MASH 14 MASH goes to Moscow by Richard Hooker+William Butterworth Read Free Book Online

for What’s-his-name, Lester. You’re not supposed to argue with me. I’m the head man around here. You jest can’t seem to remember that.”
    “Sometimes I wonder, Jim-Boy, if this was such a good idea. It’s not what I thought it would be.”
    “You had this part confused with Congress, Lester. I told you and I told you, if you wanted to fool around, you had to run for Congress. You should have known that you couldn’t fool around, not with the little woman living right here in the same building. Now, are you going to call What’s-his-name and tell him to hustle right over, or am I going to have to do it myself?”
    “I’m getting right on it,” the appointments secretary said. “What do I do with the Russian until Ol ’ Cy can get over here?”
    “Give him a copy of Playboy to read,” Jim-Boy said. “Make sure it’s a complete one, with the centerfold. We had that delegation of Baptist preachers in here yesterday, and you know they can’t be trusted to leave the centerfolds alone.”
    Ten minutes later, the Secretary of State arrived at the Oval Office.
    “You sent for me, sir?”
    “Hope I didn’t interrupt anything important, ol ’ buddy,” Jim-Boy said. “But just as soon as you get under the desk, I’m going to let that Russian fella with the blue-dyed hair in.”
    “You are referring to the Russian ambassador, sir?”
    “You got it, Cy,” Jim-Boy said. “I gave you my word that I wouldn’t talk to them unless you were in the same room. When I give my word, I take it very serious—you know that.”
    “But why do I have to get under the desk?”
    “So he won’t see you,” Jim-Boy said. “He said he wanted to see me alone. Now, if I start saying the wrong thing, Hy … ”
    “That’s Cy, sir.”
    “Whatever. If I start saying the wrong thing, Cy-Boy, you just give me a little tug on my pants leg. O.K.?”
    “I am at your disposal, sir.”
    “Keep that in mind, Cy-Boy. There’s a lot of people around here who’d like to have your job, you know. You’re one of the lucky few who got to keep a limousine, you know,” Jim-Boy said. “Most everybody else’s driving themselves around town.”
    “I’m aware of that, sir,” Cy said.
    “Well, get under the desk, then, and let’s see what this fella wants.”
    The Secretary of State got down on all fours and crawled under the massive, gleaming desk.
    “Watch out for the spittoon, Cy,” Jim-Boy called.
    “I wish you’d said that thirty seconds sooner,” Cy said under his breath.
    Jim-Boy pushed a button on his multibuttoned intercom.
    “Send in the Russian,” he said.
    “Send in who?”
    “The Russian. The one with the blue hair. The one you just told me is out there.”
    “Excuse me, sir, you have the Office of the Presidential Assistant for Female Affairs. There’s no Russian here.”
    “Oops. Wrong button. Sorry about that.” He bent over the multibuttoned intercom, found the right button, pushed it, and repeated the order to send the Russian in. Then he sat down in his rocking chair again.
    “Sir,” the appointments secretary said, “the ambassador of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.”
    “I bring the warmest greetings of not only the Chairman of the Supreme Soviet,” the Russian ambassador said, “but of the millions of peace-loving workers and peasants as well.”
    “Come on in, sit down, and have a boiled peanut,” Jim-Boy said, waving the Russian ambassador into another rocking chair and extending to him a bowl of boiled peanuts.
    “Thank you so much,” the Russian ambassador said.
    “Grow them myself,” Jim-Boy said. “And I don’t even send the General Services Administration a bill for them.”
    The Russian ambassador put several of the boiled peanuts in his mouth. Despite long years of training and experience at eating what are politely called “ethnic” dishes at various diplomatic functions, he was unable to keep from making a face.
    “Something wrong with the peanuts?” Jim-Boy