait until you hear what else I have in mind.”

  Taylor P. Jambon and Seymour G. Schwartz, dressed for the occasion in frock coats, striped pants and the other parts of what is known in upper class circles as formal morning clothing, including silk top hats, walked off the elevator and down the hotel corridor until they came to the ducal suite.

  Taylor P. Jambon shined his shoes a final time by rubbing them against the backs of his trousers as Mr. Schwartz knocked at the door.

  “May I help you gentlemen?” the man who opened the door said.

  “You must be,” Taylor P. Jambon said, bowing, “His Highness the Duke.”

  “One addresses, sir,” the man said, “a duke as ‘Your Grace’ or ‘His Grace.’ ”

  “Excuse me, His Grace,” Taylor P. Jambon said, confessing, “I’m a little new at this.”

  “I am Theosophilus, the butler, sir,” Dr. Yancey said. “His Grace is not available at the moment.” (His Grace was, in fact, riding the ferris wheel in the Prater—Vienna’s enormous amusement park—in the company of Miss Beverly Chambers, Lieutenant (j.g.) Joanne Pauline Jones, and Richard Wilson, M.D. Dr. Yancey, however, didn’t think this was anybody’s business and did not elaborate.

  “We’re here to see the lady with the tame tiger,” Seymour G. Schwartz said. “A guy named Angus said we was to say he sent us.”

  “That would be Her Grace the Dowager Duchess,” Dr. Yancey said. “If you will follow me, please?”

  He turned around and marched into the suite. Taylor P. Jambon and Seymour G. Schwartz marched after him. Theosophilus the butler threw open a set of double doors.

  “Two persons to see Her Grace!” he announced.

  Seymour G. Schwartz and Taylor P. Jambon could see Her Grace. She looked exactly like what they thought an Her Grace would look like. She was wearing a long white dress, sitting on a throne, covered with what looked like the Crown Jewels of the British Empire, including a tiara resting atop her head. Boris had made a little telephone call to the prop department of the State Opera across the street, and shortly afterward the throne (from the set of Richard III) and the jewels (from Salome; the seven veils, Boris said, would not be required) had been delivered. The tiara, however, was real. The duchess would wear it later at the dinner.

  “Action! Camera! Roll it!” someone said.

  “What was that?” Seymour G. Schwartz said. He was staring at the throne. For the first time he saw two other people by it. One was some sort of an upper-crust nun, he realized, and the other was some sort of a flunky animal tamer. A portly chap with a full beard, he stood over the tiger holding a whip in his hands.

  “I thought I heard someone say ‘Action, camera, roll it!’ ” Taylor P. Jambon said.

  “I was whispering,” the butler said. “Perhaps you misunderstood me.”

  “What did you whisper?”

  “I whispered that one approaches Her Grace on one’s knees,” Theosophilus said.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” Taylor P. Jambon said. “I’m Taylor P. Jambon, the famous gourmet and animal lover. I don’t get on my knees!”

  “On your knees, stupid,” Seymour said. “We need that tiger!”

  They crossed the room on their knees.

  “Good afternoon, Her Grace!” Taylor P. Jambon said.

  “You wished to see me, gentlemen?” the dowager duchess asked.

  “Not too close to the duchess, Chubby,” the animal tamer said, sticking the whip in front of Seymour’s nose.

  “Watch it with the whip!” Taylor P. said.

  “Her Grace,” Seymour said, “I’m Seymour G. Schwartz, and this is Mr. Taylor P. Jambon, the famous animal lover and gourmet.”

  “I have heard of Mr. Jambon, of course,” the duchess said.

  “How would you like to loan us your tiger?” Seymour, who believed in getting right to the point, asked.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “In a good cause, Her Grace,” Taylor P. Jambon said sweetly.

  “That’s Your Grace, stupid,” Hot Lips said.

  “Now, now, Reverend Mother,” the duchess said. “We must be patient with these ignorant colonials. They don’t know any better.”

  “Your Grace,” Taylor P. Jambon said. “My friend and I, and America’s most beloved thespian, Miss Patience Throckbottom Worthington, are here in Vienna on a mission of mercy to the world’s pups and pussycats.”

  “Is that so?” Her Grace inquired.

  “That’s so,” Seymour G. Schwartz said.

  “We are going to make television commercials, appeals, so to speak, for people out there in TV land to open their hearts ...” Taylor P. said.

  “More important,” Seymour said, “their checkbooks …”

  “... to help starving pups and pussycats.”

  “... and mistreated kangaroos and other darling, helpless, oppressed animals.”

  “Oh,” the duchess said. “You’re from the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals?”

  “Not quite, Your Grace,” Seymour G. Schwartz said.

  “Perhaps the American Animal Shelter Society?” the duchess pursued.

  “Not exactly,” Taylor P. Jambon confessed.

  “This is our own little ... operation, Your Grace,” Seymour G. Schwartz said, catching himself just in time. He had almost said “dodge.”

  “I see,” the duchess said. “And what is it you want of me?”

  “We would like to borrow your tiger,” Seymour G. Schwartz said. “We feel that it would really melt the hearts of those out there in TV land if Miss Worthington could make her appeal while stroking that darling cat’s head.”

  “Miss Worthington likes animals?” the duchess i
nquired.

  “She loves animals, Your Grace,” Seymour G. Schwartz said. “She was saying to me just the other day, wasn’t she, Taylor P., ‘Seymour, I really love animals.’ “

  “That’s exactly what she said,” Taylor P. Jambon agreed.

  “How very good of you!” the duchess said. “You must really be good men!”

  “That’s just what I was saying, Your Grace,” Taylor P. began, “the other day. ‘Seymour,’ I said, ‘you’re a …”

  “Shut up, Taylor P.,” Seymour G. Schwartz said.

  “Tell me,” the duchess said, “what happens to the money you collect?”

  “Why, we spend it on the animals, of course!” Taylor P. Jambon said.

  “All of it?”

  “Every dime over necessary expenses, Your Grace,” Seymour said. “Every dime over expenses.”

  “Take it again from ‘money you collect,’ ” a voice called.

  “What was that?” Seymour G. Schwartz said.

  The animal trainer shoved the whip closer to his face. “Jesus, if I didn’t know better, I’d swear that was Trench Coat Wally Michael’s voice,” Taylor P. Jambon said.

  “Tell me,” the duchess repeated, “what happens to the money you collect?”

  “Why, we spend it on the animals, of course,” Taylor P. Jambon repeated.

  “All of it?”

  “Every dime over necessary expenses, Your Grace,” Seymour said again. “Every dime over expenses.”

  “That’s a wrap,” the voice called.

  The animal trainer, to Taylor P. Jambon’s visible relief, pulled the whip handle back from where it had been right in front of his mouth.

  “Reverend Mother,” the duchess said, “these gentlemen wish to borrow Wee Baby Brother. Would you be good enough to go with him, so that he won’t feel lonely?”

  “You bet I will,” Reverend Mother said. “I won’t let him out of my sight.”

  “Your Grace,” Seymour G. Schwartz, who had no intention of playing nursemaid to a tiger for three seconds more than was absolutely necessary, said, “we won’t need that darling kitty just yet.”

  “When will you need him?” the duchess asked.

  “We have to make certain arrangements,” Seymour G. Schwartz said. “We’ll get back to you.”