“There is something special about them, isn’t there?” said Marilyn. “I’m collecting them myself.”
“And the movie will star major Hollywood actors and go worldwide?”
“The talk at the studio,” said Sydney, sighing once more as he spoke, “is that with the movie’s release, the Golden Chicken Diners will also go global. It’s a vast commercial enterprise – not one I would normally wish to associate myself with, but such exposure can only advance my career. And let’s face it, dear, I came out of retirement for this and even if I never work again, the fact that I was in this movie will ensure that I can make money for the rest of my life doing signings at Sci-Fi conventions.”
“Sci-Fi conventions?” Jack asked.
“Well, this is a Sci-Fi movie. What with all the spaceships and stuff.”
“Spaceships?” Jack shouted, and his hands were once more on Sydney’s lapels.
“Spaceships!” Sydney tried quite fiercely to shake off Jack’s manic grip. “It is based on War of the Worlds, isn’t it? Although having chickens as the saviour of mankind is a bit far-fetched in my opinion. And this strap line – ‘Eating chicken makes you a winner, too’. Gross, but business, I suppose.”
Jack was, as they say, “losing it”, although they probably wouldn’t be saying it for at least another ten years, but then of course they wouldn’t actually have chaps in vests crawling around inside air-conditioning ducts and bringing criminals to justice for perhaps another forty years, but this was and is Hollywood, where Dreams become Reality, so Jack “held it together” and Jack now shouted, “Show me the script of this movie.”
“I don’t have it with me,” said Sydney. “I learn my lines. I can’t be having with improv.”
“Take me to your script,” roared Jack.
“It’s all ‘take me to this’ and ‘take me to that’ with you,” replied Sydney, quite boldly, considering. “Take, take, take, that’s all you do.”
“Or it’s out and make your own way down.”
“Easy, Jack,” said Dorothy. “They’re only actors.”
“Only?” said Sydney.
“Well, not only, of course,” said Dorothy. “Anything but only.”
“I want to see the script,” said Jack. “I need to see the script.”
“And so you shall, young man. Just calm yourself down.” Sydney freed himself from Jack’s grip.
“Is this going to help?” Dorothy asked. “Help to find Eddie, I mean.”
“What else do we have? All this is fake. There’s nothing here.”
“All right, then. Let’s go down.”
Jack pressed the ground-floor button. The lift doors closed.
“Thank you for that,” said Sydney.
“I’m sorry,” said Jack. “I know now that none of this is anything to do with you. I’m sorry I was so rough.”
“I’m a professional,” said Sydney. “But I wonder, are we supposed to do a second take downstairs? I’m no longer certain what my motivation is. Was I supposed to fight you off? It wasn’t in my backstory. Do you have a rewrite?”
Sydney said no more. The lift descended.
Sydney might have said more. But he couldn’t, for Jack had head-knocked him unconscious. Which wasn’t really very sporting, as he was a Hollywood legend.
The lift descended.
At length it reached the first floor. Jack thumped at the ground-floor button, but the lift would go no further. It could go no further. There were lift doors on the ground floor, but they were only doors – there was nothing behind them.
“What about poor Sydney?” asked Marilyn as the lift doors opened on the first floor.
“I’m sorry,” said Jack. Who was sick of saying sorry, but felt that upon this occasion he really should say it. “I lost my temper. He’s a nice fellow. You have a copy of the script, I assume?”
“Don’t hit me,” said Marilyn. “I do.”
“Then we’ll go and look at yours.”
“Whatever you say, all right?”
And Marilyn left the lift and Jack and Dorothy followed her and Jack gazed once more at Marilyn’s legs and thought certain thoughts. And Dorothy, as if, once more, she was able to access Jack’s thoughts, dealt Jack a hearty slap to the face.
The lecture theatre was deserted.
But for a fellow in a vest and bare feet who lay all prone upon the floor. Jack stepped over this fellow.
“It had to be done,” said Dorothy.
And Jack just shrugged, as he was beyond caring anyway.
They moved through the lecture theatre, then out onto the mezzanine floor, then down the great escalator into the greater entrance hall with its golden statues and reception desk.
No one sat behind this. Indeed, but for Jack and Dorothy and Marilyn, this great golden area was deserted.
“Gone for lunch?” Jack suggested.
“Let’s just get this script,” said Dorothy.
And so they crossed the great golden entrance hallway, passed through the great golden doorway and into the great golden sunlight of Los Angeles.
And here they paused, all well lit in goldenness.
Before the Golden Chicken Towers were many police cars. Many black and white police cars. Which had conveyed many of Los Angeles’ finest to …
The scene of the crime.
And a voice, coming through what is known as an electric bullhorn, called unto Jack.
And its call went thus ways. And so. And suchlike also.
“Drop your weapons and get down on the ground. You are surrounded,” it went.
Thus ways.
And so.
And suchlike.
Also.
19
LA Police Chief Samuel J. Maggott was having a rough one.
Such is the way with police chiefs, that they are generally having a rough one. Things conspire against them all the time. Things pile up. Often it is that they have just given up smoking, and drinking, and are going through a messy divorce. And that the “powers that be” are coming down hard upon them, demanding results on cases that seem beyond all human comprehension.
Then there’s the matter of their underlings. That feisty new policewoman who doesn’t play by the rules but always gets results. And that troubled young detective who won’t give up smoking or drinking and has never been married and gets all the girls and doesn’t play by the rules, but also always gets the job done.
And then there’s that coffee machine that never works properly and it’s a really hot summer and the air conditioning’s broken down and …
So on and so forth and suchlike.
And now there’s this fellow.
LA Police Chief Samuel J. Maggott sat down heavily in his office chair, behind his office desk. The office that he sat down in was a proper police chiefs office. There were little American flags sprouting from his inkwell. There were medals in small glass cases on the walls. Near the picture of the President. And the ones of Sam’s family, which included the wife who was presently divorcing him. And there were other American flags here and there, because there always are. And there were framed citations won in the cause of police duty (above and beyond the call of it, generally). And there was a coffee machine and an air-conditioning unit, the latter making strange noises.
And there was this fellow.
This fellow sat in the visitors’ chair, across the desk from Sam’s. This fellow sat uneasily, uncomfortably. His hands were in his lap. His wrists were handcuffed together.
After he’d done with the heavy sitting down, Sam did some puffings. He’d been putting on weight recently. It was all the stress that he’d been under, which had caused him to put more food beneath his belt, which put him under even more pressure to lose some weight.
Sam sighed and inwardly cursed his lot. The things he had to put up with. And he hadn’t even touched upon the racial politics, because Sam was, of course, a black man.
As are all American police chiefs.
Apparently.
Sam puffed and Sam sighed and Sam mopped sweat from his brow. He mopped it with an oversized red gingham handkerchief. It had belonged to his mother, who had died last week, and had only yesterday been put under.