My first intimation of John Cunningham's vicarious practice came in the form of an order to check on a complaint from the Hotel Celt in New York. I bussed over to the 48-story hostelry and questioned the manager, a fat, bald man of some forty-two years and no arches.
"A lady doctor," he mourned, "has served warning she will sue unless I take out the slot machines from our mezzanine powder rooms."
"I know," I said. "She filed the complaint that brought me here. What I want to know is what does a slot machine violate by being in the ladies' room?" I meant, what violation beyond the usual federal, state and county restrictions whose ineffectual enforcement rendered them anachronisms in this age of device-gambling.
"Why does this remotely concern the medical profession?"
Mr. Dennithy, the manager plucked an imperfect petal from his buttonhole carnation and reluctantly pointed out. "These machines are vending, not gambling devices. They issue medical advice—on a limited scale," he added hurriedly.
"What!" I yelled in his face. "Let's go see this."
The tastefully decorated lounge was jammed with females, many of whom were bunched in little chirping bevies along the west wall. Stubby queues of women gave the place the look of a pari-mutuel stand, but the cheerful, tinkly chatter had nothing of the grim spirit of betting.
The three women attendants threw up their hands in despair when I told them to clear the room. "We can hardly get them to leave at night so we can clean up the place," one complained.
Impatiently I barged in, flashed my gold and platinum serpent-and-staff badge, and shouted. "These machines are illegal. This is a raid! Stand where you are, every last one of you!"