“Mon dieu!” Henri Flambeau said. “That looks like Monsieur le Prime Minister himself!” This snap judgment was confirmed when the man snatched off his beret as he pulled the door of the Rolls open. Henri could see the Cheshire-cat grin. Henri strained to hear what was being said.
“Your Royal Highness,” the premier said, “your slightest wish is our command. If you wish to make the Vieux Montreal Howard Johnson Motel your temporary royal palace, so be it!”
“Your mother wears army boots,” a deep voice boomed, and Henri saw a very large Arab, in full Arabian costume, get out of the Rolls.
“How good of you to say so, Your Highness,” the premier said, flashing his famous smile again.
An English gentleman, complete to derby and rolled umbrella, next got out of the limousine. Henri had heard that most Arab oil kings had British advisors, and that explained who this chap must be. He was also, Henri saw, obviously doubling as the Arab’s bodyguard, for the butt of a large revolver was visible, sticking out of his belt just below the pearl gray vest.
The doors of the first Cadillac limousine opened and four people got out. A large lady in a hospital gown, a striking blonde in nurse’s whites (obviously the lady’s personal nurse), a large man wearing an orange flight jacket (obviously the Arab’s personal pilot), and an Indian, complete with feather headband (Henri had no idea whom he might be).
“Horsey,” the nurse ordered, “you get everybody settled, and keep them in the hotel. I’ll go look after Framingham.”
“You got it, Hot Lips,” the chap in the orange jacket said. He walked up to the Arab, opened his mouth, and a series of strange grunts, snorts and wheezes, punctuated by burps, came out.
The Arab nodded his head. “You got it, Hot Lips!” he said, gesturing regally at her. “Up yours!”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” the premier said to the man in the orange jacket. “But you bear the most remarkable resemblance to Colonel Jean-Pierre de la Chevaux.”
“No speaka da English,” the man in the orange jacket said, and taking the Arab’s arm, propelled him into the motel. The Englishman and the lady in the hospital gown followed him. The nurse got into the Rolls-Royce. The premier bowed again and closed the door. The window whooshed down. The nurse’s head appeared. “O.K., you clowns!” she shouted. “Let’s get this show on the road! Montreal General, and don’t spare the horses!”
Chapter Fifteen
Every time I think that I may be losing my position as America’s Most Beloved Young TV Newsperson,” Don Rhotten said to Taylor P. Jambon, “something like this happens to reassure me!”
“What are you talking about, Don?” Taylor P. Jambon said.
“Look at all those Royal Canadian Mounted Police in those darling red coats and Smokey the Bear hats gathered around the Vieux Montreal Howard Johnson’s to protect me from my fans!” Don Rhotten said. “Quick, hand me my wig, I wouldn’t dream of disappointing them!”
“Here’s the rug,” Taylor said, “but what are you going to do about your teeth and eyeglasses?”
“I’ll keep my mouth shut,” Don Rhotten said. “And you sort of steer me through the hordes of my adoring fans.”
Taylor P. Jambon decided that it was a good thing there hadn’t been time for Don Rhotten to insert his Paul Newman-blue contact lenses. Without them he had been unable to see the looks of undisguised contempt on the Mounties’ faces as he was led past them, announcing that there was just no time to give his autograph. Don was always crushed at the slightest hint that he wasn’t as beloved as he liked to think he was. And Don Rhotten, ego crushed, was just hell to be around; Taylor P. Jambon could not stand to watch a grown man cry.
Almost as soon as they had been shown to their suite and Don had rushed to the bathroom so that he could put in his contacts and caps, “so that I can, at least,” as he put it, “give those police persons the thrill of having me wave at them from the balcony,” there was a knock at the door.
Taylor P. Jambon answered it.
“Oh,” said a rather good-looking chap with a pencil- line mustache, who spoke with a French accent. “It is you, Mr. Jambon!”
“Who are you? Do you always talk that funny? And what do you want?”
“I am one of your most devoted fans,” he replied. “My name is Henri Flambeau, and I have taken it upon myself, as one of your most devoted fans, to welcome you to Montreal and to put myself at your disposal.”
“Who’s that out there with you?” Don Rhotten called from the john.
“A fan, Don,” Taylor P. Jambon said.
“Tell him no autographs at this time, and try to sell him a copy of my book,”* Don Rhotten called.
(* Mr. Rhotten here referred to his autobiography, Presidents and Other Biggies Who Have Known Me. (Published in 1975, the book is no longer in print. Mr. Rhotten, however, acquired the remainder stock of some 135,400 copies, and makes them available to the public whenever possible.)
“One of my fans,” Taylor called, not without just a smidgen of pride in his voice.
“Taylor, I’m here on a big story,” Don Rhotten called. “I have no time to dally with one of your food-freak fatties.”
“You say you’re really one of my big fans?” Taylor asked.
“Oh, yes, sir,” Henri Flambeau said. “I’ve watched every one of your shows at least three times.”
“You don’t say?”
“I do say,” Henri repeated. “And I was afraid to believe it was really you when I saw you leading that poor blind man into the motel.”
“Luck was with you,” Taylor said. “It is I.”
Don Rhotten came out of the bathroom. “You say you’re one of Taylor’s fans?” he asked.
“Yes, sir, I am,” Henri said.
“Then this is really a big day for you, isn’t it?” Don asked. “I mean with both of us.”
“I’m always happy to meet another Taylor P. Jambon fan,” Henri said.
“I’m not a fan,” Don snapped. “I’m Don Rhotten.”
“I thought I did detect a certain odor,” Henri said.
“Oh, that’s the Wild West Beanos,” Taylor said. “I’ll give you a little taste.”
As Henri Falmbeau dipped appreciatively into the can of Wild West Beanos, finally pursing his lips to kiss the air as a symbol of his appreciation of the product, Don Rhotten stared at him appraisingly.
“No offense, Mr. Jambon,” Henri said, “and I wouldn’t ask if this didn’t happen to be my wedding day, but your fan here is all right, isn’t he? I mean, despite that perfume he’s wearing. I would be crushed to learn that a fellow Taylor P. Jambon fan was, how shall I say, a fairy?”
“Don walks a little strange,” Taylor said. “But put your mind to rest.”
“Then why is he staring at me that way?”
“How would you like to be on television?” Don Rhotten asked.
“What are you talking about, Don?” Taylor asked.
“Your fan with the funny mustache and that weird accent may be just what I’m looking for,” Don said.
“I thought you said he was all right,” Henri said.
“For what, Don?” Taylor asked.
“I always like to get the reaction of the man on the street to one of my stories,” Don Rhotten said. “But there are problems when I do that. The man on the street usually says the wrong thing.”
“I think I’m beginning to see what you’re talking about,” Taylor P. Jambon said.
“Just off the top of your head, Frenchie . . .” Don Rhotten said, and then stopped at the sound of a strange sound—a deep cowlike mooing. “What the hell is that?” he asked.
Taylor P. Jambon ran to the door and opened it a crack. Then he slammed it quickly again.
“Well?”
“It was two Royal Canadian Mounted Police with a buffalo* on a leash,” he said.
(* This was, of course, Teddy Roosevelt, who had been left behind at the airport until a truck could be found to carry him along to the Vieux Montreal Motel
.)
“I don’t believe it!” Don Rhotten said, and went and looked for himself. Then he turned and said, “Who said God’s not on my side?”
“You lost me somewhere along the way, Don,” Taylor said.
“Taylor, you do have some of that stuff, that soja hispida Babcockisis, don’t you?”
“I’ve got a fifty-pound sack of it,” Taylor P. Jambon said.
“Great!” Don Rhotten said. “We now have two of the three ingredients we need to win me my Emmy and my rightful place on the ‘One Hour’ show.”
“What are you talking about, Don?”
“Frenchie,” Don said, “I realize this may come at you a little fast because I’m a genius, and you’re anything but, but do you think you could make believe you’re a veterinarian?”
"A vegetarian?”
“Veterinarian,” Don Rhotten said. “A doggie doctor, but for buffalos, instead.”
“You are trying to mislead people,” Henri Flambeau said. ‘That is dishonest.”
“You mean you won’t do it?” Don Rhotten said, visibly disappointed. “You and your honest fans, Taylor!”
“I didn’t say that,” Henri said. “I was about to ask, what’s in it for me? And what exactly do I have to do?”
“All you have to say is something like this: ‘In all of my professional experience, I have never seen a buffalo in greater agony.’ Do you think you could remember all of that?”
“In all of my many years of professional experience, in all corners of the globe, I can state without qualification that I have never seen a buffalo in greater agony,” Henri Flambeau, who was, after all, a card-carrying member of Montreal Local 313, Advertising Modelpersons of the World, ad-libbed. He had been quick to see this for what it was. He was about to be asked to do a dog-food commercial. And as every aspiring actor knows, the route to TV stardom is paved with dog-food commercials. Perhaps, just perhaps, he would not actually have to go through with his marriage to the fat redheaded nurse.
“Great!” Don Rhotten said.
“And what’s in it for me?”
“How does a hundred bucks sound?” Don Rhotten said.
“Not as nice as five hundred,” Henri Flambeau said. “Plus residuals.”
“Two fifty,” Don Rhotten said.
“Four hundred, and you’ve got yourself a veterinarian,” Henri said.
“Done,” Don Rhotten said. They shook hands.
“Let me see if I can get this straight in my mind,” Henri said. “I am, of course, a devotee of the Pavlovian School of Acting.”
“Don’t you mean Stanislavsky?” Taylor P. Jambon asked.
“Whatever. What I’m trying to say is that I have to feel the part,” Henry said.
“All you have to do is stand there in a doggie-doctor jacket and say you never saw a buffalo in greater agony,” Don Rhotten said. “What’s so hard about that? This is the news, not ‘As the World Turns’!”
“Don,” Taylor said. “You said you had two of the three things you need. What’s missing?”
“Mrs. Josephine Babcock,” Don said. “But we know she’s here. Her plane is here. She must be here. All I have to do is find her. I’ll get right on that. Just as soon as we find her, we feed the buffalo some of that soja hispida Babcockisis right in front of her very eyes, Frenchie here delivers that line about the buffalo’s agony, and then I ask her, ‘How about that, Mrs. Babcock?’ That’ll teach her not to cancel her TV cigarette advertising.”
“Fair’s fair, Don,” Taylor P. Jambon said. “She didn’t willingly cancel the advertising. The government made her.”
“Nonsense, you know as well as I do that interfering with television’s profits is unAmerican,” Don Rhotten said. Before Taylor P. Jambon could pursue the argument farther, Don Rhotten had grabbed the telephone and been connected with the ABS News Montreal bureau: “Don Rhotten here,” he announced. “I want you to locate a Mrs. Josephine Babcock, also known as Mrs. Burton Babcock III. . . .” There was a pause. “How should I know where to look for her? That’s not my problem. That’s what you people are for. I have enough to do reading the scripts and coming up with brilliant ideas like this one. Find her, that’s all. And send a camera crew over here right away with a doggie-doctor jacket. Yeah, that’s what I said, a doggie-doctor jacket. And then tell ABS to stand by for a live bulletin story.”
Although, of course, there was no way Mr. Rhotten could have known this, Mrs. Josephine Babcock was, at that very moment, right above him, in the Sky-Vue Suite of the Vieux Montreal Howard Johnson’s Motel.
Her white hospital gown had been replaced by one of His Royal Highness’ caftans. Horsey had offered, as he put it, to “spring for some duds” from any Montreal store of her choosing, but Josephine had replied that she hadn’t worn off-the-rack clothing since her marriage and she had no intention of starting now. There was spare clothing aboard her plane, and she would wait until she got that.
A game of chance, which Horsey had suggested as a means to pass time until things could be sorted out, was in progress. While Mrs. Babcock’s luck with the cards had been entirely pleasant to experience, she was growing more and more annoyed with the Arab and Horsey, who were carrying on what presumably was a conversation, but which sounded like nothing more than grunts, snorts and wheezes. She presumed that the game was being discussed. She erred.
“I admire this lady, Horsey,” His Royal Highness was saying in Abzugian.
“She’s all right, I suppose,” Horsey replied in Abzugian.
“Who would I see about buying her?” His Royal Highness replied. He beamed at Josephine, switched to English, and spoke to the lady. “Your mother wears army boots,” he said.
“Tell him if he says that to me one more time, Horsey, I’ll break this bottle over his head.”
Delighted with the response, His Royal Highness smiled again, pinched Josephine on the cheek and spoke the second of the three English phrases he had memorized.
“Up yours!” he said, whereupon Josephine made good her threat. A half-gallon bottle of Old White Stagg Blended Kentucky Bourbon flew through the air, smashed down upon His Royal Highness’ royal headgear, and shattered. The contents of the nearly full bottle ran down His Royal Highness’ face and soaked his royal robes even as His Royal Highness slid under the table.
“Never did like playing cards with women,” Uncle Hiram said. “There’s trouble every time.”
Josephine was immediately sorry for what she had done. As Abdullah’s somewhat bloodshot eyeballs rolled upward in his head, she had a sudden, sickening fear that she had killed him.
“Oh, my god,” she cried. “I’ve killed him.”
Horsey felt Abdullah’s pulse.
“He’s alive,” he reported. “I guess all that money he carried around in his hat broke the blow.”
“I’ll raise twenty bucks,” Uncle Hiram said.
“Your twenty and twenty more, white man,” Sitting Buffalo said.
“How can you simply go on playing cards under these circumstances?” Josephine replied. She glanced disparagingly at the cards in her hand. And then glanced again. “Your twenty and twenty on top, Sitting Buffalo. That makes it sixty to you, Horsey.”
“I’ll call,” Horsey said.
“Read ’em and weep,” Josephine said. “King high flush.” She then stood up and went to the door. She pulled it open. The Royal Canadian Mounted Police on duty in the corridor came to attention.
“You there, in the Nelson Eddy suit,” Josephine said. “There has been a slight accident in here.”
The Royal Canadian Mountie came into the room. He saw Abdullah on the floor. When he bent over him, the fumes of the Old White Stagg assailed his nostrils.
“I thought these people didn’t drink,” he said. “I should have known better.” He took his whistle and blew on it. Two more Royal Canadian Mounties came running up.
“We’d better run this guy over to Montreal General,” the first Mountie said. “But it’ll take four of us to
carry him. Where’s Antoine?”
“Walking the buffalo,” a second Mountie replied.
“You want to give us a hand, fella?” the first Mountie said to Sitting Buffalo, who was closest.
“Screw you, white man,” Sitting Buffalo replied.
“Horsey,” Josephine said. “Help these people carry this man!”
“You hit him,” Horsey replied, reasonably. “You help them!”
“Very well,” Josephine sniffed.
“Oh, hell,” Uncle Hiram said. “The game’s ruined anyhow. You get one leg, Sitting Buffalo, and I’ll get the other, and don’t hand me none of that ‘Screw you, white man’ business either.” He patted the Colt .45 in his belt.
“You go get the ambulance started, Phillipe,” the senior Mountie said. “And while these weirdos are carrying His Royal Highness downstairs, I’ll call Montreal General and tell them we’re coming.”
Carrying His Royal Highness between them, two of the Royal Canadian Mounties, Sitting Buffalo and Uncle Hiram left the suite and went down the corridor to the elevator, with Josephine hovering over them. It was immediately apparent that all six of them would never get into the elevator at once.
“Down the stairs!” one of the Mounties cried.
The stairs were in plain view of the balcony of Mr. Rhotten’s suite, on which he and Henri Flambeau were rehearsing Mr. Flambeau’s doggie-doctor bit.
“My god, that’s her,” Don Rhotten suddenly cried.
“I don’t have that cue in my script,” Henri Flambeau said. “If I’ve got more lines, that’s going to cost you more money.”
“Taylor!” Don Rhotten shouted. “There’s Josephine Babcock, the buffalo poisoner, herself.”
“Where?”
“In her bathrobe, with that guy the Royal Mounties are carrying down the stairs. I guess they always do get their man, after all.”
“Now that you’ve found her, Don,” Taylor P. Jambon said, “don’t you think you’d better hang on to her?”
MASH 13 MASH goes to Montreal Page 17