went down the steps which had been rolled over to the plane. “City of my youth. Birth site of me and the nation. Home of the Liberty Bell and Independence Hall and Murphy’s Saloon. Never thought I’d be back here again.”
We ate breakfast at a counter in the airport terminal. I had tea to settle my stomach, scrambled eggs, and toast. Fields asked if they had shrimp or crabmeat salad. The uniformed woman behind the counter said, “No, what we got, we got on the menu. That’s it.”
Fields ordered two pieces of toast with no butter or margarine and two strips of bacon. He shook his thermos and told me that we needed a liquor store almost immediately. I nodded, ate, and said we’d stop if one was open this early.
“Drat,” he said. “For an ecstatic moment, I forgot we were in Philadelphia. You know my entire family is buried here?”
“Mine’s in Glendale,” I said.
“Difficult choice,” Fields said, pouring what must have been close to the last of his martini supply.
He ate one piece of toast. Took a bite of the other. He ate one strip of bacon and left the other. I felt better after we had eaten. I made a call. Detective Gus Belcher was in his station house. I got him on the phone and he told me to come over with Fields. I took the address, retrieved my employer, and found a taxi whose driver knew where we could find a liquor store open in the morning. We stopped, got what Fields needed, and proceeded to the station, paper bag of bottles and olives in his lap.
“Give the driver a generous tip,” he said.
“Easier if you paid him,” I said. “Then I don’t have to bill you for the taxi.”
“True, but I’m sure you would be more generous than I,” Fields said.
I knew he had stuffed all of his pockets with cash. On the plane and in the Chicago airport, I had seen the bulges and the tips of crumpled bills. He was a flashing target for pickpockets, but I was sure that, even dead drunk, Fields could sense the presence of anyone who might dare approach his cash.
Fields glared glumly at his hometown as we drove.
“Damned place never changes,” he said. “Cities are supposed to change. Get modern. Tear down buildings, put other ones up, engage in progress.”
When we got to the station, the driver removed my suitcase and Fields’s traveling bag from the trunk. Fields had a couple of suitcases in the trunk of the car Gunther was driving. Gunther was small, but his foot was heavy. I figured him well past Arizona by now.
The station house looked like it had been built by veterans of the Revolutionary War. It was two stories, made of red brick carrying about a hundred and fifty years of dirt.
“Life is a mockery,” Fields declared as we looked at the building. “More than several are the times in my early youth when I was accused, brought to, and lectured by blue-uniformed officers in this very building. Entering, which we must, will be hell.”
Inside we faced a corridor. On our right was an open door. The sign on the door said: Complaints and Inquiries.
We entered. Several people were sitting in a tired daze on the bench that ran along the wall of the stone-floored room. A uniformed cop, too old for military service, sat behind a high desk, writing a report and singing.
“I’ll be walking with my baby down honeymoon lane. Soon, soon, soon. By the moon, moon, moon.”
I asked for Gus Belcher and the cop stopped singing, nodded, and picked up his phone. He looked a little like Andy Devine and even sounded like him, especially when he sang.
“Third door on your left,” he said after making the call. “Aren’t you W. C. Fields?”
“Thurston W. Ptomaine,” said Fields. “I’ve been told the resemblance to Fields is almost uncanny. Alas, I’m a music critic for the Tuscaloosa Times-Herald-Tribune-Star. ”
The cop shrugged, went back to his report, and began humming.
We headed for Gus Belcher’s office.
“The one thing that convinces me of the existence of the devil,”
We ate breakfast at a counter in the airport terminal. I had tea to settle my stomach, scrambled eggs, and toast. Fields asked if they had shrimp or crabmeat salad. The uniformed woman behind the counter said, “No, what we got, we got on the menu. That’s it.”
Fields ordered two pieces of toast with no butter or margarine and two strips of bacon. He shook his thermos and told me that we needed a liquor store almost immediately. I nodded, ate, and said we’d stop if one was open this early.
“Drat,” he said. “For an ecstatic moment, I forgot we were in Philadelphia. You know my entire family is buried here?”
“Mine’s in Glendale,” I said.
“Difficult choice,” Fields said, pouring what must have been close to the last of his martini supply.
He ate one piece of toast. Took a bite of the other. He ate one strip of bacon and left the other. I felt better after we had eaten. I made a call. Detective Gus Belcher was in his station house. I got him on the phone and he told me to come over with Fields. I took the address, retrieved my employer, and found a taxi whose driver knew where we could find a liquor store open in the morning. We stopped, got what Fields needed, and proceeded to the station, paper bag of bottles and olives in his lap.
“Give the driver a generous tip,” he said.
“Easier if you paid him,” I said. “Then I don’t have to bill you for the taxi.”
“True, but I’m sure you would be more generous than I,” Fields said.
I knew he had stuffed all of his pockets with cash. On the plane and in the Chicago airport, I had seen the bulges and the tips of crumpled bills. He was a flashing target for pickpockets, but I was sure that, even dead drunk, Fields could sense the presence of anyone who might dare approach his cash.
Fields glared glumly at his hometown as we drove.
“Damned place never changes,” he said. “Cities are supposed to change. Get modern. Tear down buildings, put other ones up, engage in progress.”
When we got to the station, the driver removed my suitcase and Fields’s traveling bag from the trunk. Fields had a couple of suitcases in the trunk of the car Gunther was driving. Gunther was small, but his foot was heavy. I figured him well past Arizona by now.
The station house looked like it had been built by veterans of the Revolutionary War. It was two stories, made of red brick carrying about a hundred and fifty years of dirt.
“Life is a mockery,” Fields declared as we looked at the building. “More than several are the times in my early youth when I was accused, brought to, and lectured by blue-uniformed officers in this very building. Entering, which we must, will be hell.”
Inside we faced a corridor. On our right was an open door. The sign on the door said: Complaints and Inquiries.
We entered. Several people were sitting in a tired daze on the bench that ran along the wall of the stone-floored room. A uniformed cop, too old for military service, sat behind a high desk, writing a report and singing.
“I’ll be walking with my baby down honeymoon lane. Soon, soon, soon. By the moon, moon, moon.”
I asked for Gus Belcher and the cop stopped singing, nodded, and picked up his phone. He looked a little like Andy Devine and even sounded like him, especially when he sang.
“Third door on your left,” he said after making the call. “Aren’t you W. C. Fields?”
“Thurston W. Ptomaine,” said Fields. “I’ve been told the resemblance to Fields is almost uncanny. Alas, I’m a music critic for the Tuscaloosa Times-Herald-Tribune-Star. ”
The cop shrugged, went back to his report, and began humming.
We headed for Gus Belcher’s office.
“The one thing that convinces me of the existence of the devil,”
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