“In the army they called me Gargantua,” he said.
“So I heard,” Hawkeye replied.
“Are you going to press charges?” the trooper asked. It was a confession.
“I don’t know,” Hawkeye said. “The last time I encountered a make-believe medical doctor I cheered loudly as the cops hauled him away. This is a little different, isn’t it?”
“ ’Cause I’m a trooper?”
“No,” Hawkeye said. “Because you obviously know what you’re doing. What did you do, lose your license?”
“I never had a license,” the trooper said.
“Who are you, the Great Impostor?” Trapper John asked. He had finally realized what was going on.
“I guess I am,” the trooper said.
“And you didn’t worry at all about the complications that sometimes occur in a delivery?” Hawkeye asked. “By what right did you risk that woman’s life and her baby’s life?”
“That was my one-hundred-nineteenth delivery,” the trooper said. “I’d have radioed for an ambulance if I got in trouble.”
“Your one-hundred-nineteenth delivery?” Hawkeye asked.
“Two here,” the trooper said. “A hundred seventeen in Vietnam.”
“Ah ha,” Trapper John said. “You were a medic in the army.”
“I was a Green Beret medic,” the trooper said. “There’s a difference.”
“What’s the difference?” Trapper asked.
“Green Beret medics get a crash course in medicine at Fort Sam Houston,” Hawkeye answered for him. “I should have thought of that. That explains the professional suturing.”
“You better explain that to me,” Trapper John said. “I missed something along the way.”
“The army had a problem,” Hawkeye said. “They needed a doctor to be part of what they call a Special Forces ‘A’ Team. There weren’t that many doctors around, so they started training their own.”
“You mean a whole medical program?”
“Sort of. In about fourteen months they taught guys enough to do practically everything a general practitioner can do,” Hawkeye said.
“We were taught to do everything but open the cranial cavity,” the trooper said.
“Appendectomies?” Trapper said.
“If we had to. Generally, it was surgical repair of wounds. But we also took care of the families of the Vietnamese soldiers. And that, of course, meant delivering babies.”
“And you liked it, huh?” Trapper John said. He seemed torn between admiration and anger. “You liked being a doctor?”
“Yeah,” the enormous, ugly state trooper said. “More than anything I’d ever done.”
“And so,” Hawkeye said, “you got out of the army and just decided to go into business for yourself?”
“No,” he said. “I got out of the army to go to medical school.”
“Then what are you doing in that state trooper suit?” Trapper John asked.
“I needed a job. I had to finish college, for one thing. And I’m not too smart. I knew that I could never make it through medical school if I had to work part-time. So I figured I could spend a couple of years as a state trooper, get my degree, and save some money.”
“But why a state trooper?”
“It pays pretty good, with the overtime,” the trooper said. “And I get an allowance for living in the woods.”
“Plus what you make playing doctor?” Trapper John challenged.
“I never took a dime!” the trooper flared.
“No,” Hawkeye said, “he hasn’t. I checked that out last week.”
“Sorry,” Trapper John said. His frustration was evident. “But my God, you just can’t open a clinic, free or otherwise. They’ll throw you in the slammer!”
“How long before you can get into medical school?” Hawkeye asked.
“I’ll get my bachelor’s degree next month,” the trooper said. “I haven’t been accepted at medical school yet.” He paused. “I don’t think I can make it in this fall. But that’s all right. That’ll give me another year to try, and I’ll be able to save more money in another year.” Then he suddenly stopped. “That’s what I was planning, I mean,” he said. “Before I got caught.”
Hawkeye looked at him for a long moment before he spoke.
“Caught? What do you mean, caught? As a member in good standing of the medical profession, I would, of course, make the appropriate outraged noises, if it ever came to my attention that someone was practicing medicine without a license. On the other hand, if Mrs. Antoinette DeBois tells me her kid was delivered at home, without medical attention, who am I to question her word?”
“You mean you’re not going to turn me in?”
“Sure I am,” Hawkeye said. “The next time you deliver a baby, I’m going to turn you in. The next time. Clear?”
“Thank you,” the trooper said.
“You want to practice a little first aid, go ahead. You can also make some wild guesses about what ails people, so long as you don’t pass out anything stronger than aspirin,” Hawkeye said. “And as long as you make sure they come into town and see one of us. Understood?”
The trooper nodded.
“I think this concludes our little consultation,” Hawkeye said. “Thank you for coming to see me.”
“I really appreciate...”
“Before you get all wet-eyed,” Hawkeye said, “don’t get the idea that I’m doing you any favors. Wait till you get to be an intern. Making somebody an intern is a far nastier thing to do than sending him off to lay around all day in the slammer.”
The enormous, ugly state trooper smiled hesitantly at Hawkeye and Trapper John and backed out of the office.
Chapter Two
“Wow!” Trapper John said, when the door had closed.
“Congratulations,” Hawkeye said. “You’ve finally made it.”
“Made what?”
“Become a felon,” Hawkeye said. “You just failed in your citizen’s duty to bring a lawbreaker before the bar of justice.”
“I thought it was you that did that,” Trapper said, moving to the martini pitcher and helping himself. “I was just what you might call an innocent bystander.”
“We’re in this together,” Hawkeye said.
“In what together?”
Hawkeye took a form from his drawer. “This is the form that says we have investigated the circumstances of the birth, without medical attention, of that boy in the nursery and come to the conclusion that it was indeed a delivery at home, made necessary by the surprise arrival of the infant.”
“That would be falsifying,” said Trapper John as he reached for a pen, “an official document.”
“Right,” Hawkeye said. After Trapper John had signed the document, he signed it. They solemnly shook hands. “Now what?”
“Now I think we should run up the hospital’s phone bill,” Hawkeye said. “Just to keep AT and T in business.” He picked up the phone. “Hazel,” he said, “I wish to speak to Colonel Jean-Pierre de la Chevaux, chairman of the board and chief executive officer of the Chevaux Petroleum Corporation, International.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” a strange, somewhat nasal female voice replied. “Hazel’s off duty.”
“Well, I’m sure you, whoever you are, will do splendidly,” Hawkeye replied.
“The question, sir, is who are you? No long-distance calls are permitted from that extension without the permission of the hospital administrator.”
“I see,” Hawkeye said. “Hold on, please.” He handed the phone to Trapper John. “It’s for you,” he said.
“Mr. Crumley heah,” Trapper John said. “Do I infer there is some sort of administrative mix-up?”
“I just have your official memorandum here, Mr. Crumley,” the operator said, “the one that says that under no circumstances are Dr. Pierce or Dr. McIntyre to make long-distance calls and charge them to the hospital.”
“There must be some mistake,” Trapper John said, rather skillfully mim
icking the administrator’s somewhat prissily effeminate tone of voice and manner of speaking. “That memorandum was dictated but not read. What I intended to say was that any calls made by those two distinguished surgeons and credits to the staff are to be charged to my personal account, as a small token of my esteem and respect. Now that that’s straightened out, would you please complete the call?”
“Yes, sir. Of course. The calling party didn’t tell me where I could find Mr. de la Chevaux.”
“One moment please,” Trapper said. He covered the microphone with his hand. “Horsey still in Alaska?”
“No,” Hawkeye said. “I think he’s with Boris and Hassan.”
“I believe Mr. de la Chevaux can be located in the palace of the king of Hussid. That’s somewhere in Arabia,” Trapper John said.
“Arabia?” the operator asked, disbelievingly.
“Right,” Trapper John said. “We’ll wait.” He hung the phone up and turned to Hawkeye. “You just want to say howdy and check in, or is there something else on your mind?”
“I think that the Chevaux Foundation* has just found a suitable applicant to lay some Jean-Pierre de la Chevaux medical scholarship money on,” Hawkeye said.
(* The Chevaux Foundation was established by the Chevaux Petroleum Corporation, International, at the suggestion of Colonel Jean-Pierre de la Chevaux (Louisiana National Guard), chairman of the board and chief executive officer. Operating with the income of 10 percent (1,089,344 shares; average market value, $44) of the shares of Chevaux Petroleum, the foundation has financed many good works, most notably the Gates of Heaven Hospital, New Orleans, Louisiana, and the Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov Memorial Home for Retired Opera Singers, Thespians, and Femmes de Pave, Paris, France.)
“I didn’t know there was a Chevaux Foundation medical scholarship program,” Trapper John said.
“There isn’t,” Hawkeye replied. “But just as soon as I talk to Horsey, there will be.”
“I don’t think dough is going to be the problem,” Trapper said.
“Dough is always the problem,” Hawkeye said. “You have just heard my philosophic gem of wisdom for today.”
“I mean it, Hawk,” Trapper said.
“Explain yourself,” Hawkeye said. “Speak slowly.”
“Getting him into medical school is going to be the problem. Things have tightened up somewhat since they let us in.”
“I have this sinking feeling in my belly that tells me that you may be right for once,” Hawkeye said. “But no problem. We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. The first thing to do is get the money.”
The telephone rang.
“Dr. Pierce,” Hawkeye said, answering it.
“I have the Royal Palace on the line, Doctor,” the operator said. There was excitement in her voice. The only palace with which she had previously conversed was Pasquale’s Pizza Palace in Spruce Harbor.
“Congratulations,” Hawkeye said.
“They say that there is no Mr. de la Chevaux in the palace.”
“In that case, let me talk to the crown prince,” Hawkeye said.
“The crown prince?” the operator asked.
“Right,” Hawkeye said. He covered the microphone with his hand. “Horsey’s not there,” he said, “but since good ol’ Crumley’s paying for it. I figured we might as well say ‘Howdy’ to His Royal Highness.”
“Good thinking,” Trapper John said. “No sense wasting the call.”
“Hawkeye?” a British-accented voice came on the line.
“Hassan, ol’ buddy,” Hawkeye said. “How they hanging?”
“I am in splendid health, thank you,” the crown prince said. “And yourself?”
“Just fine, thank you,” Hawkeye said. “Say hello to Trapper, Hassan.” He handed the phone to Trapper and a few pleasantries were exchanged as well as the information that the weather was fine in Hussid, a little hot and dry, and the weather in Spruce Harbor was fine, too, although there was a hint of rain.
It was learned that Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov was expected in Hussid momentarily but regrettably was not available to talk on the phone. After four or five minutes of small talk between friends, at eighteen dollars a minute, Hawkeye finally got to the point.
“Hassan, we’re looking for Horsey. Have you got any idea where he is?”
A look of utter surprise came onto Hawkeye’s face at the reply.
“What’s the matter?” Trapper John said.
“Good to talk to you, Hassan,” Hawkeye said. “Say hello to Boris when he gets there, and take care of yourself. An apple a day, you know.” He hung up and banged on the telephone switch with his finger. “This is Dr. Pierce,” he said to the operator. “Would you get my home, please?” There was a pause. “Yes, operator, that was really Arabia and that really was a crown prince.”
“What are you calling home for?” Trapper John asked.
“Mary?” Hawkeye said. “Is Horsey there?”
“Oh,” Trapper John said.
“He stopped off en route from Alaska to Hussid,” Hawkeye explained. “Hassan told me.” Then he turned his attention to the phone. “Horsey? Hawkeye. Come on down to the office. I want some of your money.” He nodded and hung up and turned to Trapper John. “I hope you’re properly impressed that you were in on the very birth of the Chevaux Medical Scholarship Fund.”
“I’ll be more impressed if we can get Gargantua into medical school,” Trapper said.
“If necessary, we’ll have Horsey buy him one,” Hawkeye said.
“I hope there’s a good one on the market,” Trapper said, “because I think that’s what it’s going to take.”
“Certainly, Dr. McIntyre,” Hawkeye said, “you’re not suggesting that someone that you and I jointly, and together, with great enthusiasm, recommend for entrance into medical school isn’t going to get in?”
“I’m not so sure I can recommend Gargantua with great enthusiasm,” Trapper replied. “After all, all we’ve seen him do so far is obstretrics, surgery, and consultative psychiatry. For all we know, he may be a lousy internist.” "
“I think that’s overshadowed by a certain natural ability,” Hawkeye said, and his tone of voice wasn’t mocking. “You really think we’re going to have trouble getting him in, Trapper?”
“That’s the way I see it,” Trapper said. “There’s only so many spaces, and twice as many . . . three times as many... applicants as spaces.”
“In that case, we’ll have to resort to blackmail, or whatever else it takes,” Hawkeye said. “That guy’s going to medical school, period.”
“I think we can get him in, eventually,” Trapper said. “But I don’t think we can get him in next fall.”
“We’re going to try,” Hawkeye said. He made another pitcher of martinis, and the two of them sat thoughtfully until the intercom in Hawkeye’s office went off and announced the arrival of a visitor who identified himself as Horsey de la Chevaux.
“Send him in,” Hawkeye called.
The man who appeared moments later in the office of the chief of surgery frankly bore little of the outward trappings one expects of a captain of industry. Instead of a banker-blue suit and a crisp white shirt, for example, he wore a woolen shirt and a pair of grease-stained work pants held up by fireman’s suspenders. His feet were shod in engineer boots, and a knit cap with a tassel, the sort normally seen on small boys, rose atop his head.
“Goddamn!” he said by way of greeting. “How in hell are you guys?”
“Come in, Horsey,” Hawkeye said, “and break out the checkbook.”
Horsey came in, wrapped massive arms around each practitioner of the healing arts in turn, hoisted them off the floor, and kissed them on the cheeks. Then, without being invited, he went to the CONFIDENTIAL drawer of the filing cabinet and took out a gallon bottle of Old White Stagg Blended Kentucky Bourbon. With an ease and skill that could only be the result of long practice, he hooked his finger in the glass loop at the neck, swung the bottle ar
ound, and took a long pull from the neck. He then burped.
“You need some dough?” he asked.
“Right,” Hawkeye said.
“For a good cause,” Trapper said.
“How much?”
“About five grand for openers,” Hawkeye said. “We’ll be back later for more.”
“You got it,” Horsey said. He reached into the pocket of the grease-stained trousers and withdrew a folded-in-half stack of paper currency held together with a rubber band. It was fully an inch thick.
“Not even paperwork,” he said, tossing it to Hawkeye. “Would you believe a king high flush?”
Hawkeye tossed it back.
“We need a check,” he said.
“Cash is no good anymore?”
“We got to give a guy a scholarship,” Trapper said.
“What kind of a guy?”
“A cop,” Hawkeye said. “But don’t get the wrong idea, Horsey.”
The truth of the matter is that during his lifetime Horsey de la Chevaux had had many differences of opinion with officers of the law, generally centered around a differing opinion of what constitutes public drunkenness and disorderly conduct. Policemen were not among Horsey’s favorite people.
“Give me the right idea,” Horsey said. He did not throw the thick wad of bills back.
“About six months ago,” Hawkeye began, “they sent a new trooper up into the woods. Soon afterward, we began to hear of a Dr, Smith.”
“I don’t understand you,” Horsey said. He took another pull at the Old White Stagg.
“Well, normally when there was an accident among the loggers, the guy that got hurt came in here, damned near dead, wrapped in a bloody blanket. By the time they got here, in other words, it was often too late to save their foot, where they’d hit it with an ax, or run over it with a truck. And when their women had babies, because they didn’t have any money and were too proud to go to the charity ward, they had them at home. That was generally a disaster, too.”
“So who’s this Dr. Smith?”
“Well, all of a sudden, when there was an accident, they came in here all neatly sewed up, or in casts. When we asked who had been the doctor, we were told that Dr. Smith, by coincidence, had just happened by and gone to work.”
MASH 08 MASH Goes to Hollywood Page 2