Wallah’s advice to Jack, based upon her calculations, had been that he must take employment at a Golden Chicken Diner and penetrate the higher echelons by utilising the American Dream. Also that Dorothy would prove to be a useful asset during the short term, if ultimately a disaster.
Jack leaned forwards, elbows on the table, and buried his face in his hands.
Dorothy said, “Let’s think about this, Jack. Work together, throw some ideas around.”
Jack groaned.
Dorothy continued, “I think we have established that whoever is the brains behind the Golden Chicken Diner is the most likely candidate for being behind the murders in Toy City.”
“Yes,” said Jack. “Of course.”
“Well, not necessarily ‘of course’ – there could be other options to choose from. But he or she –”
“Or it,” said Jack.
“He, she or it is the most likely candidate. That entity is the one that you have to find and deal with.”
“And I will,” said Jack.
“So the questions is, how?”
Jack nodded through his fingers.
“Well,” said Dorothy, “the most logical thing to do, in my opinion, would be to gain employment at one of the Golden Chicken Diners, then work your way up into a position that would gain you access to this, er, entity.”
“Eh?” said Jack, and he looked up through his fingers.
“It’s the most logical solution,” said Dorothy. “By my calculations, it’s the best chance you’d have.”
“By your calculations?”
“Yes. You see, it’s an American thing – the belief that anyone in this country can do anything, if they just try hard enough. That they’ll get a fair deal if they try. It’s called pursuing the American Dream.”
“I know what it’s called,” said Jack.
“You do?”
“I do. Do you really think it would work?”
“It might with my help.”
“Ah,” said Jack.
“You have no ID,” said Dorothy. “You’re, well, an illegal alien, really. You’d need a work visa. But there are ways. I could help.”
“I have no choice,” said Jack, and he threw up his hands, knocking over his coffee, which trickled into his lap. “Oh damn,” went Jack. “I think this trenchcoat is done for.”
Dorothy giggled, prettily.
Jack smiled wanly towards her. “When I said I had no choice,” said he, “I didn’t mean it in a bad way towards you. I’m very grateful for your help. So how do we go about getting jobs?”
“Just leave that to me.”
Now it is a fact well known to those who know it well that in America, in accordance with the American Dream, you can always get a job in a diner. No matter your lack of qualifications, the fact that you cannot add up to ten, the fact that you have rather strange ways about you, a curious squint, buck teeth, answer to the name of Joe-Bob and hail from a backwoods community where your father is your brother and your aunty your uncle (although it has to be said that there is a more than average chance that you will be very good at playing the banjo), you can always get work in a diner.
In England (a small but beautifully formed kingdom somewhat to the east of America) it is the case that you can always get a job in a pub. Here, of course, you will not be expected to be able to count up to ten, as, if you are, like Jack, an illegal alien (probably from Australia, in the case of England), it will be expected that you will short-change the customers. Oh, and be an alcoholic, which is apparently a necessary qualification.
But this is neither here nor there, nor anywhere else at the present.
Twenty minutes passed in the Golden Chicken Diner and when these twenty minutes were done, certain things had occurred.
Dorothy now stood behind counter till number three, all dolled up in a golden outfit. And Jack stood somewhere else.
Jack stood in the kitchen washing dishes.
Jack had his arms in suds up to the elbows.
Jack had a right old grumpy look on his face.
“Back in the bloody kitchen again!” swore Jack, frightening Joe-Bob, who was drying dishes. “A couple of days ago I was washing dishes in a Nadine’s Diner, and now I’m back at it again. Is this to be my lot in life? What is going on?”
“You ain’t from around these parts, aintcha, mister?” asked Joe-Bob, spitting little corncob nibblets through his big buck teeth. “You a wetback, aintcha?”
“I don’t know what one of those is,” said Jack, “but whatever it is, I’m not one.”
“You must be from England, then.”
“If this is some kind of running gag,” said Jack, really wishing that he’d rolled up his shirt sleeves before he began the washing up, “then it stinks.”
“Not as bad as that trenchcoat of yours,” said Joe-Bob.
“No,” said Jack, “but it’s washing up nicely.” And he scrubbed at the trenchcoat’s hem.
“I don’t figure the manager’d like you washing your laundry in his kitchen sink,” said Joe-Bob. “But I guess I’d keep my mouth shut and not tell him if you’d do a favour for me.”
“Listen,” said Jack, “I can’t lose this job. It’s really important to me. But then so is a smart turn-out. I’ll soon be done washing the trenchcoat. Then we can dry it in the chicken rotisserie.”
Joe-Bob shook his head and did that manic cackling laughter that backwoods fellows are so noted for. “That’s even worse,” said he. “I’ll want a big favour.”
Jack sighed deeply and wrung out his trenchcoat. “You won’t get it,” said Jack.
“Then I’ll just mosey off and speak with the manager.”
“All right,” said Jack. And he sighed once more. “Tell me what favour you want.”
“Well,” said Joe-Bob, “you’ve got a real perty mouth and –”
Joe-Bob’s head went into the washing-up water and then Joe-Bob, held by the scruff of the neck by Jack, was soundly thrashed and flung through the rear kitchen door into the alleyway beyond.
“And don’t come back!” called Jack.
The head chef, who had been in the toilet doing whatever it is that head chefs do in the toilet – going to the toilet, probably, but neglecting to wash their hands afterwards – returned from the toilet. He was a big, fat, rosy-faced man who hailed from Oregon (where the vortex is)[26] and walked with a pronounced limp due to an encounter in Korea with a sleeping policeman.
“Where is Joe-Bob?” asked the head chef.
“He quit,” said Jack. “Walked off the job. I tried to stop him.”
The head chef nodded thoughtfully. “Tried to stop him, eh? Well, young fella, I like the way you think. You have the right stuff – you’ll go far in this organisation.”
Jack did further trenchcoat wringings, but behind his back.
“I’m going to promote you,” said the head chef, “to head dryer-up.”
“Well,” said Jack, “thank you very much.”
“Not a bit of it,” said the head chef. “Loyalty is always rewarded. It’s the American Dream.”
By lunchtime Jack had gained the post of assistant to the head chef. He had risen rapidly through the ranks, from dishwasher to dryer-up to plate stacker to kitchen porter (general) to kitchen porter (specific) to head kitchen porter to rotisserie loader to supervising rotisserie loader to assistant to the head chef.
There had been some unpleasantness involved.
There had in fact been considerable unpleasantness involved and no small degree of violence, threats and menace. And a few knocks to himself. Jack sported a shiner in the right-eye department; the kitchen porter (general) was beginning a course of Dimac.
Jack’s role as assistant to the head chef gave him a degree of authority over the lower orders of kitchen staff. Who were now a group of boisterous Puerto Ricans whom Jack had seen dealing in certain restricted substances outside the kitchen in the alleyway and asked in with the promise of cash in hand and free chicken for lunch.
Jack stood next to the head chef, decapitating chickens.