“What should we do with the maternal mater?’ Rhino dangled him by his uniform collar.
“Possession is nine-tenths of the law,” I told him. “You decide.”
Rhino decided to relieve him of his underpants and pants and hang him upside down from an oak tree branch. Bound, gagged, and half-naked, the guard presented a sight that would have the mountain forest animals chattering among themselves for days. Rhino patted his cheek and we continued on our upward trek.
A quarter of a mile or so later, we struck a path and, a little while after that, the terrain leveled out, and we found ourselves just behind the ninth hole of the Baroquian golf course. As we were getting our bearings, a golf ball fell from the sky and bounced off poor Rhino’s skull. A half-minute later there was a jovial shout: “FORE!”
Rhino was just coming around when the man who had shouted stumbled on us. He was driving a golf cart and chewing gum. He braked to a halt when he saw Rhino stretched out on the ground. “Good Lord!” he exclaimed. “What happened?”
“I was hit by a cohabitating golf ball!” Rhino told him groggily.
“But I yelled ‘FORE!’ “
“You’re supposed to yell before you hit the ball.” I recognized him as one of the ex-Presidents of the U.S. we had encountered on our last visit to the Baroquian Club.
“Really? I didn’t know that. You see, I’m new to the game. Football and skiing have always been my sports.”
“You look familiar.” Rhino’s eyes began to focus.
“Gosh, thanks. I don’t get recognized too much any more. Not like when I was President.”
“Of course!” Rhino snapped his fingers. “You were President of the United States.”
“Not for long.” There was a wistful note in his voice. “None of us seem to last in office as long as Presidents used to last. Maybe that’s why there’s so many of us ex-Presidents wandering around.”
“How’s it feel?” I asked Rhino.
“Sore as a boil on a phallus.”
“I feel just awful,” the ex-President confided. “It’s all my fault. Is there anything I can do for you?” he asked Rhino. “What would make it feel better?”
“You wouldn’t have a shot of bourbon with you?”
“No. I’m afraid not. Wait a minute.” He snapped his fingers, almost catching his ear-lobe between them. “We can get you a drink at the main building. Perhaps I could even buy you gentlemen lunch to make up for my carelessness.” There was a wistful note in his voice as though he wasn’t often successful in enticing someone to have lunch with him since leaving the White House. “Just get in the golf cart with me and I’ll drive us there in a jiffy.”
His jiffy was about five minutes at a thrill a minute, the way he drove. Hanging on for dear life, I tried to think about our situation. Since we were now guests of the ex-President, nobody would question our right to be in the building. We’d be okay as long as we didn’t run into anyone who might remember us from our last visit. Even then, we’d probably go unchallenged unless the somebody was Putnam or someone else who was in on the snatching of Terry Niemath and who was also aware that we weren’t privy to the latest game plan.
And so, we sailed into the Baroquian mansion as his guests with no questions asked. After a somewhat boring lunch of some dish that was both fishy and creamed -- my two pet hates—an upper-level Exxon executive, fully bearded, skipped through the dining lounge dressed in a miniskirt and tube-top. “Hi there!” He waved flirtatiously at the ex-Prez.
“Oh, hi there, Chip. What’s up?”
“Rehearsal. I’m late. Gotta run.” He bounced off.
“Oh, the show!” The ex-Prez snapped his fingers again, just managing to miss his nose. “Gee whiz. I forgot all about it. Would you fellows like to watch them rehearse?”
Rhino and I exchanged glances. We had no better plan for how to proceed. We went along with the ex-Prez to watch the Baroquians rehearse their show.
They were in the middle when we entered and took seats in the back of the hall. There seemed to be a good deal of confusion. Men in a variety of female garb—some half-in and half-out of costume-—were limbering up and rehearsing dance steps without regard to the turmoil around them. A choreographer was trying to plot out a dance routine with a quartet of burly, cigar-chomping cabinet officers in tinkerbell costumes. A corporation president in a pulled-up evening gown sat with his legs propped up against the back of a scenery flat so that he could shave them with an electric razor. Another mogul was struggling with a lipstick and a hand-mirror. The overall scene looked like a cross between Guccione’s Caligula57 and Where ’s Charley58 ?
A former Secretary of State appeared with a former National Security Advisor, who hadn’t quite made it to Secretary of State, at his side. He called for order. Both the call and his accent were echoed by the other man. They were evidently the director and assistant director of the show. Their combined Germanic persona quieted things down.
“That Henry59 !” the ex-Prez whispered worship-fully at my side. “He sure knows how to make them listen!” He popped his gum.
“We vill take ze Havaiian number right from ze top,” he instructed. “Everybody else, off ze stage. Mach schnell!”
A semblance of order appeared onstage. A group of male chorines wearing grass skirts and leis arranged themselves in a line. They were made up with Man-tan, and some kind of eye make-up had been used to try to angle the corners of their eyes in what someone had conceived to be an Oriental slant. Now they began to dance a hula and sing to an accompaniment of mandolins playing Wicki Wacki Woo. Half of them had shaved their legs; the other half looked like tree trunks with caterpillar blight. They were about as graceful as a herd of hippopotami splashing around the waterhole.
“The boys are pretty talented, aren’t they?” the ex-Prez whispered to me.
“Sure are,” I lied.
“I always envy them that. I’ve got two left feet myself.”
The chorus line could have used two more left feet, but I didn’t tell him that. He should have been able to see it for himself. Henry was stamping on the floor like a drill sergeant in an effort to introduce the errant ones to the beat of the music. They stamped back, but the tempo still eluded them.
The chorus line receded toward the back of the stage, fading toward the wings on either side. A spotlight created a diffused and amber puddle in the empty space between the two halves of the line. A new figure—tall, curvy, sinuous—appeared in a sarong dating back to Dorothy Lamour. The chorus subsided to a supporting role as this ‘star’ performed a hula-style tap dance and sang the lyric to Wicki Wacki Woo.
I blinked and did a double-take. Beside me, Rhino’s jaw fell open as though the hinge had just rusted away. Despite the long black wahine wig, there could be no doubting the identity of the newcomer. It was Terry Niemath!
“Isn’t he great?” The ex-President was admiring.
“He’s sensational.” I went along with the gender. “Who is he?”
“New fellow. A real find. I mean, you talk about talent! Just look at that chest!”
“Nice legs too,” I agreed.
“You betcha. If I didn’t know it was a man impersonating a woman, I’d think it was the real thing.”
“He could have fooled me,” said Rhino.
“When the number’s over, do you think you could introduce us to him?” I asked the ex-Prez.
“Golly, I don’t know. I haven’t really met him myself. He’s new. A friend of Charlie Putnam’s, I believe.”
“I see.”
The number wound down to a bump-and-grind finale. It may not have been authentic hula, but it was effective. The ex-Prez was still applauding enthusiastically when the assistant director and former National Security Advisor held up his hands for silence. “It iss two-thirty,” he announced when he had everybody’s attention.