Get Smart 5 - Missed It By That Much! (3 page)

“If it’s so terrible, why do you eat here?” 99 asked.

“I own the place,” the headwaiter replied. “What should I do, give my business to my competitor?”

“Well, thanks for the suggestion, anyway,” Max said. “But I think we’ll stay.”

The headwaiter handed the menu back to him! “If you’ve got any sense, you’ll eat the menu and leave the food alone,” he said, departing.

Max and 99 scanned the selection of foods and made their choices, then Max signalled to a waiter.

“I’ll have the Broiled Trout stuffed with Tomato Seeds,” 99 said to the waiter.

He winced. “Do you want that with or without?” he said.

“What’s the difference?”

“With is two dollars extra.”

“But what is ‘with’?”

“If you order it with,” he replied, “you get an ambulance ride to the hospital. If you order it without, you have to walk.”

“With,” 99 decided.

“Waiter, before I order,” Max said, “I’d like to ask you a question. We’re looking for a fellow who may have eaten here in your restaurant recently. His name is Dr. Livingstrom. Do you remember seeing him?”

The waiter brightened. “Dr. Livingstrom! Sure!”

“When was the last time you saw him?” Max asked.

“When they were putting him in the ambulance.”

“I see. And have you seen him since?”

The waiter shook his head. “We never see them again after they put them in the ambulance,” he said.

“All right. Thank you.” Max picked up the menu. “I’ll have the Breast of White Dove stuffed with Chocolate-Covered Cherries. But hold the chocolate-covered cherries.”

“I can’t do that,” the waiter said. “The chocolate melts in my hands.”

“All right then, bring it as it is,” Max said. “I’ll take the chocolate-covered cherries out myself.”

“You’ll be sorry,” the waiter said. “They’ll melt in your hands. Then, you’ll not only have a bum-bum in your tum-tum, but you’ll have sticky fingers. They won’t let you into the ambulance. They don’t want to get it all smeared up with sticky chocolate.”

“Just bring the order,” Max said glumly.

The waiter left, headed for the kitchen.

“Max, your plan is working,” 99 said. “We’re on Dr. Livingstrom’s trail already.”

“Well, at least we know that he’s somewhere in the vicinity,” Max said. “After we eat, I think we better check the hospital. He may still be there.”

“That’s a good idea—since we’ll be going to the hospital anyway.”

Max leaned forward. “99,” he said, lowering his voice, “glance around at the other tables and see if you see that KAOS agent, Whitestone, anywhere. I’m a little surprised that we haven’t made contact with him yet.”

99 got a mirror from her purse, and, pretending to inspect her appearance, she looked for Whitestone at the other tables.

“Not one person who’s white-haired and distinguished-looking, Max,” she reported.

“That worries me,” Max said. “It’s just not normal. That KAOS agent should have tried to stop us by now.”

The waiter arrived with the food and placed it before them. “I alerted the ambulance,” he said.

“Waiter, I have another question,” Max said. “We’re also on the lookout for a tall, middle-aged gentleman with white hair. Have you seen him?”

The waiter frowned thoughtfully. “What does he look like?”

“Well, he’s tall, and middle-aged, and has white hair.”

The waiter nodded. “I think I’ve seen him. A little short guy? Kind of young? Red-headed? He was in here last week. He ordered the same thing you just ordered—the Breast of White Dove. But I don’t know what happened to him. When the ambulance refused to accept him, he just wandered off—leaving a trail of sticky, chocolate fingerprints.”

“Thanks, anyway,” Max said.

The waiter departed.

Max and 99 looked at the food.

“Max . . . I feel a kind of a . . . a bum-bum in my tum-tum.”

“So do I. And if looking at it does that, imagine what eating it will do. 99 . . . I think we better take something.”

“An Alka-Seltzer?”

“No, a powder. Let’s get out of here while we’re still reasonably healthy.”

Max and 99 slipped out of the restaurant. Reaching the street, they hailed another cab. Max told the driver to take them to the hospital.

“You should have ordered your dinner with,” the driver said. “You would have got a ride in an ambulance.”

“That’s not why we’re going to the hospital,” Max replied. “We’re looking for a friend.”

“Then you want the Y.M.C.A.,” the driver said. “You won’t make any friends at the hospital. Those people are all sick. They’re not in the mood to be friends with anybody.”

“We’ll take our chances,” Max said. “The hospital, please.”

It was a short drive to the hospital. The cab dropped them at the entrance. Entering, they approached the reception desk.

“We just came from the Greasy Ladle Restaurant,” Max said to the nurse. “We were—”

“The Greasy Ladle?” the nurse interrupted. “Then you want the Emergency Entrance. This entrance is for well people.”

“No, no, you don’t understand,” Max said. “We’re not sick. We were told that a Dr. Livingstrom was brought here recently from the Greasy Ladle. We’d like to see him if he’s still here.”

“I’ll check the records,” the nurse said, getting a file box from beneath the counter. After a moment of searching, she pulled a card from the file. “He left here about a week ago,” she informed them. “He didn’t like our food. He said it was too plain.”

“Did he say where he was going?” Max asked.

“Yes. Out for a bowl of gnu soup. The gnu is an animal we have here in Africa. To make the soup, you fill a swimming pool with boiling water, add a half ton of carrots, a half ton of onions, a half ton of chestnuts, then toss the gnu into the pool and make him swim to the other end. When he crawls out, you top it off with a dollop of whipped cream.”

“I see,” Max nodded. “The fact that he mentioned gnu soup, did that tell you where he was going?”

“Yes. Out of his head,” the nurse replied. “Anybody who can eat gnu soup has a sparkplug missing somewhere.”

“No, what I mean is, is there, perhaps, a restaurant in town that specializes in gnu soup?”

“Oh. Yes. The Ye Olde Gnu Soupe Kitchen.”

“Thank you,” Max said, turning to leave.

“Just a minute,” the nurse said. “Come to think of it, that’s not exactly right. When we got independence they changed the name of the Ye Olde Gnu Soupe Kitchen. It’s now the Ye New Gnu Soupe Kitchen. But they still serve the same olde swill.”

Max and 99 left the hospital and took a taxi to the Ye New Gnu Soupe Kitchen. When they were seated at a table, they each ordered a bowl of gnu soup. They then asked the waiter if Dr. Livingstrom had been in lately. He replied that the scientist hadn’t been around in days, and suggested that they ask for him at the Curried Cod Cafe, a restaurant that specialized in corn cobs fried in butter and herbs.

“Shouldn’t that be the Curried
Cob
Cafe—not cod?” Max said.

“They wouldn’t have any customers if they called it that,” the waiter explained. “Who’d eat fried corn cobs?”

When the gnu soup was placed before them, Max and 99 felt a rambling in their tum-tums. They slipped out without eating and hurried to the Curried Cod Cafe.

But Dr. Livingstrom had not been there in days, either. The waiter at the Curried Cod suggested that they try at the Chop House, a restaurant near the water front.

“That sounds more like it,” Max said, brightening. “The Chop House. What kind of chops do they specialize in? Pork Chops?”

“Nope,” the waiter replied. “That’s rough territory down there by the water front. They specialize in karate chops.”

“Then why would it interest Dr. Livingstrom?” Max said.

“They also serve a free lunch,” the waiter replied. “All the boiled olives stuffed with robins’ nests you can eat. Although, no one has ever been known to eat more than one of them.”

Max and 99 left the Curried Cod, hailed a taxi, and told the driver to take them to the water front.

“Down there? Not me,” the driver replied. “That’s a den of thieves down there. And murderers. You know what kind of people those people are down there? When the Red Cross has a drive on for blood donations, those people down there donate more blood than anybody.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Max said. “That sounds public-spirited to me.”

“It’s where they get the blood,” the driver said. “They get it from the people on the other side of town.”

“All right, if you’re afraid, just take us as close as you can,” Max said.

“That’s where we are right now—as close as I’ll get,” the driver said.

Max and 99 got out of the cab, asked directions, then started out walking toward the water front. As they neared the area they noticed that all of the street lights had been broken. There were villainous-looking men standing in the darkened doorways, observing them sinisterly as they made their way.

“Max . . .” 99 trembled, “. . . I’m frightened . . .”

“I don’t think there’s anything to worry about,” Max replied. “Unless, of course, the Red Cross has a drive on for blood donations. Frankly, what bothers me most is my tum-tum. We’ve been in a dozen restaurants today, but we haven’t had anything to eat yet. I’m getting really hungry.”

“Me, too,” 99 said. “What I wouldn’t give for a good American meal!”

They reached the section of piers and docks. Along the street, facing the water, was a long row of low buildings. Most of the buildings were dark. But in the distance they saw a glow of light.

“According to the directions we got from that taxi driver, this is the street,” Max said. “The Chop House must be down there toward the end of the wharf.”

“I hope we’re not on a wild goose chase, Max.”

“As hungry as I am, 99, I sort of hope we
are
on a wild goose chase. In fact, I’m so hungry that if I had a wild goose, I’d like to have it stuffed with a second wild goose. Or a large chicken, at the very least. I’m so starved that—”

“Max!” 99 suddenly cried, pointing. “Look! There at the end of the wharf!”

Max peered ahead. He saw a brightly-lighted building. The flashing neon sign above it said:

JOE’S AMERICAN DINER

“Saved!” Max shouted happily. “American food!”

“Hurry, Max!”

They raced toward the diner.

“Max, see those signs on the windows!” 99 cried joyously. “See what they serve! After that horrible foreign food, isn’t that a sight for sore eyes! Look! Peanut Butter Burgers! And Rice Krispies Burgers!”

“And Marshmallow Burgers!”

“And Home-Baked Mom’s Apple Pie Burgers!”

They rushed up to the door of the diner. Max whipped the door open and they dashed in—and immediately plummeted downward.

“99, we’re falling through the air,” Max said. “We’re dropping into the water.”

“Max! What happened to the diner? It disappeared!”

“I think I can explain that, 99.”

“What happened!”

“Blug-Blug-Blug,” Max replied, hitting the water and sinking beneath the surface.

A moment later, Max and 99 reappeared, gasping for breath. They began treading water.

“Max . . . what . . . what did you say?” 99 gulped.

“I said . . . Blug-Blug-Blug . . .”

“What does that mean?”

“It means, I think we’ve finally made contact with the KAOS agent, Whitestone. Remember? The Chief told us that he’s a master illusionist. That diner we saw didn’t really exist. It was an illusion. Whitestone used it to try to destroy us. He hoped that we’d drown.”

“Max! That’s terrible!”

“It certainly is. I had my heart set on a peanut butter burger.”

“We better get back to the dock, Max.”

“In our condition, I think you’re right. I think it’s a dry dock.”

They dogpaddled to the dock, then climbed up out of the water. “Well, at least we got where we were going,” Max said. “There’s the Chop House over there.”

99 looked. “That taxi driver was right,” she said. “That’s a den of thieves, if I ever saw one. If he’s never been down here, I wonder how he was able to describe it so well.”

“Oh, I suspect he’s been down here often enough,” Max smiled. “Those tall, white-haired, distinguished-looking cab drivers get around more than they like to admit.”

“What shall we do now, Max?”

“What else? Go in and ask for Dr. Livingstrom. That’s what we’re here for, isn’t it?”

As they approached the doorway of the Chop House, a small, wizened, hobbling man came out. He was carrying an unlit cigar in one hand.

The man spoke to Max. “Got a match, Mac?”

Max hit him with a karate chop, dropping him to the sidewalk.

“Max! Why did you do that!” 99 squealed, peering down at the prostrate little man.

“99, for heaven’s sake, didn’t you recognize that? That was the old match trick. If I’d delayed for just a second, reaching for a match, he’d have fired at us with that poison gas gun.”

99 looked around. “What poison gas gun, Max?”

“The cigar. You don’t really think that’s a cigar, do you?” He bent down and picked up the cigar from where it had fallen on the sidewalk. “You see, if you unroll these tobacco leaves, inside you find . . . uh . . . more tobacco leaves. Well, it
could
have been a poison gas gun, 99. It never pays to take chances.”

The little man began to stir.

“I think we better get inside,” Max said, urging 99 on. “You can’t depend on these little short guys having a sense of humor.”

Inside, the Chop House was dimly-lighted, foul-smelling and smoke-filled. There were tables and booths, most of them occupied by fiendish-looking men and wicked-looking women. Satanic-looking waiters were snaking in and out among the tables, delivering orders. Just inside the doorway was a sign saying: No Children Allowed After 6
P.M.

“A wise policy,” Max said. “At least, they’re keeping the welfare of the community in mind.”

“What now, Max?” 99 whispered.

“Play it cool,” Max replied. “Act as if we belong here.”

“Right.”

With Max leading the way, they entered and sat down at a table. A waiter appeared.

“Yeah, what’ll it be?” the waiter growled.

“Our usual,” Max replied.