MASH 08 MASH Goes to Hollywood

by Richard Hooker+William Butterworth

  (a) The temporary incarceration, at the request of the governor himself, in the Spruce Harbor slammer of an international criminal, El Noil Sniol, until

  (b) the arrival of the secretary of state, who would take (a) off his hands;

  (c) the arrival from Hollywood, California, of Miss Patience Throckbottom Worthington, beloved star of stage, screen, and daytime television drama, who would occupy Room 19 of the Spruce Harbor Howard Hilton Motor Hotel until her dressing room could be imported from California;

  (d) the arrival, from Chicago, of Miss Daphne Covington, described as television’s newest, brightest star;

  (e) the arrival of Mr. Wesley St. James and his production crew for the new Wesley St. James daytime drama, “The Code of the Deep Woods.”

  Chief Kelly was determined to milk this fortuitous circumstance for all it was worth. He was personally involved with it, rather than just professionally, and for a number of reasons.

  He was sick and tired of seeing what he thought of as “relatively smaller” police departments maligned on boob-tube cops-and-robbers shows. They were invariably portrayed as backwoods dumbbells who had to be rescued from their own stupidity and incompetence by big city cops who just happened to be in town. (He was sure of his facts. He considered it his professional obligation to watch all the television police shows, and he had made copious notes. The only rural law-enforcement officer on television who ever got his man without the help of some city slicker was Matt Dillon, and his show, naturally, had been canceled.)

  Chief Kelly had carefully planned the way his force would handle this day’s problems. The big event, crime-wise, was the Abzugian criminal El Noil Sniol. He would make sure not only that this international felon was securely incarcerated in his slammer but also that the world would know about it.

  To this end, he had been in touch with the local television station and coordinated the schedule of their ace (and only) cameraman, Ace Marshutz. Marshutz would be on hand at the city jail when El Noil Sniol arrived. After filming that, he would be carried by official city vehicle to Spruce Harbor International Airport for the arrival of Miss Patience T. Worthington, Miss Daphne Covington, and Mr. Wesley St. James. He would capture on film the perfectly professional security arrangements Chief Kelly had set up for the arrival of the secretary of state and would finally film the transfer of El Noil Sniol to the secretary of state’s security people.

  ABS Television News, with whom he had talked long distance to New York, was fascinated. “The Code of the Deep Woods” was, after all, going to be telecast over the ABS network, and if a little teensy-weensy plug for the show could be worked in as legitimate news, that was just fine. Chief Kelly told the ABS people he would see what he could do about getting Miss Worthington to the ceremony transferring El Noil Sniol to the secretary of state, but could, of course, make no promises.

  The only thing that threatened to pose an insurmountable problem to Chief Kelly’s carefully laid plans was the Honorable Bascomb K. Bartlett, mayor of Spruce Harbor and more widely known as “Moosenose.” Like any other politician, Moosenose was thrilled with the thought of seeing himself on television and, once word of what was about to happen in his fair city had reached him, had declared himself in.

  He would, he said: (a) Be at the slammer when El Noil Sniol arrived; (b) be at the airport to officially welcome the visiting dignitaries; and (c) if Ernie Kelly didn’t like it, Ernie Kelly could lump it.

  Chapter Sixteen

  And so it came to pass, as it says in the Good Book, that when State Trooper Steven J. Harris rolled up in his patrol car before the Spruce Harbor City Hall and slammer, he was greeted by two official functionaries, the Spruce Harbor High School Drum and Bugle Corps and a representative of television journalism, whose equipment had been set up on a Spruce Harbor garbage truck.

  Chief Kelly was there, of course, in full uniform, the visor down on his helmet and in instantaneous communication with the police radio via the short-wave set in the helmet. Mayor Moosenose Bartlett was in morning dress—a high silk hat, penguin-tailed coat, and striped trousers—and had a purple velvet band (obtained from the Spruce Harbor Flower and Gift Shoppe) across his chest spelling out “MAYOR” in four-inch gold letters.

  “Rolling!” Ace Marshutz, the photographer, called. Somewhat nervously (this would be his first appearance on nationwide television), Cordell Carlsbad, the local anchorman, fixed a smile on his face and started talking: “Hi, folks,” he said. “This is Cordell Carlsbad speaking to you live from the steps of Spruce Harbor City Hall, where the international criminal, El Noil Sniol, will shortly be transferred into the custody of our own Chief Ernie Kelly. That black and white automobile you see on your screens now, with the siren and flashing light device on the roof, is a police car, used in cases like this by the police.”

  Ignoring everybody, Steven J. Harris opened the rear door of his patrol car, grabbed the rear shirt collar of one prisoner in his right hand, the rear shirt collar of the other prisoner in his left hand, and half carried them, half dragged them, up the stairs to where Ernie Kelly stood, arms folded on his chest, a look of stem resolve on his face, waiting.

  The Spruce Harbor High School Drum and Bugle Corps struck up “Oh, Fair Spruce Harbor!” (which fortunately had the same tune as that used by the University of Notre Dame).

  Both Mayor Bartlett and Chief Kelly knew that they needed something more than film of two unconscious people (for all the world, they looked like two common drunks) being dragged up the city hall steps. They rushed to assist Trooper Harris, propped the two criminals up on their feet between them, and turned them to face the camera.

  “Which one is El Noil Sniol?” Chief Kelly hissed from behind his face shield.

  “The fat one with the jowls,” Harris replied. “What’s going on, Ernie?”

  “Spruce Harbor is proud,” His Honor the Mayor said, beaming at Ace Marshutz’s camera, “to have been chosen to incarcerate these international criminals in its well-known, very modem, and rather appealing city jail, which, with all modesty, I must admit was constructed during my administration.”

  The fat one with the jowls, as Trooper Harris had described him, stirred and opened his eyes. He saw the television camera and the glowing light, indicating that he was being “shot.” He had no idea where he was, or what he was doing here, but he had faced that precise situation before, and it posed no problem.

  “Good evening,” he said. “This is Waldo Maldemer. We’ll give you this story in just a moment. But first, this commercial message!”

  The effort was too much for him. With a smile on his face, his eyes closed again. The sound of his voice, however, woke Edgar Crudd up. He too saw the camera and the glowing red light, and he too performed like a trouper, even though he had even less of an idea than did Mr. Maldemer of what was going on. The last thing he remembered was being encouraged to take another drink at the Maine state slammer.

  “Edgar Crudd here,” he said, staring intently at the camera. “And now back to you, Waldo Maldemer!” Then he too gave up the ghost and sagged between Trooper Harris and Mayor Moosenose Bartlett.

  Cordell Carlsbad, aware that this might be his chance to break into the big time, had paid no attention whatever to what the mayor, Waldo Maldemer, or Edgar Crudd had been saying. He was thinking of how to close this story.

  “And that’s the way it is,” he finally blurted at Ace Marshutz’s camera. “Here at the Spruce Harbor slammer. I am Cordell Carlsbad.”

  The red light blinked off on Ace’s camera. Four reserve policemen emerged from the city hall building, and with the same flair and élan with which they normally tossed about Spruce Harbor’s garbage cans, picked up Waldo and Edgar and carried them into the building and to the basement jail.

  Mayor Moosenose Bartlett, allowing the warm smile to slip from his face, cocked his head to one side like a cocker spaniel and then peered into the sky.

  “My God!” he said. “That’s a jet! We have to get to the airport rig
ht now!”

  He rushed down the stairs and jumped into the chief of police’s car. Chief Kelly got behind the wheel, started the engine, and turned on the whooper. Carried away with the excitement of it all, Reserve Policeman Harry Whelan (normally a garbage truck driver) threw his garbage truck in gear and raced after the chief’s car. He left so rapidly that he quite forgot cameraman Ace Marshutz, who was standing on top. Ace came tumbling down. Steve Harris saw him fall in time to catch him (Ace weighed 113 pounds with his headset) and set him on his feet.

  “Be a good guy, Steve,” Ace asked. “Run me down to the airport, will you?”

  Steve and Ace got into the state police car and drove off toward the airport. Two blocks from city hall, Trooper Harris saw a Spruce Harbor Medical Center ambulance obviously bound for the airport. He pulled alongside to see if he could offer any professional assistance. He was somewhat surprised to see that the driver was Dr. John Francis Xavier McIntyre and that the seat normally occupied by the other ambulance technician was occupied by Dr. Benjamin Franklin Pierce. On Dr. Pierce’s lap was Chief of Nursing Services Esther Flanagan.

  “Can I help?” Harris called from his police car. “Is there some sort of a disaster?”

  “We hope not,” Trapper John called back. “But just to play safe, would you be good enough to escort us near the airplane that’s going to land in a couple of minutes?”

  “You got it!” Harris said. He reached up and turned on his whooper and flashing blue lights, pulled in front of the ambulance, and stepped on the gas.

  Drs. Pierce and McIntyre had just been informed by Wrong Way Napolitano of the pending arrival of a Chevaux Corporation jet. While Wrong Way was not in the habit of making special private announcements of the arrival of aircraft to the public, he was now doing so in the interest of domestic tranquility on the part of his brother Angelo, a/k/a Pierre LeGrande, and his wife. Dr. Pierce had pointed out to him that if Angelo’s wife learned that Angelo had been out in the deep woods with Mr. Wesley St. James’s friends, she would remember that Angelo and the ladies had been flown into the deep woods by Wrong Way, and he would ipso facto be considered an accessory before and after (and quite possibly during) the act.

  Angelo, at that very moment, was very busy in the control tower. Never before had there been so much traffic, all homing in on Spruce Harbor International Airport * at once.

  (* The name might be misleading. Before a Whiz-Bang Airways DC-3, en route from Bangor to Montreal, had run low on fuel and dropped in on Spruce Harbor’s one-runway flight facility, it had been known as the Napolitano Truck Farm and Crop Spraying Service. Once an international flight had actually landed on the field, however, the Spruce Harbor Chamber of Commerce had been quick to change the official name of the facility to reflect its proper role in international air commerce. Only an innate sense of modesty had made them refrain from renaming the airport the Spruce Harbor Aerospace Launching Pad, as was proposed.)

  “Ah, Spruce Harbor International,” the pilot of the Chevaux Petroleum DC-9 said, “Chevaux Thirty-two has turned on final, but all I have in sight is what looks like a country road. Where’s the airport?”

  “Spruce Harbor International,” Wrong Way replied, “clears Chevaux Thirty-two to land on Spruce Harbor Runway One.”

  “Spruce Harbor International,” another pilot’s voice said. “This is Los Angeles Charter Airways. We have Miss Patience T. Worthington aboard, and we have Chevaux Petroleum Corporation DC-9 in sight, making a descent. Request landing instructions.”

  “Spruce Harbor clears Los Angeles Charter Airways as Number Two to land after the Chevaux Petroleum DC-9,” Angelo replied.

  “Spruce Harbor International, this is Chef Pierre Number Sixteen, five miles from your station,” a third pilot’s voice said. “You’re not going to believe this, but this aircraft has in sight a DC-9 and a Learjet making a landing approach on a country road.”

  “Spruce Harbor International clears Chef Pierre Number Sixteen as Number Three to land, after the Learjet. And just for your information, Chef Pierre, that country road you’re talking about is Spruce Harbor Runway One.”

  “Spruce Harbor,” still another crisp, machismo-loaded pilot’s voice announced, “this is Air Force Three. We have the secretary of state aboard. Please clear all traffic from the area so that we may land immediately.”

  “Air Force Three, hold in pattern,” Wrong Way replied immediately.

  “Spruce Harbor, this is Air Force Three. I say again, we have the secretary of state aboard and demand immediate permission to land.”

  “Air Force Three, this is Spruce Harbor. I say again, hold in pattern. I don’t care if you have the governor of Maine aboard.”

  “Spruce Harbor,” said a pilot’s voice in the peculiar twang of Downeast, “this is Maine National Guard One. I have the governor aboard. Request permission to land immediately.”

  “Spruce Harbor, this is Chevaux Number Thirty-two, on the ground at five past the hour.”

  “Chevaux Thirty-two, do you have a certain lady aboard?” Wrong Way asked, at the request of His Honor Mayor Moosenose Bartlett, who had joined him in the control tower.

  “Oh, do we ever!” Chevaux Thirty-two replied.

  “His Honor the Mayor will meet your aircraft,” Wrong Way said.

  The mayor rushed from the control tower, getting a nasty splinter in his hand from the wooden ladder, and jumped into Chief Kelly’s car. “It’s the first one,” he said. “Just think, Ernie, sweet saintly Patience T. Worthington is going to be here in Spruce Harbor, officially greeted by me!”

  By then, the Spruce Harbor High School Drum and Bugle Corps had arrived in their bus, and they followed the chief’s car and the “camera truck” down the field to where the Chevaux DC-9 was rolling to a stop.

  “Spruce Harbor, Los Angeles Charter on the ground at six past the hour,” the pilot reported.

  “Spruce Harbor,” said Wrong Way, who knew on which side his bread was buttered, “clears Maine National Guard One to land after the Chef Pierre Sabre-liner now on final.”

  “But the secretary of state outranks the governor of Maine!” the pilot of Air Force Three said, angrily.

  “Not in Maine, he don’t,” Spruce Harbor International replied. “Welcome to Spruce Harbor, Governor!”

  Meanwhile, the door of Chevaux Petroleum Corporation’s aircraft had opened. A set of aluminum stairs unfolded itself, and then a female appeared at the doorway. The Spruce Harbor High School Drum and Bugle Corps struck up “Oh, Fair Spruce Harbor.”

  The female was wearing a light purple dress, full length but cut rather low at the neckline. Over her shoulders was a blue-and-red cape. She carried in her right hand a large, gold-painted pole, the top of which was curved to make sort of a handle. Around her neck was a golden cross, approximately ten inches in length, on which was spelled out in diamond chips, the words “Mother” and “Emeritus” (horizontally) and “Reverend” vertically.

  Moosenose stared, mouth hanging open at this apparition, for a moment. The lady turned, and one could see the same legend spelled out in diamonds on the cross spelled out in sequin letters on the back of the cape.

  “I come in peace!” the lady said, raising both of her arms upward in a gesture frequently used by politicians. In her case, however, the movement caused her upper torso to move in such a manner that the immediate escape, so to speak, of her bosom seemed inescapable.

  “Ernie,” Moosenose said, out of the side of his mouth, “that don’t look like Patience Throckbottom Worthington to me.”

  “You there,” the lady said, “with the mayor sign on your boiled shirt.”

  “Yes, ma’am?” Moosenose replied, tipping his hat.

  “Reverend Mother to you, Mayor,” the lady said.

  “Yes, ma’am, Reverend Mother,” His Honor said, sweating profusely. “What can I do for you?”

  “What have you done with my pal Boris?” the lady inquired.

  “Hey, Hot Lips!” a familiar voice, o
ne Moosenose and the lady simultaneously recognized to be that of Dr. Benjamin Franklin Pierce, called out. Both looked toward the ambulance.

  The double doors were now open. The stretchers had been removed, and the floor was covered with shag carpet. There was a wine cooler and a tray of glasses. There was the sound of a popping cork. Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov took the bottle from Nurse Flanagan and waved it gaily in the air.

  “Oh,” the lady cried, “you didn’t have to do this for Little Ol’ Reverend Mother!” She trotted down the stairs and, hiking her skirts up, ran across the grass to the ambulance. She got inside the ambulance. Before the doors closed and the ambulance pulled away, Moosenose heard the lady say, “Darling, you’ve shaved! You look awful!”

  At this moment, Chef Pierre Number Sixteen, which had been third to land, stopped rolling. Its door opened and Gus Spinopolous, still dressed in his CHEF PIERRE FREEZES FOR YOU! sweat shirt and clutching a fresh bottle of ouzo, sort of lurched out onto the runway. He shook his head as if to clear it and then ran over to Moosenose.

  “Was she on that plane?” he demanded.

  “Was who on that plane?”

  “Zelda Spinopolous, you idiot, who else?”

  “Lock this drunk up, Ernie,” Moosenose said. “Whatever would Miss Patience T. Worthington think if she saw a drunk running loose around our fair city?”

  Chief Kelly spoke to his helmet radio, and a squad of the police reserve came running out to haul the drunk off to durance vile. About half way to where Gus Spinopolous stood, weaving somewhat, they encountered the six worthies from the warehouse of Plant Number Forty-three, Shrimp and Oysters, who had seen Ol’ Gus’s plane (they recognized it from the Chef Pierre insignia on the nose, of course) land. The two squads of men ran along parallel, in step, until they reached the mayor, the chief, and Ol’ Gus.

  “Yes, Chief?” the squad leader reported, snappily.

  “Anything we can do, Gus?” the warehouse foreman asked.