“Shut up, you cheapie, you,” Doña Antoinetta said. The bishop read the next telegram.
WASHINGTON, D.C.
FROM THE ROYAL HUSSIDIC EMBASSY
MANAGER
WINTER PALACE HOTEL
MIAMI BEACH, FLA.
IN THE NAME OF HIS MOST ISLAMIC MAJESTY, MAY HIS TRIBE INCREASE, YOU ARE COMMANDED TO PROVIDE SUITABLE ACCOMMODATIONS FOR HLS ROYAL HIGHNESS THE CROWN PRINCE HASSAN AD KAYAM, AMBASSADOR EXTRAORDINARY AND PLENIPOTENTIARY TO THE UNITED STATES, COMMENCING AT APPROXIMATELY 6 P.M. YOUR TIME TOMORROW FOR SUCH TIME AS HLS ROYAL HIGHNESS MAY DEIGN TO HONOR YOUR HOTEL WITH HIS PRESENCE. HLS ROYAL HIGHNESS PARTY INCLUDES THE FOLLOWING: HIS EMINENCE, JOHN PATRICK MULCAHY, INFIDEL ARCHBISHOP OF SWENGCHAN; HIS EXCELLENCY EL NOIL SNOIL THE MAGNIFICENT, ROYAL HUSSIDIC AMBASSADOR EXTRAORDINARY AND PLENIPOTENTIARY AT LARGE; * THE BARONESS GENEVIEVE D’IBER-VILLE; MADAME ESMERELDA HOFFENBURG, THE BALLERINA.
IT IS HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS’ MOST GRACIOUS INTENTION TO HONOR THE CEREMONIES INVOLVING PRUDECE MACDONALD , DOCTORS PIERCE AND MCINTYRE, AND THE HOLY RELIC WITH HIS BENEVOLENT PRESENCE. PLEASE SEE TO IT THAT THE FLOOR, OR FLOORS, PROVIDED FOR HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS ARE IN PROXIMITY TO THE ACCOMMODATIONS PROVIDED FOR MEMBERS OF THE OTHER PARTICIPANTS IN THIS INFIDEL RITE.
AHMED MOHAMMAD, SR.
ROYAL HUSSIDIC AMBASSADOR TO THE
UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
(* This was, of course, a reference to Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov, who, when ennobled by the King of Hussid, Hassan’s father, had been given the Hussidic name of El Noil Snoil (in French: Les Lion Boules) in recognition of his many accomplishments. His appointment as ambassador at large saved the maestro such petty annoyances as going through customs and obeying speeding regulations while traveling.)
“I’m not entirely sure I care for that remark about ‘infidel rite,’ ” the bishop said. “But, on the other hand, we of the true faith must be prepared to make sacrifices in the name of ecumenism. Certainly the archbishop would not be traveling with all these pagans if he didn’t hold out some hope for their salvation.”
“My thinking exactly, Bishop,” Doña Antoinetta said. “And if what they say is true about the wealth of those Arabs, the presence of His Royal Highness in our inn might, so to speak, erase the red ink from the ledger.”
The bishop turned to the next telegram:
BAYOU PERDU, LA.
RESERVATIONS MANAGER
WINTER PALACE HOTEL
MIAMI BEACH, FLA.
PLEASE RESERVE ACCOMMODATIONS FOR THE 48-MEMBER BAYOU PERDU COUNCIL, KNIGHTS OF COLUMBUS, MARCHING BAND, ARRIVING MIAMI APPROXIMATELY 6 P.M. TOMORROW TO PARTICIPATE IN CEREMONIES INVOLVING PRUDENCE MACDOÑALD AND REVEREND MOTHER HOT LIPS. SUGGEST PROCURING ADEQUATE SUPPLIES OF HAY AND OATS FOR MARCHING BAND’S CEREMONIAL GOATS. GILIAFCC, INC. A CAPPELLA CHOIR TRAVELING WITH US, BUT SUGGEST WIDEST POSSIBLE SEPARATION OF RESPECTIVE ACCOMMODATIONS. KNIGHTS OF COLUMBUS’ EXPENSES TO BE BILLED TO ME AS EXALTED DEPUTY GRAND VIZIER OF THE PURSE, C/O FIRST NATIONAL BANK OF NEW ORLEANS, BAYOU PERDU BRANCH, BAYOU PERDU, LA.
FATHER JAQUES DE PRESSEPS
PASTOR, CHURCH OF THE IMMACULATE
CONCEPTION, AND CHAPLAIN,
BAYOU PERDU COUNCIL, K. OF C.
“How nice,” Bishop Patrick Michael O’Grogarty said. “It always warms the cockles of my heart to have the Knights of Columbus participate in ceremonies like this. They add a certain, oh, I don’t know, a certain je ne sais quoi, as they say in France.”
The warm smile he flashed at Doña Antoinetta soured suddenly as the bishop recalled what those lousy Frenchmen had done to him just three days before.
Chapter Sixteen
At almost the exact moment Bishop O’Grogarty had marched with dignity through the HOT door of the Winter Palace, Monsignor John Joseph Clancy had marched, with the firm if reluctant tread of some martyr about to be fed to the lions, into the office of His Eminence, the Archbishop of New Orleans. . . .
His Eminence was in good spirits. He had spent the afternoon in work involving a long walk down stretches of God’s green grass. Not only had he, together with Mr. M. (for Moishe) Seymour Goldberg, senior legal counsel to the archdiocese, resolved several pressing legal problems involving the archdiocese, but Moishe had had trouble with his iron shots, and the archbishop had beaten him by six strokes. The archbishop, as the monsignor entered his office, was wearing a broad smile. It might not really be very Christian to laugh at another’s misfortunes, but, on the other hand, there had been a certain undeniable element of humor in the sight of a man frequently described as the dean of the New Orleans bar wrapping the shafts of his golf clubs around a sturdy oak in absolute rage.
“Come on in, Jack,” the archbishop said. “I’m about to take a little something for my digestion.” He took from the lower right-hand drawer of his desk a quart of Leprechaun’s Nectar straight Irish whiskey and two six-ounce silver goblets.
“None for me, thank you,” Monsignor Clancy replied automatically; then he instantly changed his mind. “Perhaps,” he said, “under the circumstances . ..”
“Good for what ails you, Jack,” the archbishop said. Then: “What circumstances, Jack?”
“I’ve just had a little chat with Father dePresseps, Your Eminence,” Monsignor Clancy said, taking the sterling silver goblet and tossing its contents down. “Mud in your eye,” he said.
“Mud in your eye,” the archbishop replied. “And what did you and the good Father talk about, Jack?”
“He’s going to Miami, Your Eminence,” the monsignor said. He extended the goblet for a refill. None was forthcoming.
“Oh?” the archbishop said.
“With the Bayou Perdu Council Marching Band,” Monsignor Clancy added.
“Is that so?” the archbishop said. “Ceremonial goats and all?”
“Yes, sir. Ceremonial goats—and the GILIAFCC, Inc., a cappella choir.”
“You want to tell me how that happened, Jack?” the archbishop asked. “I thought we’d sort of agreed that putting the Bayou Perdu Council, K. of C., together with anything connected with the GILIAFCC, Inc., was carrying the move toward Christian unity a bit too far, too soon.”
“Well, I didn’t know about it, of course,” Monsignor Clancy replied somewhat uneasily. “I heard about it after the fact.”
“What happened, Jack?”
“Well, Your Eminence, the best I can figure out, what happened is that Hot Lips called the aviation division of Chevaux Petroleum to schedule an airplane. You know how close she is to Horsey, and Horsey left orders that she can have a plane any time she wants one if there’s one that’s not in use.”
“I’ve heard,” the archbishop said. “I know now what ‘generous to a fault’ really means. Reverend Mother Emeritus wants to go where?”
“To Miami,” Monsignor Clancy said.
“Jack, this wouldn’t have anything to do with that scholarship those Cubans set up?”
“I’m afraid so, Your Eminence,” Monsignor Clancy replied. “She and Prudence are going to give the family Gomez y Sanchez one of those little statues.”
“The ones they call ‘holy relics’?”
“I’m afraid so,” Monsignor Clancy said.
“And how did Father dePresseps become involved?”
“He was at Bayou Perdu International Airport when she called,” Monsignor Clancy reported. “He was arranging for the annual blessing of the aircraft fleet.”
“And?”
“He was naturally curious, so Hot Lips told him that they were going to Miami.”
“And he didn’t try to dissuade her?”
“No, sir. Apparently he doesn’t quite understand that there are holy relics and holy relics. And since Horsey was going to be involved, and since the plane was going anyway ...”
“He decided that it would be a nice thing for the marching band, ceremonial goats and all, to participate?”
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s too late to stop them?”
“Yes, sir.
”
“And you’ve done nothing about this, Jack?” the archbishop said.
“Yes, sir, I tried. I did what I could.”
“Fill me in, Jack.”
“Well, while I hated to bother him, I figured this was sort of an emergency, so I called Archbishop Mulcahy in the Vatican.”
“Good thinking, Jack! What did His Eminence have to say?”
“The Vatican reported that he had been ordered to take a two-week vacation.”
“Who can order an archbishop to take—he ordered him to take a vacation, personally?”
“So I was led to believe, Your Eminence.”
“So you couldn’t reach the archbishop?”
“No, sir. So I decided to meet the issue head on. I tried to contact Horsey, to get him to cancel the airplane.”
“And?”
“Horsey was in Alaska. With François Mulligan. Your Eminence will remember I told you about that?”
“How could I forget? Well, what happened?”
“Chevaux Petroleum put me through to Prudhoe Bay, on the North Slope, and they told me that Horsey had left a few hours before.”
“Where had he gone?”
“An Air Hussid DC-9 had just picked him and François up.”
“And did you try to contact him aboard the Air Hussid aircraft?”
“Yes, sir, of course. But the Air Hussid radio operator said they were far too busy to take any calls from infidels.”
“That’s all?”
“I next contacted Dr. Pierce,” Monsignor Clancy said.
“Hawkeye! Good thinking, Jack!”
“I spoke with Mrs. Pierce,” Monsignor Clancy said.
“And you told her the problem?”
“I simply asked her where Hawkeye was,” Monsignor Clancy replied. “And she volunteered the information that he and Trapper John had just left Spruce Harbor.”
“Oh?”
“On an Air Hussid aircraft.”
“You don’t say?”
“The pilot-in-command, Your Eminence,” Monsignor Clancy said, “is apparently His Eminence the Archbishop of Swengchan!”
“Don’t tell me! Let me guess! They’re going to Miami?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Anything you’ve left out?”
“There are two other doctors, or a doctor and a dentist, aboard the airplane.”
“Who might they be?”
“One of them is Walter Waldowski—he’s the dentist. The other is a physician named T. Mullins Yancey.”
“T. Mullins Yancey? That name is vaguely familiar,” the archbishop mused. Then, apparently, there was recognition. “T. Mullins Yancey! T. MULLINS YANCEY?”
“Yes, sir,” the monsignor said. “And I’m afraid it’s the T. Mullins Yancey.”
The Archbishop of New Orleans filled both silver goblets to overflowing and handed one to Monsignor Clancy.
“All we need to tie it up with a red, red ribbon,” the archbishop said, “is to hear that Boris Korsky-Rimsakov is with them.”
“I’m afraid so, Your Eminence,” Monsignor Clancy said. “And so I thought I’d better bring it to your attention.”
“Thanks a lot, Jack,” the archbishop said. He drained his silver goblet and punched the button of his intercom. “Get me Bishop O’Grogarty in Miami Beach,” he said. He sat with his eyes closed until the telephone rang.
“Bishop O’Grogarty? This is the archbishop . . . well, who are you?” Pause. “Monsignor Moran, put me through to your bishop!” Pause. “I don’t care where he is. Put me through to him.” Another pause. “How odd!” he said in an aside to Monsignor Clancy. “His chancellor said that he was in the Winter Palace. I wonder what that could be?” Another pause. “Bishop O’Grogarty? This is the Archbishop of New Orleans.” Pause. “You were just thinking about me? About what? You’re with the family Gomez y Sanchez? How nice! No, I’m afraid I won’t be able to come over to Miami just now. Yes, I understand that His Eminence the Archbishop of Swengchan will be there. But I tell you what you could do, if you’d be so kind. The minute His Eminence arrives, would you ask him to call me? It’s a rather pressing matter, a personal matter, and I’d appreciate it very much. Thank you so much, Bishop. And might I presume to leave you with a word from the Scriptures? ‘Judge not, lest you be judged.’ No, no, Bishop. I don’t have anything specific in mind. Just a theological truism I have found comes in handy from time to time, and which I thought I’d pass along to you. Nice to talk to you, too, Bishop.”
He replaced the phone in its cradle.
“They’re thinking of having the ceremony involving the holy relic in the convention center,” he said to Monsignor Clancy. “You know, the place where both Nixon and McGovern were nominated?”
“I know the place, Your Eminence,” the monsignor said.
“When I was a young man, Jack, in the seminary,” the archbishop said, “I had my dreams. I would be pastor of a nice little church with a parochial school, and I would divide my time among the affairs of the parish. Never in my wildest nightmares did I imagine anything like this.”
“That,” said Bishop O’Grogarty, replacing his telephone handset in its cradle, “was the Archbishop of New Orleans, calling to express his regret that he just can’t tear himself away to come here.”
“What a shame!” Doña Antoinetta said.
“It would have been nice,” Bishop O’Grogarty said, “to have two archbishops at once.”
“Well, now that that’s all over,” Doña Antoinetta said, “may I suggest that we, you and I, Bishop, go somewhere where you may hear my confession?”
“Of course,” the bishop said, forcing a smile.
“You three!” Doña Antoinetta said. “Arrange everything to see that our guests are taken care of. They’ll be here in just a few hours.”
Then she rose, pressed her hands together in front of her stomach, fingertips touching, and marched with regal piety out of the room. Bishop O’Grogarty followed in her wake.
“Are you still here?” Doña Antoinetta said suddenly, sharply, to Mr. Smith of the Ajax Television Repair Company. Mr. Smith sat on his haunches before an enormous color television set.
Don Rhotten, America’s most beloved young television newscaster, was on the tube, his face a vile purple color, declaiming in his famous voice.
“There’s something wrong with your TV,” Mr. Smith said. “Don Rhotten’s face is all purple, and his Paul Newman blue eyes are all yellow.”
“I thought he always looked like that,” Bishop O’Grogarty said. “He does in person.”
“You sound surprised,” Doña Antoinetta said to Mr. Smith. “I thought you said you came to fix the set because it was broken.”
“I did, I did,” Mr. Smith said hastily. Truth to tell, beneath the beard, he really wasn’t Mr. Smith of the Ajax Television Repair Company at all. He was really Birch Beebe, agent in charge of the Miami bureau of the F.B.I., protecting the nation’s security by operating in a disguise while he investigated what a very senior member of the Senate Committee on Savings and Loans had described as a “bunch of ungrateful Cubans.” Sneaking into people’s houses by saying that you’d come to fix their broken television sets was a standard, prescribed ploy in the operations manual. But the operations manual, Agent Beebe had suddenly realized, said absolutely nothing at all about what one was supposed to do when one found a TV set that actually needed fixing.
“Well, if you can’t fix it here,” Doña Antoinetta said, “get it out of here, and don’t bring it back until it does work.”
“Good thinking, good thinking!” Mr. Smith said.
He looked at the set and saw with enormous relief that God was really on the side of the righteous. He never could have picked the set up by himself. But it had wheels. He propped his tape recorder* against the wall, turned it on, and then started to push the television out of the room.
(* The device wasn’t really a tape recorder, although it looked like a tape recorder. It was F.B.I. surveillance de
vice 56.904(B), a short-wave transmitter. Surveillees, seeing the device, would naturally turn off what they assumed was a tape recorder, and would never suspect that the device was really a radio broadcasting every sound in the room to a receiver located as much as a mile away. It was, in fact, impossible for surveillees to turn off the transmitter part of the device.)
“If I might make a suggestion?” Bishop O’Grogarty said.
“Certainly,” Mr. Smith said. “The Ajax Television Repair Company is always open to suggestion!”
“Would it be a good idea if you unplugged the set?” the bishop asked.
“I was just going to do that,” Mr. Smith said.
It took him, Doña Antoinetta thought, an extraordinarily long time to unplug the cord and disconnect the antenna. She watched, her hands still held piously in front of her, but with the right eyebrow now raised a full inch above its normal position, as Mr. Smith rolled her color TV out the door.
When Mr. Smith had finally left, Doña Antoinetta put a chair into a closet, ushered the bishop inside, closed the door except for a small crack, knelt outside, and began her confession.
“How long has it been since you’ve gone to confession?” the bishop, in his role as confessor, asked. As the bishop, he knew full well that the confessee had gone to confession a week ago; he had worked out a deal with Father Huaretto to relieve him when the strain grew too great.
“A long time, Father,” Doña Antoinetta said. “It seems like ages, but it must have been last week.”
“I see,” the bishop said.
“That’s a tape recorder!” Doña Antoinetta said.
“I beg your pardon?” the bishop asked. There was no reply. He spoke again, this time calling her name. When there was no response this time, he stuck his head out of the closet. Doña Antoinetta, holding a tape recorder in one hand, was going through the Greater Miami Yellow Pages with the other.
“Ah-ha!” she said, glancing at him. “There is no Ajax Television Repair Company. The man is an impostor!”
MASH 10 MASH goes to Miami Page 18