Here is a wildly imaginative tale which is just plain fun. And half the fun is in the way it’s told.
I always had a yen to be a fisherman. I don’t mean just fishing in a quiet pond on Sunday afternoons. I mean an Ernest Hemingway-Crunch and Des kind of fishing. I mean big-game fishing with a fighting-chair and outriggers and a flying bridge and me the skipper with a full charter and an icebox stacked with cerveza.
Everyone has some sort of dream, but never really expects it to happen, and it never does. Mine happened—all the way.
Here I am, six weeks short of my fortieth birthday, owner and skipper of the Pescadora, thirty-eight feet of twin-dieseled fishing fool. I say, without fear of contradiction, that my boat is the sweetest running charter out of Boca Negra, Chile, where the summers are winters and the winters are summers, and it doesn’t mean a damn because the marlin can’t read a calendar and they’re hitting all the time.
That’s how it is now.
Let me tell you how it was: lousy.
I was a salesman for the Sequoia Life and Casualty and lived a commuter’s life, nine to six Monday through Friday, fifty weeks a year selling life insurance. Every day I made a half-a-hundred phone calls. Sequoia provided me with Diners, Carte Blanche, American Express. Every day I had rich, boozy lunches with different “prospects.” Every morning, it was the 8:05 into Penn Station and the 6:12 home to Mineola, New York, every night.
Saturday was family day. Family: Jimmie eight, Jennifer six, Nancy thirty-one, Hey-Dog four, Chevrolet two, Mortgage thirty.
What with the crabgrass, stopped-up toilets, car wash, supermarket, kiddie-matinees, my Saturday was one big cliché. The only thing I looked forward to was my every-other-weekly haircut. I got to sit down for a half hour and skim through girlie magazines. What a great barber! He used a vibrator.
Five o’clock: I’d had my second martini and was changing clothes to go to somebody’s house for booze and barbecue.
Midnight: home, a little oiled but functioning. I’d pay off the babysitter, drink a club soda, lock the doors, brush my teeth, slap a little cologne on my face, and va-va-va-voom into the bedroom. Too late! My wife was asleep.
One time I reversed the procedure. I maneuvered it so Nancy paid the babysitter, locked up. I even passed up the club soda and, believe me, I could have used it. Into the bathroom, teeth brushed, cologne on the face, under the covers, waiting for my wife, grinning in the dark with anticipation. Too late! I fell asleep.
Sunday morning? Maybe, if the kids didn’t wake up before we did—only they always did because they didn’t go to those Saturday night barbecues. What a pity, because I really loved my wife. What a woman!
Wife, mother, homemaker extraordinaire; attractive, cheerful, understanding, practical; very, very practical, she balanced our bank statement every month, never dented the Chevy fenders, bought two for twenty-five instead of one at thirteen. Kept canned water in the cellar in case of a red alert. For the children’s sake, we always traveled on separate airplanes. She even balanced our budget so tight I could buy $150,000 worth of life insurance. In case of something tragic, she and the kids would be provided for. I couldn’t argue with that; I sold the stuff myself.
Sundays, I usually tried to get in some fishing, but practical Nancy pointed out that my Sunday fishing excursions on Sheepshead Bay cost me $8.oo per mackerel. I pointed out that it was a sport—good for the kids.
Once, I even took them along, but Jimmie got a fishhook through his thumb and Jennifer threw up into the live-bait tank. The rest of the anglers on this half-day boat were pretty sore. The boat made a U-turn and headed home. What with the $7.50 for Jimmie’s tetanus shot and the $35.00 to replace the dead bait, Nancy dry-docked any future fishing.
Then came the event that changed my life. I went for my annual medical checkup to our family doctor, Jerome Hale, M.D. Jerry and I had roomed together in college. He was the best man at my wedding, delivered both my kids.
This day my best friend had the worst news to give me. My electrocardiogram said tilt! Sadly, gravely, Jerry told me I had a severe coronary malfunction: something to do with the valves and blood and surrounding muscle tissue and I had approximately three months to live. Like I said, the worst kind of news. I was in shock.
Jerry was marvelous. He canceled his appointments for the rest of that day and put me through the tests again and again. Same results. I remember being deeply appreciative of the way Jerry handled the whole horrifying thing.
We took a long walk by the ocean. We talked a little about life and a lot about death. Jerry got pretty misty, and I ended by cheering him up.
I went home and broke the tragic news to my wife. She went to pieces, got hysterical. The kids were sent to sleep over at a neighbor’s. She took two tranquilizers, and then we sat down and went over the whole picture together.
Thank God for the insurance policy. She and the kids would never be public charges. Now her being practical really paid off. She took a pencil and paper and figured out that she could cut down expenses all around, sell the house, and get an apartment. That way, the $150,000 policy would see both kids through college.
Then she asked me how I was going to spend my time—the short time I had left. I was stumped. I hadn’t thought about it. I’d never died before. Anyway, I couldn’t care less. I said I’d probably spend my time winding things up at the office.
Nancy said to hell with the office. What had the office ever done for me, except overwork my heart? I couldn’t argue with her there. She put her arms around me and said—I’ll remember these words as long as I live—“Why don’t you go fishing?” Pause. “I said, fishing.”
I must have looked pretty surprised.
“Pete, I’m not talking about a half-day boat out of Sheepshead Bay or even Montauk Point. I mean fishing like you’ve always wanted to do. The Caribbean, the Mediterranean—anywhere! Go. Enjoy yourself. Have a ball. You owe it to yourself.”
By this time I’d figured it was the tranquilizer talking and not her. I was wrong. She meant every word.
“Of course I’d love to have you here with me,” Nancy wept, “especially these last weeks together, but I’m not going to be selfish. I’ve been selfish about you too long.”
She felt pretty guilty depriving me of fishing all these years. She wanted me to enjoy my last few months.
Her plan was: buy the best fishing tackle; fly first-class to where the fishing was best, anywhere in the world; live it up, suites in the finest hotels.
“Go,” she said. “Take a leave of absence from Sequoia. Eat, drink, fish and be merry.”
I couldn’t believe it. An excursion like that could cost a fortune. Who could afford that kind of money? Then she told me who could afford that kind of money—Sequoia Life and Casualty, the company I diligently worked for.
I had Diners, Carte Blanche, American Express, a whole wallet full of credit cards thoughtfully provided by Sequoia Life. Nancy pointed out that I could sign my way onto every airline, every hotel, every restaurant, every men’s shop on earth. I could even charter a boat and crew. I could even add on lavish tips. I could even—“Just a minute! What happens when the bills start coming in?”
“From overseas? It’ll take two, three months for the bills to get back to the office. By then—” She didn’t finish. She didn’t have to. I knew what she meant.
’’They’ll collect from you,” I said.
“They can’t. When you leave it’ll look like you deserted me and the children. You were obviously under great emotional stress, not responsible for your actions. After all, it’s not like you’re an embezzler, and I can’t see Sequoia Life taking revenge on a bereaved widow and two small children.”
“Gee, I don’t know, Nancy. I don’t think—”
“Pete. What have you got to lose?”
She had me there. That’s a practical woman. She even thought of placing an inconspicuous, but completely legal, disclaimer in the Daily Law ]ournal—“Not responsible for debts other than my own, Mrs. Nancy Ingersoll”—and that’s just the way it all worked out.
The first thing I charged on Diners was a genuine yachting cap from Abercrombie & Fitch with gold braid so thick I could have gotten saluted by Admiral Rickover. I’ve always liked yachting caps.
In rapid succession I discovered I also always liked matched saddle-leather luggage from Mark Cross; a complete deep sea fishing outfit from Hammacher-Schlemmer; silk suits tailored by Dunhill; a Patek Phillipe chronograph from Cartier’s.
I divided the above charges as equitably as possible between Diners and American Express. Realizing I’d neglected Carte Blanche, I made up for it by charging them for my first class Mexicana Airlines ticket to Acapulco—one way, of course.
Boy, what I’d been missing all my life! I fell into that South of the Border groove like I’d been born to it. Everybody gets sick when they go to Mexico. Not me; I’d never felt better. I checked into the Las Brisas Hotel—my own bungalow, my own private swimming pool, and completely stocked bar for $140 a day. I chartered a boat and put it on my hotel tab. What the hell!
Eighty minutes out, I hooked into my first marlin. I’d read all about big-game fishing, but I never dreamed it was this exciting. It was! It was a great fight, and I won. Afterward, I started thinking that it must must have been a big strain on my heart, but what with all the cheering and congratulations from the skipper and the deckhands, I forgot all about it.
That fish weighed out to 16o kilos. That’s 320 pounds! That night, I phoned Nancy at home in the States (on my hotel tab). I told her about the marlin. She told me about the kids. I told her about my suite at the Las Brisas. She told me about the toilet stopping up again. I told her what was happening in Acapulco, she told me what was happening in Mineola. She told me how much she missed me, and I was about to tell her how much I missed her when my other phone started ringing. I threw her a long-distance kiss.
The other phone? My dance teacher, Miss Rivera. She was in the lobby, on her way up.
Miss Rivera was sensational. Her dancing was good, too. She discovered I had natural rhythm, so I went ahead and took the whole course. Why not? I added it to my hotel tab. Cha-Cha, Pachanga, Mambo, Tango, Merengue, Rumba, but I stayed away from the Watusi. I didn’t want to overtax my heart
No se puede imaginar vd, que fácil es apprender hablar y comunicarse uno en Espanol en Acapulco.
English translation: They got Berlitz here, too (Carte Blanche).
Every day in Acapulco was magnifico. Fishing, swimming, dancing, drinking, and every night I phoned my wife.
The weeks went by muy rapidamente, and every other night I phoned my wife.
I don’t know what it was with this Mexican climate, but if I drank this much back in Mineola I’d have a hangover all the time. Here, I drank and danced the night away, grabbed a couple hours of sleep and bounced out of bed to go fishing. Too, no matter how busy I was, I found time to phone my wife at least once a week.
They told me there was some great fishing in Brazil. I flew down. I caught some sailfish, loved Rio. My Brazilian dancing teacher, Miss Santos, discovered I had natural rhythm. The boys in the band gave my Bossa Nova a standing ovation. Of course, my having bought them all a round of drinks didn’t hurt any, but as our Latin-American neighbors so aptly put it: “Póngalo en la cuenta, por favor.” (“Please put it on the bill.”)
Costa Rica was wonderful, but none of their fishing boats were air-conditioned. I went on to Jamaica. I flew to Montego Bay and checked in at the Round Hill. The Royal Suite compared favorably with the El Presidente Suite in Rio.
I learned to hunt manta ray with a pneumatic harpoon while drinking rum grogs.
The food at the Round Hill was fabulous: French Turtle Soup, Caribbean Red Snapper, Austrian Boar Gami, Neapolitan ice cream, and Irish Coffee, all paid for by American Express. Miss Tizanne, my Jamaican dancing teacher, discovered I had natural rhythm. We went to the Ocean Cove and limbo danced to the steel band till 4 a.m.
That night I had my first attack! I awoke in a cold sweat, gasping for breath, jabbing pains shooting through the left side of my chest This is it!
With effort, I phoned the hotel doctor, who came immediately and examined me.
“Heart attack?” I asked.
“Heartburn,” he answered. “Careful with the rich food.”
He gave me a tablespoon of medicine and a bill for $25. I took the medicine and put his bill on my hotel tab.
I made a mental note to find out if there’s a hotel priest. In case of real emergency, I can put my funeral on the hotel tab. I heard there was a big school of tuna boiling off Costa Gorda in Southern Portugal, I packed my matched luggage, signed my hotel tab and flew to Lisbon.
The following morning, I was tied into a king-size bluefin who had made up his mind that he wasn’t going to wind up in a can. Bad heart or no bad heart, I fought him for three and a half hours and when we docked and weighed him in, I found I had me a record; biggest tuna ever landed in Costa Gorda.
The town went wild. That night the drinks were on me and Diners. A great party! I took over the ballroom of the Vasco da Gama Hotel and hired a band.
I was so happy I put a phone call through to my wife, to tell her about my conquest—but there was no answer. I guess she was staying over at her mother’s.
Miss Freitas, my Portuguese dancing teacher, discovered I had natural rhythm, and we Sambaed into the night.
I guess Portuguese brandy is a lot stronger than ours, because next thing I knew we all stripped to the waist, Indian wrestling—the boys against the girls. Now that’s the honest truth. We were Indian wrestling—but it must have looked pretty peculiar to Jerry Hale when he walked in; Jerry Hale, my doctor, my buddy, all the way from Mineola, Long Island.
“Jerry! What the hell are you doing here?”
We went outside in the dawn, where we could talk. He was mortified, embarrassed, apologetic. He told me, with great difficulty, that the chances of an electrocardiograph machine malfunctioning are a million to one.
I was that one.
The electrical cathodes had become magnetized, and had misinterpreted my cardiac impulses. In short, there was a short! My heart was perfect! I would live to be a senior citizen.
Blood drained from my head. My knees got rubbery. I knew Jerry was right because if ever I was going to get a heart attack, this was the time. It passed, and in its place? Instant sobriety!
I seized Jerry by the throat. “You quack! I’ll report you to the A.M.A.! Why didn’t you let me die!”
Jerry was stunned. He hadn’t counted on this kind of reaction. I told him everything. I told him that I must have signed close to $20,000 in charges on my credit cards. $20,000? 40! 60! 70! With the tips? 100! 100,000!
I’d signed close to $100,000, so safe in the knowledge I was dying, and wouldn’t have to pay. Now I would live. My lord! Who’d pay those bills? Me!
Jerry’s face hardened. He was shocked, unsympathetic. How could I have done such a stupid, dishonest thing?
I told him it was his fault. I told him Nancy and I had worked out the plan because of his inaccurate prognosis! We blamed and cross-blamed and cross-cross-blamed under the warm rays of Portugal’s morning sun.
Jerry lit his pipe, thought deeply. “Pete,” he said. “there’s only one thing to do. Turn yourself in. I’ll stand behind you every inch of the way. I’ll explain, as your doctor, that you were emotionally unbalanced, and not responsible for your actions. They’ll understand.”
“Horse-puckey!” I said. “A hundred thousand dollars’ worth of high-life? Not them! Diners Club will serve me my last meal. American Express will crucify me to a plastic cross, and Carte Blanche will do unspeakable things to me in French. And how about my career, Sequoia Life and Casualty, when they see those bills? For me, they’ll reopen Alcatraz. And Nancy—what about my poor wife?”
I began to sob. I hadn’t cried like this since Tom Mix died. No! Never! I couldn’t go back. I was in too deep. I threw myself on the mercy of my buddy, my doctor.
“Help me, Jerry! Help me!” Tears rolled down my cheeks.
“I don’t know. I just don’t know. The only reason I’d even consider helping is that I feel pretty lousy about this. It’s as much my fault as yours.” He put his arm around me. “I don’t know. I guess we can find a way if we both look real hard.”
“Yeah. Let’s look real hard, Jerry.”
’’I’ve got a glimmer of a notion, but I don’t know if you’re prepared to make such a gigantic sacrifice.”
“What? What sacrifice?”
“Nancy and the kids are prepared for your death—emotionally, spiritually, and financially, so…” Jerry shook his head. “No, it’s too big a sacrifice.”
I waited hopefully while he lit his pipe again.
“It’s simply this: if you were to die, your problem would be nonexistent.”
I thought it over. “You’re right, Jerry. It is too big a sacrifice.”
He hadn’t meant really die. Just make it seem as if I’d died. Like this: “From all outward appearances, you have your anticipated heart attack and die. I witness the death and, as your doctor, sign your death certificate. The body is sealed in a coffin and shipped home for interment. Nancy and the kids collect your life insurance. As for all your debts—well, they can’t collect from a corpse.” He stopped to relight his pipe. “Exactly whose corpse are we talking about?”
“Not yours,” Jerry said.
“Are we talking about murder?”
“Of course not. Every public morgue has a percentage of unclaimed, unidentified bodies. We find one, claim it, identify it as you. Then we ship it home.”
“What happens when Nancy opens the coffin? Won’t she sort of expect it to be everloving me?”
“Nancy,” Jerry said, “will not open the coffin. I’ll see to that. I’ll prevail upon her to remember you as you were—alive!”
“What about me? What happens to me? I won’t be able to see my wife and kids.”
Jerry fooled with his pipe. “Remember, I spoke of sacrifice? This is what I meant.”
“Never to see Nancy and the kids again?”
“It doesn’t have to be ‘never’. At the end of seven years you can come back. Statute of limitations.”
“Seven years?”
“It’s either that, or seven years in jail for fraud and grand theft.”
Some choice! Well, I knew the kids would get along okay without me; after all, they hadn’t seen much of me lately, anyway—but what about Nancy? Poor thing, if she found out I was alive somewhere, she’d drop everything and rush to join me. I guess our marriage was always a little one-sided. She was always crazy about me but, for her sake, better a dead husband than a live convict.
Some choice! No choice! I had to carry out Jerry’s plan.
It wasn’t as easy as Jerry had said, either. You just don’t come across unclaimed, unidentified bodies in Southern Portugal. We looked in every morgue from Annuncio to Zapatas. No luck. All the stiffs were spoken for.
“Telephone books! Why don’t we load a coffin with telephone books?”
Jerry quashed that idea. We couldn’t take the risk of the U. S. Customs opening the box. Somewhere there had to be a corpus delicti without a toe tag—and there was, in a small village called Santo Tomas. The morgue attendant said he had died of an apparent heart attack, was about forty, five feet eleven, one hundred and seventy-five pounds. My measurements exactly!
Down the long corridor we went, into the icebox and opening the huge grisly file drawer. Jerry stepped forward, pulled back the sheet. The morgue attendant was correct. He was the right model, but the wrong shade. A Negro!
Jerry was beautiful. “That’s the man,” he said. “That’s my patient, Mr. Peter Ingersoll of Mineola, Long Island.”
Jerry spent the rest of the day in meetings with the District Medical Officer, the local undertaker and the Prefect of Police. There were endless official forms to be filled out, signed and notarized.
“Jerry,” I managed to whisper, “now you’ve got to make sure Nancy doesn’t open that coffin.”
It was spooky, being present at the signing of my own death certificate, but I could still smile.
That evening, back at the Vasco da Gama Hotel in Costa Gorda I checked out, signing my hotel bill for the last time with the name “Peter Ingersoll.”
Then and there, in the main lobby, with plenty of witnesses, I suffered my fatal heart attack, as per Jerry’s instructions. I was very convincing. I should have gotten the Academy Award. Jerry identified himself as my physician and, supposedly, whisked me away to the hospital.
The next day, everyone at the Vasco da Gama was saddened to learn that I had never reached the hospital. I’d breathed my last in a little town called Santo Tomas.
Exit Peter Ingersoll. Enter Man Without A Country—The Flying Dutchman—The Wandering Presbyterian.
The one word that best describes Jerry is “neat.” His office was always orderly, his bachelor apartment immaculate, his car gleamed of buffed wax. It came as no surprise to me that he had arranged everything so perfectly.
First, I had a new name: Fred C. Dobbs. Also, I had an impossible-to-tell-from-the-real-thing New Zealand passport with my occupation listed as sheep rancher. I got my head shaved and concentrated very hard on growing a mustache. My real passport, my wallet, credit cards and personal belongings were packaged and attached to the outside of the coffin. The coffin was consigned to the Hermanos Rubeira Mortuary in Lisbon, awaiting the first boat to New York.
Jerry and I caught a train to Lisbon and taxied to the airport. He bought me a one-way ticket to Tel Aviv.
“Believe me, Pete, nobody will be looking for you there.” He gave me all the cash he had in his pockets.
Loudspeaker: “El Al Airlines, Flight Eighteen, now boarding from West Concourse.”
At this point, Jerry held out his hand, but it turned into a hug. I’m not ashamed to say it—we both had tears in our eyes.
Jerry turned and hurried away without looking back.
It was only then, as I walked down the long causeway toward Customs, that the pressure was over. For the first time, I realized what tremendous risks Jerry was taking in my behalf. He was putting his entire professional career on the line, just to right a wrong that a machine had made.
At Customs, everything was in order—except: “Senhor Dobbs, your immunization record, por favor.”
“My what?” It was a big except.
“The medical certificate of vaccination for smallpox. Also, your injections for yellow fever and typhoid. I must stamp them, or you cannot enter Israel,.
“I don’t think I have one.”
The Customs Officer laughed. “Of course you have one, Senhor. You had to have a certificate to enter Portugal.”
My newly shaven head broke into a sweat. He was right. Of course I had a medical certificate—only it was attached to my old passport, which, in turn, was attached to “my” new coffin. I opened my mouth to gasp for air and heard myself say, “How silly of me. I must have left it in my hotel. I’ll take the shots in Tel Aviv.”
“Impossible, Senhor Dobbs. You may not board the airplane without it.”
I didn’t want to press it. I was afraid of attracting attention. I was in a box—and I don’t mean the one at Hermanos Rubeira Mortuary. If I went to the Ministry of Health and claimed that I’d lost my certificate, they would check the record and discover that no Fred C. Dobbs, sheep rancher from New Zealand, had ever entered Portugal. I needed a doctor to provide me—
Doctor? Dr. Jerry Hale, M.D.!
I remembered Jerry lighting his pipe with matches that said “Hotel Nacional.” I booked a reservation on the next flight to Tel Aviv, then grabbed a taxi into Lisbon.
The Hotel Nacional had the kind of lobby you usually see in Alfred Hitchcock pictures; a lot of marble, some potted palms, overhead revolving fans and a lot of foreign types. I asked the desk clerk if a Dr. Hale was registered. He was. My hunch had been right.
“Would you ring his room, please?’’
“Dr. Hale is out.”
I must have beaten him here from the airport.
“Perhaps, Senhor, you wish to speak with Mrs. Hale.”
Mrs. Hale? Obviously, they had two Hales registered. Jerry was a bachelor.
“I’m looking for Dr. Jerome Hale.”
“Exactly, Senhor,” the room clerk said. “Dr. Jerome Hale is out. As I said, Mrs. Hale is upstairs.”
“Thank you, I’ll wait.”
I bought a Portuguese newspaper. It didn’t matter. I wasn’t going to read it, anyway. What I really wanted to do was sit down, hide behind the newspaper and think this over. It can’t be his mother. She died during the Eisenhower administration. His nurse, maybe. Susy Rambeau? Naah! Broad-beamed with varicose veins and support hose. Naah! Local talent? Could be. But when did he find the time? He made time. Made time. Son of a gun! That ]erry must be a bigger swinger than I gave him credit for. Look at that crossword puzzle—in Portuguese, yet. Can’t be any tougher than the one in the Sunday Times.
Jerry entered the lobby from the street entrance. I could see what had delayed him. He was carrying a pair of stuffed toy ducks and an orchid corsage. Whoever he had stashed upstairs, in the room, was getting the baby-doll treatment. That son of a gun!
I was about to get out of my chair and flag Jerry down when I heard the desk clerk’s voice.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Hale.”
I turned to see a lady emerging from the elevator. Son of a gun! Son of a gun, nothing!
Mrs. Hale turned out to be my wife!
Nancy flew into Jerry’s arms and gave him the kind of kiss she hadn’t given me in years.
“Daddy Jerry! Daddy Jerry!” My kids! Racing out of the elevator to hug Jerry. Daddy Jerry?
Pooned and harpooned!
He gave the toy ducks to the kids. They got busy with them right away. The corsage was for Nancy. I kept the newspaper up in front of my purple face and listened.
“Where is he?” Nancy asked.
“On a plane to Israel. I saw it take off myself.”
“Was he suspicious?”
“Are you kidding? He practically kissed my ring.”
She threw her head back and laughed, exposing a whole top row of pearly white caps that had cost me plenty.
“Love me, Nancy?”
“Haven’t I always?”
Right about then I should have leaped up, pried them apart and yelled: “Get your lips off my wife!” Then I should have slapped her across the face and punched Jerry in the nose. But then, there’s a lot of things I should have done. Like? Like consult another doctor when Jerry told me I was dying; like ask myself how come Nancy was so anxious for me to go off alone and have a good time, all of a sudden; like wondering why Nancy went to Jerry instead of a gynecologist for her female problems; like ask myself what kind of doctor prescribes fake corpses, phony passports, and one-way tickets to Israel; like ask myself why she was so anxious for me to carry $150,000 worth of life insurance; like look closer at my little boy, Jimmy, whose eyes were blue like Jerry’s instead of brown like mine.
Instead, I sat watching my best friend making out with my wife while she laughed at me through teeth I’d paid for—and I still hadn’t gotten my shots for Israel.
As if this weren’t enough, my own kid—well, at least her eyes are brown—little Jennifer, was about to discover me. She’d wound up her toy duck and the damned thing quacked its way right to my feet and stopped. I bent down and picked it up, handed it to her. She looked right at me and said, “Thank you, Mister.”
My own kid! He’s “Daddy Jerry’’ and I’m “Mister”’! The kid hadn’t recognized me with the shaved head and the mustache. Off they all went to a festive dinner, while I sat in the lobby of a Portuguese hotel, holding a newspaper I couldn’t read, a wanted criminal, without money, job, hair, or future.
Some people are good sports...I mean, if they lose, they shrug it off and try harder the next time. I’m not one of those people. I’ve always been a sore loser, and at that moment I was sore. I was sore as hell!
I put down the newspaper, went out of the Nacional and walked miles—just walked. At dusk, I found myself seated on a park bench on Plaza del Palacio. In the street, a truck backfired loudly, sending hundreds of pigeons winging skyward in fright They wheeled and glided and circled, soared and dipped directly over my head. I looked up at them and yelled, “Go ahead! Why not? Everybody else has!”
Then, I walked some more and ended up at the airlines ticket office. I canceled my flight because I still hadn’t gotten my shots. Guess what was right next door to the airplane office? The Hermanos Rubeira Mortuary. That’s where “my body” was awaiting transfer to the U.S.A.
On an impulse I can’t explain, I went inside. I wanted to see the man who was taking my “place.” Why? To feel superior, I guess; comforted, maybe. He was the only man I knew who was worse off than me.
Inside, I passed myself off as a friend of the deceased Mr. Ingersoll. One of the Rubeira brothers ushered me into a small back room. There he was—the “Unknown Negro”—wearing my best suit, face set into a smile.
I was probably wrong. He was better off than I was. At least, he would get a decent funeral.
In the adjoining room, which was larger and fancier, a small group of Americans were commiserating with each other over the casket of a Colonel R. K. Durham. He’d been a mighty tobacco tycoon from Charleston, South Carolina. His wife, his lawyer, his two sons and their wives, the American Consul and his wife, were all gathered lachrymosely. He’d died while on a European vacation, and his body was being shipped home for an elaborate funeral.
He hadn’t been one of your phony Southern Colonels. He was a real one—with a commission in the Minutemen. He would be buried with full military honors in the Durham family’s mausoleum in the cemetery of the Sons of the Confederacy. The sealed caskets of “Pete Ingersoll” and Colonel Durham would share an icebox on the boat trip home. This would be the closest the Colonel had ever come to integration.
An attendant entered and told me that everyone would have to leave, because both coffins were to be inspected by Portuguese Customs so that they could be sealed and put on board ship in the morning. He left me one last moment alone with “Pete.”
I don’t remember just how the idea came to me. One moment my head was empty and the next, there it was—detailed, devilish, and delicious—the perfect revenge on that quack Jerry Hale and my dear wife.
Up on the ceiling was a skylight. Nimbly, I jumped up on the coffin, reached up to the skylight, and unlatched the catch. First step!
I taxied to the Hotel Nacional to finesse my way into finding out what room Jerry was registered in. In the lobby, I picked up the house phone. “Dr. Hale, please. Room 308.”
“Senhor, el doctor Hale is in 517. I’ll ring him for you.”
The operator rang. No answer. Good. I hung up, went to the stairway and puffed up five flights. I couldn’t take a chance on the elevator operator remembering my shaved head.
Fifth floor, I walked down the corridor. Chambermaids were turning down the beds for the night. From one of the doorknobs I swiped a celluloid DO NOT DISTURB sign. At Room 517, I knocked, to make certain no one was in. No one was. I checked the hall, both ways, then inserted the celluloid card between the door jamb and the latch. It clicked. The door swung open. I affixed the card to the outside knob, entered the room and closed the door behind me.
The room had the scent of Nancy’s perfume, but that only spurred me on. I knew what I was after and went right for it. In Jerry’s medical bag he carried a leather card case with his professional calling cards. There were a couple of dozen. Carefully, I pulled out two. They would never be missed. Printed cards, they were—with name, address and office phone. If he ever got his hands on my insurance money, he’d have his cards engraved.
I closed the bag, shut the closet door, threw a baleful glance at the bed, and slipped out of the room. In the corridor, I was about to return the DO NOT DISTURB sign from where it came, but obviously I was too late!
A chambermaid had passkeyed her way in to turn down the bed and, judging from the angry voices and hastily donned bathrobes, she had found an embarrassed couple in it. I put the sign on another door, hurried down the stairs to the lobby and out into the street. End Step Two.
From a hardware store, I bought a crowbar, a hammer, a pair of garden gloves, a flashlight and a small strip of felt. From a shoe store, I bought canvas sneakers; from a men’s store, a hat. I was pretty tired of people staring at my shaved head.
Later, I sat in a cafe across from the Hermanos Rubeira Mortuary and waited for the Portuguese Customs officials to leave. They did, after a good deal of handshaking all around. A quarter of an hour later, all the Hermanos had locked up and gone.
I went around to the alley, slipped on my gloves and tennis shoes. I used a pair of discarded crates to hoist myself up on the roof. I made it to the skylight. It was just as I left it—unlatched.
I opened it and lowered myself into the small room. I landed on top of “Pete Ingersoll’s” sealed casket.
I went right to work. With the crowbar, I pried open the lid of Colonel Durham’s coffin. I did the same to “Pete Ingersoll’s.”
Then I switched bodies. The unknown Negro would be shipped to South Carolina to lie in state with the Sons of the Confederacy; Colonel R. K. Durham, to Mineola, Long Island. Reverently, I re-clasped each corpse’s bands in prayerful position and placed one of Dr. Jerry Hale’s calling cards between the thumb and index finger of each of the deceased.
The felt strip muffled the blows of the hammer as I put the nails back into the coffin lids, sealing them.
It had all worked beautifully. I’d had plenty of time and no kibitzers. I’d enjoyed every moment, anticipating the results.
I hoisted myself up, through the skylight, onto the roof and down into the alley. End Step Three.
The next day, I was deep in the shadowed background of Pier 26, mingling with the crowd of bon voyagers who’d come down to see the departure of the S.S. Santa Maria. Destination: U.S.A.
I saw both coffins delivered dockside and winched aboard, all superintended by the dedicated Hermanos Rubeira. I saw the Colonel’s wife and family, clad in mourning, grieving up a storm.
If they’d only known who was in that casket, they’d really have had something to cry about.
I pulled my hat brim down over my eyes when I spotted Jerry, Nancy, and the kids. They weren’t in mourning. They were in love. She held on to him like Cher hangs on to Sonny. Everybody went up the gangplank. There was confetti and music and a lot of thrown kisses and finally the S.S. Santa Maria slid away from the dock
Up on deck, I saw the Colonel’s family. They were still weeping away. On the fantail, I saw Jerry and Nancy. With their arms around each other and the wind blowing and the happy smiles, they looked like a travel poster.
I turned on my heel and walked away, whistling.
That same morning, I got my shots from a doctor who was used to asking no questions. He was a veterinarian. For fifty dollars I got smallpox, typhoid, yellow fever, and distemper.
By two that afternoon I turned in my El Al ticket for a one way to Valparaiso, Chile. I’d heard the fishing in Chile was great.
Besides, the only fish you get in Israel is smoked.
From hometown newspapers and shortwave news broadcasts, I pieced together the events that occurred back in the States. In rapid events:
The coffins were delivered to their proper destinations. At the cemetery of the Sons of the Confederacy, the Colonel’s coffin was laid in state. The town flags flew at half-mast. The tobacco factories were closed for the day, so the workers could attend the Colonel’s funeral. The Drum and Bugle Corps were in dress uniforms. Confederate flags were displayed everywhere.
As the band played “Dixie” in funeral tempo, the Minutemen Drill Team fired a volley in salute.
Then, the coffin was opened for everyone to file by and pay their last respects...
The hysteria and confusion finally subsided, and was replaced by indignation. The cooler heads sought to fix the blame for this—the grisliest, sickest joke of the century.
It was then they found, clutched in the hand of the smiling Negro, Dr. Jerry Hale’s calling card.
At Mineola’s Haven-of-Rest Cemetery, there was no turnout to speak of for “my” funeral. The neighbors didn’t show up because there was a big barbecue at Larry Heath’s. None of my bosses at Sequoia Life and Casualty showed, either. They were in mourning over all my credit card bills that were starting to come in. So, there were just Nancy, Jerry, the kids, Nancy’s mother and a minister provided by the undertakers.
As they were lowering “my” casket into the grave and the minister was doing the ashes-to-ashes stuff, Haven-of-Rest was suddenly filled with people.
There were a dozen policemen, a bunch of red-faced angry talking people with Southern accents, Colonel Durham’s entire next-of-kin, and two field representatives from the N.A.A.C.P. All of them were pretty mad, and all of them were looking for Dr. Jerry Hale.
The County Coroner asked Jerry just who was in the coffin. Jerry replied that it was Pete Ingersoll. He had witnessed the death and signed the death certificate himself, and so there was no need to open the coffin.
“The hell there isn’t,” said the Coroner. “Open it up, boys. Open it wide.”
They did.
I wish I could have seen the expression on Jerry’s face when he saw the Colonel stretched out, big smile on his face, with Jerry’s calling card clutched in his fingers.
Afterward, the Colonel’s body was taken South and finally buried in the Cemetery of the Sons of the Confederacy. The flags and bugles and the band playing “Dixie” and the Minutemen and all—but it just wasn’t the same. The heart had gone out of the whole business by now, what with the extensive autopsy they’d performed on the Colonel to find out whether he’d died of natural causes.
As for Jerry and Nancy, they had to answer everybody’s questions:
District Attorney: What happened to Ingersoll?
Police: When did you last see the Colonel alive?
Medical Examiner: Doctor Hale, does the word “malpractice”’ mean anything to you?
Sequoia Life: You expect us to pay you $150,000 without proof of your husband’s death?!
District Attorney: What happened to Ingersoll?
N.A.A.C.P.: What is your purpose for this die-in?
American Express, Carte Banche, Diners Club: You expect us to believe that?
Police: What happened to Ingersoll? What was he to you?
C.I.A.: Are you aware, Dr. Hale, that the Negro you planted in the Colonel’s coffin was Chief of our African Bureau?
Jimmy: Mommy, what did Daddy Jerry do to Daddy Pete?
Long Distance Operator: Missus, if there was a Peter Ingersoll here in Tel Aviv, would I keep it from you? Shalom.
Whoever said crime doesn’t pay was all wrong. With the healthy outdoor life I lead, not to mention no aggravation or high-pressure living, I’m good for another thirty years. By that time I’ll be too dead to care. Anyway, if I were to die today, I’ve got no complaints. I’ve lived. The three months I spent dying was the greatest time of my life.