“They’ve got my Zelda somewhere, and they won’t tell me what they’ve done with her,” Gus said, as a tear ran down his cheek.
“Book him,” Chief Kelly said, sternly. “Drunk, disorderly, disturbing the peace, and giving Spruce Harbor a bad name.”
“If you know what’s good for you, pal,” the warehouse foreman said to His Honor the Mayor, “you better give ol’ Gus’s Zelda back!”
Chief Kelly checked to see that the light on Ace Marshutz’s television camera was glowing brightly. “Book all of ’em!” he said, flipping up the face visor on his helmet, so that Ace could see his face, stern with resolve.
That was a sort of tactical error, resulting in what Chief Kelly would thereafter refer to as his wound on the field of battle. Gus Spinopolous reached inside the helmet and grabbed Chief Kelly’s proboscis between his thumb and forefinger and twisted it painfully. The chief howled loud enough to attract the attention of a second squad of police reservists, who came at the run and subdued the warehouse staff and Mr. Spinopolous; not, however, without some difficulty.
While the fight was going on, other aircraft landed practically unnoticed. First the governor’s plane, then the secretary of state’s, then (swooping in like a graceful vulture) the Le Discorde carrying the sheikh of Abzug, and finally a small jet carrying Miss Daphne Covington.
Miss Covington, truth to tell, had rather enjoyed the flight from Chicago. The exquisitely graceful young man from ABS had been a delightful traveling companion. Daphne had spent most of the flight rolling her left eye at him and every once in a while granting him a snaggle- toothed smile and a leering wink. Once, over upper New York State, she thought that he was about to jump out of the airplane, and she was afraid she had gone too far, but he lost his resolve at the last moment and spent the balance of the flight curled up in a corner whimpering. The moment the plane landed at Spruce Harbor, however, he pushed open the door and jumped to the ground and ran away.
Daphne arrived, in other words, to find no one waiting for her. She walked up toward the main building of the airport, practicing her limp. Her spirits were high. Judging by the reaction of the exquisitely graceful young man from ABS, it would only be a matter of hours before she would be free to return to Chicago and her microscope.
When she had limped up to the Spruce Harbor International Airfield Terminal Building, she had no trouble making her way through the crowds of people who were cheering one side or another in a monumental brawl or staring goggle-eyed at a curly-haired gentleman in robes and the governor of Maine. All she had to do was roll her left eye, and the crowds parted before her as if by magic.
Only one person didn’t recoil with revulsion and horror in his eyes when Daphne’s eye rolled at him. This was an enormous state trooper who seemed to be trying very hard, and slowly succeeding, to bring order out of the chaos. Shortly after separating the governor and the secretary of state, who were engaged in a little shoving match and the exchange of impolite comments, the trooper walked directly over to her. Testing her powers, Daphne rolled her eye as best she could, smiled her snaggle-toothed smile, and dropped her right eyebrow in the same sort of obscene wink that had driven the man from ABS quite literally bananas. It had no effect at all on the trooper.
“I’ve got my hands full at the moment, miss,” he said, politely touching his hand to his Smokey-the-Bear hat, “but I will soon have things under control and will then be able to assist you. If you’ll just wait here, everything will be all right.”
He then returned to the secretary of state, the Arab gentleman, and the governor. Daphne, somewhat ashamed that her female curiosity was getting the best of her, limped closer so that she could hear what was going on.
A police van rolled onto the airfield. A policeman wearing a Martian helmet came running up from the far end of the field, where several large aircraft were parked. His face was flushed, and he was obviously out of breath as he was determined to do his duty. He went to the rear of the van, flung the doors open, and with the help of two policemen dragged two handcuffed figures, who gave every appearance of having sniffed too long at a wine cork, from the interior.
He marched them up to the governor, the secretary of state, and the Arab gentleman. He saluted.
“Sir,” he said, as the taller of the two criminals sagged and the fat one with the hanging jowls slipped to the ground, “the Spruce Harbor Police Force, Chief Ernest Kelly commanding, turns over to you herewith the international criminal El Noil Sniol and his henchman.”
“He’s not an international criminal, you idiot,” the secretary of state said. “He’s the Distinguished Abzugian Ambassador Plenipotentiary. Get the cuffs off him!”
“Who are these two funny-looking people?” the Arab gentleman asked. He spoke in Yiddish. He spoke no English, and the secretary spoke no Arabic. They had long ago learned to communicate in Yiddish, a lingua franca in which both were fluent.
“He’s your ambassador extraordinary and plenipotentiary, that’s who he is,” the secretary said. “I have arranged with His Excellency the Governor to have him pardoned.”
“Never saw either one of ’em before,” Sheikh Abdullah said. “But goniffs they surely are.”
“Sheikh Abdullah, Governor,” the secretary of state replied, “tells me this is not El Noil Sniol the Magnificent. You got maybe an explanation?”
“Trooper Harris?” the governor snapped.
“These are the two I got from the warden,” Harris replied.
“Put the handcuffs back on and take them back to the slammer,” the governor ordered. “I can see that O’Flaherty’s been at the Leprechaun’s Delight again.”
“Yes, sir,” Chief Kelly said. “I’m sorry, Governor.”
The governor ignored him. He turned to Harris. “Have you got a car, Harris?”
“Yes, sir,” Harris said.
“Only one man could be responsible for this chaos,” the governor said. “The whole thing smacks of one of his well-known assaults on society. I want you to take us to a doctor named Pierce, Harris. Can you find him?”
“Maybe you’re not so backward after all,” the secretary said.
“Yes, sir, I can find him,” Harris said. “But, sir, I must take someone else with us.”
“Who?”
“That beautiful young lady over there,” Harris said, pointing directly at Daphne Covington. She was so startled that it was a moment before she remembered to roll her eye.
The secretary of state covered his eyes with his hand.
“You call dat a beautiful young lady?” he asked. “Oy vay!”
“I judge a book not by its cover, Mr. Secretary,” Harris said, “but by its contents. I can tell by her eyes that she is a beautiful person. And I know that she is friendless.”
“She can ride in front-with you,” the governor said. “Tell her not to turn around.”
Daphne Covington flushed bright red in embarrassment as the trooper came and gently took her arm and led her to the police car and installed her in the front seat. She wondered why she was letting herself be led around like this. She also wondered if this handsome law- enforcement officer was spoken for.
Chapter Seventeen
Miss Patience Throckbottom Worthington, whose plane had landed second, had taken one look out the window and decided that she had no intention whatever of getting off the airplane. Some sacrifices, certainly, were necessary in the pursuit of one’s theatrical career, but there had to be a line drawn somewhere, and she had just drawn it.
She would have ordered the plane back into the air, but that would have denied her the great pleasure of discussing her displeasure with Mr. Wesley St. James. The bleeping little blap was really going to get a bleeping earful. She called for another little sip of Old White Stagg Kentucky Bourbon and looked out the window again as she delicately tipped the half-gallon bottle to her lips.
“Well,” she said to no one in particular, “they aren’t all savages!”
She had just seen the Spru
ce Harbor Medical Center ambulance doors swing open and the jeroboam of champagne being uncorked.
“And there,” she went on, as Boris waved the bottle at Hot Lips, “is my handsome co-star! He looks even better in the flesh.”
Then a frown crossed her soft features, quickly turning her face into one of deep annoyance. She had seen Reverend Mother Emeritus Margaret Houlihan Wachauf Wilson leap nimbly into the ambulance, kiss her, Patience T. Worthington’s, co-star on the cheeks, and then pull the door closed, with something obviously far more intimate on her mind.
“And with my co-star!” Patience exploded. “I have changed my mind. Open the doors!”
“I’m afraid we can’t do that, Miss Worthington,” the stewardess replied.
“Listen, coffee, tea, and milk,” Miss Worthington snapped, “when Patience T. Worthington says open the bleeping doors, you bleeping well better open the bleeping doors!”
“Very well, Miss Worthington,” the stewardess replied. “Watch your step!”
There is reason to believe that the stewardess knew full well the ramp had not been placed again on the airplane and that the one step to the ground about which she thoughtfully warned Miss Worthington was some twenty-two feet in height, but there is, of course, no way to prove it.
In any event, Miss Worthington exited the airplane, sans ramp, and the next thing she remembered she was looking up into the somewhat flushed face of a man with a strangely shaped proboscis.
“Moosenose,” she said, a little groggily.
“Miss Worthington,” His Honor replied. “You know my name?”
Miss Worthington thereupon screamed in pain.
“Oh, Miss Worthington,” Moosenose asked. “Is something the matter?”
“You bleeping jackass,” Miss Worthington replied, “of course something is the matter. I have broken my bleeping leg. Why the bleep did you think I let out that bleeping scream? To call my mate? Get an ambulance, and get one bleeping quick!”
Mayor Bartlett at that point fainted. It wasn’t the sight of the broken leg but rather the language. His cherished dream of thirty-five years was just as shattered as Miss Worthington’s femur. Attracted by the sound of Miss Worthington’s piquant language, however, others came, and an ambulance was called. Both were hauled away in it. Moosenose thus realized his dream of sleeping beside Patience Throckbottom Worthington, even if not precisely how he had hoped it would be.
The arrival of Miss Patience Throckbottom Worthington at Spruce Harbor Medical Center broke up the festivities then in progress in the office of the chief of surgery. The chief of surgery, the chief of nursing services, and Dr. McIntyre expressed their deep regrets at having to answer the call of duty and suggested that under the circumstances Boris take Hot Lips out to Trooper Harris’ cabin in the swamp buggy. They would join them there as soon as they could.
As Boris drove away from the rear entrance of Spruce Harbor Medical Center in the swamp buggy, the secretary of state, the governor, and Sheikh Abdullah ben Abzug drove up to the front. In two minutes the governor came back out. He motioned Trooper Harris out of the car, so that the pathetic creature with him wouldn’t hear what he had to say.
“Both of those maniacs are in surgery,” the governor said. “They told me that, and I didn’t believe it, so they showed me. But they’re responsible for all this, and they can’t hide out in there forever. You get on the radio, Harris, and have my car and driver sent down here. You better have them send the helicopter, too. And then . . . I hate to ask you to do this . . . you take that pathetic creature somewhere, hide her from public sight, and as soon as I get to the bottom of this, I’ll arrange for the proper kind of care.”
“You mean I can go?”
“Just keep her out of sight,” the governor said.
Harris walked back to the car, called for the governor’s car, driver, and helicopter, and then turned to look at Daphne Covington.
She let him have the rolling eye, the snaggle-toothed smile, and the obscene wink again, and again it didn’t work. She was ashamed of herself
“Listen,” she said, “I’m not what I seem to be.”
“Neither am I,” Harris said.
“What do you mean by that?”
“I’m not really a state trooper,” he said.
“You sure act like one,” she said.
“I was,” he said. “I was a good one, too. But something came up, and I got fired.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said. “What do you do now? I mean, how come the uniform?”
“This is my last day on the job,” he said. “Tomorrow ... tomorrow ...”
“What about tomorrow?”
“I’d rather not talk about it,” he said. “I’m ashamed of it.”
“Well, I’ve got a confession to make, too,” she said. “I’m here to do something I don’t want to do, either.”
“What?”
“You ever hear of a man called Wesley St. James?” She could tell by the shocked look in what she had come to think of as his beautiful baby-blue eyes that he was quite familiar with the name. He nodded his head.
“Well, I’m here to meet him,” Daphne Covington said. “Now you know.”
“I know where he is,” Harris said. “I’ll take you to him.”
Daphne was a little disappointed, but there was nothing that maidenly modesty would permit her to do about it. She could hardly expect someone she had met an hour before to offer to save her from Wesley St. James and a life on the boards.
They chatted a little on the way to Lost Crystal Lake. They each tactfully elicited from the other that there was “nobody special” on either side, and that their lives to date had been such that there had been no time for real romance. She was about to timidly announce that what she really wanted to do with her life was become an analytical biologist when he pulled off the interstate highway.
“Hold your nose,” he said. “We’re passing the senator’s potato chip factory. It’s only a couple of miles from here.”
“I was told we’d have to fly in,” she said, her voice somewhat nasal with her nostrils pinched shut.
“Lost Crystal Lake is the water supply for the potato chip factory,” he said. The road was rough, and there was no further opportunity for conversation. Finally, he stopped the car.
“It’s right around the corner,” he said. “They’ve been working in here all week, building the sets.”
“Oh,” she said. He touched her then for the first time, taking her arm in his massive hand to help her through the woods. She had felt perfectly healthy (a little glum, but healthy) before, but now she was dizzy. In just a few minutes, they were standing on the shore of Lost Crystal Lake. She spotted Wesley St. James, his Australian bush hat pushed back on his blond Afro, talking to some workmen.
“There he is,” Steven said.
“Yes,” Daphne said.
Daphne realized that she had but one chance now, and that was to get fired right here on the spot. That way, Trooper Harris would feel duty-bound to take care of her, if only to drive her back out of the woods. Daphne Covington gave the greatest (and, as it turned out, the final) performance of her theatrical career.
She limped up to Wesley St. James, and with a final burst of inspiration, thought to lisp as she rolled her left eye at him.
“Hello, Mr. St. James,” she said. “I’m Daphne Covington, your new star.”
Wesley St. James started to laugh. It was a nasty little laugh.
“I got to hand it to you, Harris,” he said. “I never would have thought you’d have a sense of humor like that.”
“Like what, Mr. St. James?”
“A practical joke like this,” St. James said, between giggles. “Bringing this ugly freak in here and telling me she’s my new star.”
She was succeeding! Daphne put her whole heart and soul into it. She saw someone coming, recognized him to be Don Rhotten, America’s most beloved young television newscaster (of course, he had his caps, contacts, and toupee in pl
ace), and flashed him a quick eye roll, a shy smile, and a leering wink. Don Rhotten stopped in his tracks, turned pale, rolled his own eyes, and threw up.
“Enough!” Wesley St. James said. “A joke is a joke, but you’re messing up my set. Get your ugly freak out of here, Harris.”
“I think you owe the lady an apology,” Trooper Harris said.
“Bleep you and your bleeping apology,” Wesley St. James snarled. “My bleeping star broke her bleeping leg, and you bring this bleeping freak in here, make my pal Don Rhotten sick at his tummy, and you want me to apologize? Bleep you, Harris.”
He would have said more, but by that time he was describing a neat parabolic arc through the air, terminating in the icy waters of Lost Crystal Lake.
Don Rhotten rushed to his friend’s defense. He followed Mr. St. James in aerial flight except that, following the laws of physics, which state that a heavy body retains velocity longer than a light one, he landed somewhat nearer the center of the lake.
“Well,” Daphne Covington said, beaming from ear to ear, “there goes the old theatrical career!”
“How did you know?” he said. “Not that it matters, but how did you know that I threw my theatrical career in the lake with those two?”
“Your career?” Daphne asked. “What do you mean, your career?” She had a sinking feeling in her stomach that she had just blown her one great romantic opportunity in life.
“I didn’t want to be an actor anyway,” he said. “Forget it. Come on, let’s get out of here.”
“Where are we going?” Daphne asked. “Hey, listen. My real name is Zelda.”
“Zelda,” Steven said. “Gee, that’s a pretty name!”
“You really think so?” Zelda said.
“Here,” Steven Harris said, “let me take your arm.”
They walked arm in arm back to his car and then drove to his log cabin on the lake.
“Hey, Boris is here,” Steve said.
“Who’s Boris?”
“He’s a really nice guy, a little crazy, to tell you the truth, that I’m sort of taking care of.”
MASH 08 MASH Goes to Hollywood Page 19
