A Novel Idea
Chapter One
Hawkeye looked at B.J., his expression grave, and said, "I need your help on this, Beej."
"Bright, young surgeon like you… you need my help? Come on. I'm sure you can tackle this yourself."
"No, really. I'm at a loss here. Be a pal, huh? I'm asking nicely."
B.J. sighed and moved to sit next to Hawkeye on his cot. "All right, lemme see what you've got so far." He reached out and took the notepad from Hawkeye's hands. There was nothing written on it. "Wait a minute, you haven't even started yet? You've been sitting here for the past hour and you don't even have a single word written yet?"
Hawkeye gave him a look that was somewhere between chagrined and defensive. "Why do you think I asked for your help? This is driving me crazy."
"Too late for that," B.J. quipped lamely, and Hawkeye didn't even dignify it with a response.
"Bad case of writer's block," Hawkeye lamented.
"I can see that."
"So help me out here. Let's toss some ideas around, maybe something will stick."
B.J. leaned back on Hawkeye's cot and stared at the Swamp ceiling. "OK, first of all, let's go back and review the rules we all agreed on when you came up with this brilliant idea." He laced the word "brilliant" with a smidge of sarcasm. As he spoke, he ticked the rules off on his fingers, "Everybody writes one chapter. It can't be a war story. It can't take place in Korea. Oh, and Father Mulcahy doesn't want it to have any sex or vulgar language. Was that it?"
Hawkeye nodded. "That was pretty much it. Sounds easy, doesn't it? The problem is, I'm the one who has to start it. That is not the piece of cake you might think it is."
They fell silent for a while as they each considered, and rejected, story ideas. After a few minutes, B.J. suddenly sat up, rubbed his hands together, and said, "Hey, I've had a thought! I think this could be something. Hawkeye Pierce, put your pen at the ready, because here we go…"
The slim, dark-haired, dashingly handsome young man sat at his desk, behind a door that was stenciled with the words: Harvey Peterson, Private Investigator, "Finest Kind." He had just bitten into his lunch, barbecued spareribs from Adam's Ribs right around the corner on Dearborn, when he heard a purposeful knock on his door. Oh dammit, he thought chewing around his rib, as it were. Why can't I ever just eat in peace around here? With a sigh, he set aside the crossword puzzle he'd been working on. He was stuck anyway. What the heck was a five-letter Yiddish word for bedbug?
"Come in!" he called, spitting some sauce onto his desk. It joined other stains that had crusted there over the years.
He stopped in mid-chew as a voluptuous blonde sauntered into his office and sat down, flinging her silver lamé purse onto her lap. She was wearing an almost shockingly short navy blue skirt, and a powder blue angora sweater… with a zipper down the back. I wonder what that's for, Harvey found himself thinking. "Can I help you, miss?" he asked, swallowing. His mouth had suddenly gone dry in the presence of such beauty and sensuality. Or it might have been the spareribs, which were seriously lacking in sauce today.
"I need to hire you, detective," she said, her voice breathy, as he'd figured it would be. "Someone is trying to kill me. I need you to find out who, and why!"
"What makes you think somebody wants you dead, miss… uh?"
"Babbitt. Gloria Babbitt. Because, detective, my breakfast was poisoned, a snake was coiled in my kitchen cupboard ready to strike, I narrowly missed being flattened by a falling piano on the street, and a ferocious dog chased me for blocks! And that was just today!"
"Oh dear. If all of that really happened, isn't this a case for the police?" Harvey wondered, doubting her story but enjoying her presence in his office.
"They don't believe me. They think I'm acting."
Suddenly Harvey realized why this woman looked so familiar and why her name had rung a distant bell. "Hey, you're that actress! That Hollywood actress who was in, uh…" He snapped his fingers, trying to remember her blockbuster film from a few months back.
She helped him out. "The Woman Who Thought Someone Was Trying to Kill Her." Harvey nodded, and she nodded back sadly. "You can see why I'm having problems with the police."
"Yes, indeed." He held out the carton of cole slaw (because you don't ever order from Adam's Ribs and not get cole slaw), silently offering her some, but she shook her pretty little head. "Well, the obvious question now is, do you have any enemies, Miss Babbitt?"
"Please, call me Gloria," she purred, batting her eyelashes at him. This dame had the femme fatale act down pat. "No, detective. I really don't. I haven't any idea why I'm a target, and that's why I want to hire you. Will you do it?"
He looked across the desk at her, all blonde and pouty and needy, and he knew there was really no decision to be made. "Of course, Gloria. I'll be happy to help."