“A winner! You’ll be glad you came!”
—Variety Online
Amazingly, I hadn’t dropped the 7-Up or the bag of popcorn. “What do you think you’re doing?” I said, wrestling free of him.
“Shh!” he whispered. “These walls aren’t soundproof. Did you spill any of the popcorn?”
“Of course I spilled the popcorn,” I said. “You scared me half to death!”
“Shh. Look, you can yell at me all you want,” he whispered, “but not till the next chase scene. And don’t take out your cell phone. I don’t want the light to give us away. Stay here,” he ordered, and I heard the swish of a door’s opening and closing softly, and then nothing but the sounds of pandemonium coming through the left-hand wall.
It sounded similar to what I’d heard before and had thought was from the previews for Christmas Caper, but it was clearly coming from the theater next door, which meant it was Lethal Rampage.
I couldn’t see anything at all, let alone enough to make out my surroundings, but this had to be the corridor leading to Christmas Caper because I could hear a voice intoning, “Coming this Valentine’s Day!” through the other wall.
Good, the previews were still playing. I hadn’t missed the start of the movie. I would have time to tell Jack what I thought of him for grabbing me like that and still make it into the theater in time for the opening credits. If I could find it in the darkness, which was still absolute.
Jack was back. I heard him shut the door. “Luckily, you only spilled a couple of handfuls,” he said over the crash of explosions from Lethal Rampage. “Which I ate. What took you so long? I was afraid the usher had spotted you, and I was going to have to come back out and rescue you.”
“Where was I?” I said angrily. “I was standing outside Theater 17 just like you told me to. You lied to me—”
“Nobody saw you go in the door to 28, did they?”
“Don’t change the subject. You—”
“Did they?” He grabbed my arm, jostling the popcorn.
“No,” I said, only half listening. In between deafening explosions, the announcer on the Christmas Caper side of the wall was saying muffledly, “And now for our feature presentation.”
“Look,” I said. “I’d love to stand here in the dark and fight with you, but I intend to see Christmas Caper. So if you’ll please let go of my arm, the movie’s about to start.”
“No, it’s not,” he said. He squeezed my arm. “Hang on,” he said, let go, and moved away from me, and I could hear him doing something, though I couldn’t tell what, and then the wall I was facing lit up with the beam from a penlight.
From what I could see in its dim light, we were in a narrow passage just like the one outside, with carpet on the floor and the walls and no strip lighting, but it was long and straight and ended in a wall, not in the entrance to the theater. There was no sign of the door Jack had just come through though it had to be in that wall because Jack had taken off his jacket and laid it against the bottom of it.
“To keep any stray light from seeping out,” he explained over the racket.
“What is this place?” I said. “Where are we?”
“Shh,” he said, putting a finger to his lips and whispering. “Kissing scene coming up,” and he must have been telling the truth because the gunfire and explosions were suddenly replaced by the strains of violins.
He took the popcorn and 7-Up cup from me, tiptoed halfway down the corridor, stooped and set them on the floor and then stood up again, listening with his finger to his lips. And apparently the lethal rampagers were back, because the romantic violins cut off abruptly, replaced by a blast of trumpets, lots of drumming, and the sound of revving engines and squealing tires.
“Chase scene,” Jack said, coming back over to me. “Time to go to work.”
“You said you were going to tell me what this place is. Where’s the theater?”
“I’ll tell you everything, I swear. After we do this. Take off your shirt.”
“What?”
“Your shirt. Take it off.”
“You never change, do you?”
“Wrong line,” he said. “You’re supposed to say, ‘Are you sure we’re planning the same sort of crime?’ and I say—”
“This is not How to Steal a Million,” I said.
“You’re right,” he said. “It’s more like Jumpin’ Jack Flash. Or I Love Trouble. Take it off. And hurry. We don’t have much time.”
“I have no intention of taking off any—”
“Calm down. It’s for the photos. Of this passage and the one outside,” he said, and when I still stood there, my arms crossed, “The camera the boy on your shirt is holding isn’t just a picture. There’s a digital-strip camera embedded in it.”
And that was why he’d riffled through all those shirts in the Disney Princess boutique. He’d been looking for one with a camera. “Why can’t you just use the camera in your phone?”
“When they scan them in the security line, they check your info against the police and FBI databases.”
“Which you’re in because of the geese,” I said. “That’s why you wanted me to come with you, so I could smuggle in your camera for you.”
“Of course. That’s what scoundrels do. They use the girl to smuggle the necklace through customs or to get the news story or to get them out of East Germany—”
“This is not a movie!”
“You’re right about that. Which is why I’ve got to get those pictures. So, do you want to give me that shirt or do you want me to take the camera off of it while you’re wearing it?”
“Fine,” I said, pulled the T-shirt off over my head, handed it to him, and stood there fuming in my singlet while he turned the shirt inside out, peeled off the digital-strip camera, and handed the T-shirt back to me. I pulled it on while he snapped pictures of the passage, motioning me out of the way so he could get a shot of the long wall behind me.
He snapped the end wall he’d dragged me through and the one at the other end, and then came back to me and listened a moment. “I’ll be right back,” he said, switched off the penlight, plunging us in darkness, and went out into the passage again.
He was gone for what seemed like forever. I put my ear to the door, but all I could hear were detonations and screams from the Lethal Rampage side and disgustingly perky music from the other. I listened intently, afraid the din would subside any minute, but it didn’t, though on the Rampage side I could hear, over the crashing, the sound of muffled voices.
Please don’t let that be the usher or Drome security, I thought, demanding to know what Jack was doing in here, but it must not have been because the door was opening again, and I had to back away hastily as Jack came in and shut it behind him.
“Can you find my jacket?” he whispered, and I felt around for it in vain, and then pulled my shirt off again and handed it to him to put against the door.
“Thanks,” he whispered and, after a few seconds, switched on the penlight again.
“Did you get the pictures?”
He waved the digital strip at me. “Yeah.”
“Good. You lied to me.”
“No, I didn’t. Besides, Jimmy Stewart lied to Margaret Sullavan, Peter O’Toole lied to Audrey Hepburn, Cary Grant lied to Audrey Hepburn. It’s what scoundrels do.”