The Toyminator (18 page)

But it did. It really did.

As they drew closer to the desk where they were to receive their passes, Dorothy said, “Look at that, Jack. I bet you don’t like that.”

Jack looked and Jack saw. Behind the desk was a tall glass cabinet. Very tall, very wide, glass-shelved. Upon these shelves were many little figures.

Jack peered and Jack saw and recognised these figures.

The clockwork clapping monkeys. The band from Old King Cole’s. The orchestra from the Opera House. And oh so many more.

And right in the middle and larger than the rest sat a bear wearing a trenchcoat. And there was no mistaking
that
bear.

Jack made certain growling sounds and urged on the queue before him.

And presently it was his and Dorothy’s turn to receive their passes.

“Name?” said a young tanned lovely, with a great beehive of golden hair.

“Dorothy,” said Dorothy. And then she added her surname. Dorothy received her pass.

“Next,” said the lovely to Jack.

“Jack,” said Jack to the lovely. “Jack is my name. My name is Jack.”

“And Jack
what
would it be?”

“You have me on that one,” said Jack. “
What
would it be?”

“Your surname. You are Jack
what
?”

“I am Jack the head chef of the Golden Chicken Diner on Hollywood Boulevard.”

“I require your surname.”

“All right,” said Jack. “I’m Sir Jack.”

“There’s no Sir Jack on my list,” said the lovely. “Please leave by the way you came in. Next, please.”

“No,” said Jack. “Hold on there. I am the head chef.”

“Your name is not on the list.”

“I only started yesterday. I rose up through the ranks.”

“Ah,” said the lovely, batting preposterous eyelashes towards Jack. “You are a migrant worker.”

“Exactly,” said Jack.

“No work visa, no ID, paid in cash and poorly, too.”

“That kind of thing,” said Jack.

“Then get out before I call security.”

“Now hold on –” said Jack.

“If
I
might explain,” said Dorothy. “Jack is from England.”

“Oh,” said the lovely. “England, is it? Where you all wear bowler hats and take tea with the Queen at three? Well, why didn’t you say so?”

“Would it have made a difference?” Jack asked.

“Well, naturally it would. We Americans just
love
you English. Our politicians, in particular our President, are so keen to cultivate a special relationship with your Prime Minister. I have the gift of prophecy, you see, and I calculate that in some future time our President will be able to bully your Prime Minister into breaking the Nato Alliance and help him invade a Middle Eastern nation state.”

“Eh?” said Jack, accepting the pass he was now offered. “What was that you said?”

“You want it
all
again? You see, I have the gift of prophecy. And I
calculate
–”

“That’s enough,” said Jack. “Can I use your toilet, please?”

“Well, you can’t use mine, but you can use the men’s room – it’s over there.” And the lovely pointed with a lovely hand.

And Jack said, “Excuse me, please,” and made for the door at the hurry-up.

And once inside the men’s room, he locked himself into a stall and withdrew from his trenchcoat Wallah the calculating pocket.

“Oh,” whispered Wallah. “Remembered my existence at last, have you, Jack?”

“I’m so sorry,” said Jack. “All kinds of things have been happening.”

“Of that I am fully aware,” whispered Wallah. “I have been plunged into dirty dishwater, then roasted in a rotisserie. Then washed and wrung out once again by your lady friend to get the smell of chicken out of me.”

“It’s all been rather hectic,” said Jack.

“Well, all the sex you’ve been having certainly has.”

“It’s just business,” said Jack. Which was a callous thing to say, more callous too because there was a more than even chance that he meant it.

“You are a very bad boy,” said Wallah.

“Eddie sometimes says that,” said Jack.

“And you behave very badly when that little bear isn’t with you.”

“I behave
very
badly when he is,” said Jack. “Often with his encouragement.”

“Time is growing short,” said Wallah, and her voice was faint. “Eddie has less than forty-eight hours – you must move with haste.”

“I’ve got this far,” said Jack, “thanks to you.”

“But I can take you no further. You forgot about me, Jack.”

“I didn’t. Everything got hectic. I told you.”

“You forgot about me. But it doesn’t matter. I thought I was special to you. But it doesn’t matter. What matters is that you find Eddie and together you stop the fiend who would destroy Toy City.”

“I’m on the case,” said Jack. “I’m trying.”

“I can do no more to help you but tell you this: I calculate trouble by teatime and I calculate that, given the choice, you should duck to the right.”

“Right,” said Jack in a puzzled tone.

“Right.” said Wallah. “And so goodbye, Jack.”

“Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Jack. I am fading fast. Time is up for me.”

“No,” said Jack, shaking Wallah about. “You can’t go now. You can’t –”

“Die?” said Wallah. “I’m dying, Jack. Would you do something for me?”

“Anything,” said Jack.

“Anything?” said Wallah. “Anything I ask?”

“Anything,’said Jack.’Anything at all.”

“Then kiss me, Jack,” said Wallah, “and …”

Jack emerged from the men’s room. He had a rather guilty look on his face. And it was a red and embarrassed face that this guilty look was upon.

“What have you been doing in there?” Dorothy asked Jack. “You look as if you’ve been –”

“Don’t be absurd,” said Jack. “I’ve been in there by myself.”

“Then you were –”

“Stop, please,” said Jack. “Let’s get a move on with what we’re supposed to be doing.”

“You
have
been,” said Dorothy. “Every woman can recognise that look on a man’s face, even though most women won’t ever admit it to a man. You’ve been –”

“Stop!”

When all had been issued their passes, all were led by the lovely to a golden escalator, up this and into a great hall (all gold) with seating upholstered in a similar hue. The seating was set up in rows before a stage, which Jack found unsurprisingly to be all over golden panels. And at length blinds were drawn at golden-framed windows and a spotlight, remarkably white in its brilliance, shone on the golden stage illuminating a golden microphone held high by a golden stand.

And into this spotlight stepped a dramatic personage who wore a suit that was not of gold, but was beige.

“Howdy doody, golden people,” he bawled into the microphone.

The sitters mumbled some good mornings/howdy doodys.

The man at the mic shook his head.

Jack peered up at the man at the mic. There was no all-over sameness about this fellow. He had
something
, something more. Just what was it? Jack wondered. A certain overconfidence? A certain
attitude
? He looked even more scrubbed than the sitters.

The man in beige had a big round head, with a big pink face and a kind of cylindrical body. His arms were long and so too were his hands, with very long fingers upon them.

His pink face surely shone.

“I said, ‘Howdy doody, golden people,’” he bawled.

The “golden people” sitting replied, this time with a louder “Howdy doody”.

“A very good howdy doody,” said the man on the stage, “but not good enough for you golden people. One more time.”

And this time he got a veritable thunderstorm of howdy doodys hurled back in his direction.

With the notable exception of Jack and Dorothy. Although Dorothy did mumble
something
.

“Good enough,” said the man in beige. “And welcome to Golden Chicken Towers. Welcome to you, the chosen ones. The special ones. The trusted ones. Your labours have brought you here. Your dedication to the company ethic. Your sense of duty. Your pride as young Americans.” And he raised a fist and shook it in a friendly fashion.

“Now who can tell me what
this
is?” he said. And he produced from his pocket … an egg.

Hands went up from the sitters.

Jack said, “It’s an egg.”

“It’s an egg, well done.” The figure in beige smiled down upon Jack. “It’s an egg indeed. And what is your name, young man?”

“Sir Jack,” said Jack. “I’m from England.”

“An Englander, is it? Well, up you come onto the stage.”

“And why would I want to do that?” Jack asked.

“Because I have chosen
you
to assist me with this presentation.”

“Well, aren’t I the lucky one.”

“What did you say, young man?”

“I said, ‘Well, I
am
the lucky one.’”

“As indeed you are. Up, up. Let’s have a round of applause for Sir Jack.”

And a round of enthusiastic applause went up.

Jack shook his head and climbed onto the stage.

“Now, Sir Jack,” said the man in beige, putting a long beige arm about Jack’s shoulders, “what I’d like you to do is –”

“Work the slide projector?” Jack asked, as one was now being wheeled onto the stage by the lovely with the golden hair and the big dark batting lashes.

“Precisely.”

“And would I be right in assuming,” Jack asked, “that the slides will display a sort of potted history of the company?”

“You are a most astute young man – I can see that career opportunities aplenty await you.”

“Splendid,” said Jack. “And then I assume you will be giving us all a motivational speech.”

“Something of that nature, yes.” The man in beige gave Jack a certain look.

“Followed by a slap-up lunch,” said Jack.

“Why, yes.”

“Followed by more, how shall I put it, indoctrination?”

“Well,” said the man in beige. And he removed his arm from Jack’s shoulders.

“Just so,” said Jack. “But I think not.”

“I do not fully understand you.”

“Then perhaps you will understand
this
.” And Jack pulled from his trenchcoat pocket the cleaver that he had used the previous day for the decerebration of the chickens.

“Oh,” said the man in beige. “What is
this
?”

“
This
,” said Jack, “is a cleaver, And if you do not take me,
at once
, to your leader, I will use it to cut off your head.”

Now this caused some alarm, not only from the man in beige and the lovely on the stage, but also from the seated chosen ones, who now unseated themselves, preparing to flee.

“And sit down, you lot,” shouted Dorothy. Pulling, much to Jack’s surprise, two pistols from her clothing. “Anybody moves and you’re dead.”

Jack looked at Dorothy.

Dorothy smiled. “Well, get a move on,” she said.

There are moments.

Sometimes.

Special moments. Magic moments. Moments when everything becomes as clear as the air and you can see right through it, into eternity.

These moments are often reached via the medium of alcohol. In England, for example, where most folk wear bowler hats, take tea at three and know the Queen well, there are public drinking houses. And those who frequent these sociable establishments respect something that is known as the ten-o’clock watershed. It is understood that before this time, talk is generalised and covers many topics – the day’s news, recent sporting events, trivial this and thats.

But beyond the ten-o’clock watershed, certain matters are deemed acceptable that would otherwise be considered taboo. Friendship is one of these and many is the time when two large masculine fellows will be seen putting their arms about one another and swearing to anyone who would care to hear, and many who might care not, that “this is my bestest friend”. And “I love this man”.

And although at nine fifty-five this would not be deemed the thing-to-do, beyond the ten-o’clock watershed it is A-okay.

This is but one example and the cynical reader might lean towards the opinion that it is in fact “the alcohol speaking”, rather than a moment. A special moment.

But who amongst us has not experienced a special moment? A moment of total clarity. A reality check. A revelation.

As Jack held his cleaver over the beige man’s head, Jack experienced such a special moment.

For Jack it was not peace, or love, or a semi-religious revelation.

For Jack it was more a case of WHAT IN THE NAME OF ANY GOD THAT I MAY CARE TO BELIEVE IN AM I DOING?

It
was
a special moment. Jack saw the audience cowering beneath the guns of Dorothy. The beige man cowering, too, beneath Jack’s cleaver. The great golden room with its Californian sunlight slanting through the slats of the window blinds.

The sudden terrible reality of it all.

And for one moment, and a special one at that, Jack thought of fleeing, dropping that cleaver and running away. This was real, these were people. What was all the rest of it? Chickens, spaceships, walking, talking toys? Eddie was gone and Jack was here and for one terrible, special moment Jack wondered whether all that stuff, all that mad unlikely stuff, really
was
real. Perhaps, Jack thought to himself, he, Jack, had gone insane, and perhaps now, at this moment, he had reawakened from the nightmare of insanity to this moment of absolute clarity.

Jack hesitated, all in confusion, for there is a problem with special moments: they play havoc with all your previous moments.

And Jack’s hand loosened on his cleaver.

And Jack stared into the fearful face of the man in beige.

“I’m …” Jack was about to say “sorry”.

“Hurry up, Jack,” shouted Dorothy. “Pull yourself together. Eddie is in danger – don’t forget that.”

Jack blinked and gazed towards Dorothy.

Had she known what he was thinking?

Jack didn’t say, “I’m sorry.”

Well, he did, but he didn’t. He said. “I’m sorry, Mister Man In Beige, but if you do not take me at once to your leader, I will chop off your ear.”

“No, please have mercy.” The man in beige sank down to his knees. “Don’t hurt me, please, I’m innocent.”

“No one is innocent,” called Dorothy. “Get a move on, Jack.”

Jack hauled the beige man back to his feet. “Your leader or your ear,” said he.

“No, please.” The lovely on the stage wrung her beautiful hands. The manicured nails of the slender fingers twinkled in the spotlight. “Please don’t hurt him, please.”

“I’m sorry,” said Jack, “but my best friend has been kidnapped by someone in this building. Someone in power. I demand to be taken to this someone. Now!”

“But we don’t have the authority,” said the lovely. “We don’t know who you should speak to. Mister Tinto here –”

“What did you say?” asked Jack.

“Don’t say anything, Amelie,” said the man in beige.

“Amelie?” said Jack. “Mister Tinto? What is this?”

And then Jack saw it. Because perhaps
this
was the special moment. In fact, the other special moment, which had seemed like a special moment at the time, was, in fact, only a warm-up sort of special moment.

Jack stared hard at the man in beige.

And then Jack saw it.

And had a special moment.

The man in beige was Tinto. Well, he wasn’t
the
Tinto, but he was, well, what was he? Yes, he was a human manifestation, a human counterpart – he was the
human
version of Tinto. And the lovely? The lovely? Yes! Jack glanced at her and his glance became a stare. She
was
Amelie. Amelie made flesh.

Jack fell back for a moment, gawping and shaking his cleaver about. It
was
them. Why hadn’t he seen it immediately? He’d known there was something …

But …

“Jack!” shouted Dorothy, most loudly, too. “Jack, get a grip on yourself.”

“But it’s them.” And Jack did foolish pointings all around with his free hand. “It’s Amelie and Tinto. It’s them. It’s them if they were people. It is.”

Jack’s confusion turned to anger. As is often the case.

“Elevator,” said Jack. “Upstairs,” said Jack.

“Yes,” said Mr Tinto. “Anything you say.”

“Dorothy?” called Jack.

“I’ll follow,” said Dorothy. “Once I’ve dealt with this lot.”

“You’re not going to shoot them?”

Chefs and managers ducked and flinched.

“I’ll just have a word with them.”

“You promise?” Jack had some doubts in his head.

“I promise,” said Dorothy. And as Jack led Amelie and Mr Tinto from the stage, one hand on the beige man’s collar, the other holding the cleaver high, Dorothy addressed the shaking, trembling audience.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she said, “I am so sorry that this talk, which I’m sure you were all looking forward to, has been brought to a premature conclusion. I suggest now that you vacate the premises and do so in an orderly fashion. I would also strongly advise that you say
nothing
about what has occurred here. We have two hostages and should you inform the police, we will not hesitate to kill them. Do you understand?”

Heads nodded thoughtfully. Eyes strayed to the exit doors.

“Ah, just one more thing,” said Dorothy, “before you leave. Which one of you is it?”

The crowd, as one, made a puzzled face.

“Come on,” said Dorothy. “You know what I mean.”

The crowd, as one, shook its head.

“The hero,” said Dorothy. “The one who will stay behind. The one who although working as a chef used to work for Special Ops, or something, but got sacked through no fault of his own, which led to the break-up with his wife, a bit of a drink problem. But who, rising to such a situation as this, will slip away from the departing crowd, crawl through air-conditioning ducts and bring my companion and me to justice. There’s always
one
. We
all
know that.”

“Ah,” went the crowd, as one. Because, after all,
we all
know
that
.

“So come on, then,” said Dorothy. “Which one of you is it?”

The crowd now took to a collective silence.

“All right,” said Dorothy. “Then let me put it another way. I will count to ten, and if the hero has not identified himself before this time I will execute two people at random. Come on, now, I’m counting down.”

“Oh, all right,” came a voice from an air-conditioning duct. “Don’t shoot anyone, I’m coming out.”

Jack was making good progress along the corridor. If good progress can indeed be measured by progress along a corridor.

“We really can’t help you,” said Amelie, wiggling in front.

Jack looked down at those long, long legs. They were just like re – Oh, they
were
real legs, weren’t they?

Jack said, “Get a move on.”

“Amelie’s right,” said Mr Tinto. “We can’t help you. We don’t know anything.”

“You know something,” said Jack. “I’ve been following the American Dream, me, and I know how it works. You can lead me to the next person in the chain of command. That’s how it works, I know it.”

They were approaching a lift. The doors of this were gold.

“That’s not how it works,” said Mr Tinto. “Well, I suppose it is in theory, but not in reality, no.”

“I have no time to debate issues with you,” said Jack, flashing the cleaver’s blade before Mr Tinto’s frightened eyes. “I am a desperate man.”

“Well, clearly so, yes. But you are making a mistake.”

“They always say that,” said Jack.

“Who do?” asked the man in beige as Jack hauled him bodily onwards.

“Baddies,” said Jack. “It’s a threatening thing to say, ‘You are making a big mistake.’”

“I don’t mean it to be threatening,” the beige man protested. “I’m just telling you the truth – you
are
making a big mistake.”

“We’ll see,” said Jack. “Get a move on, please.”

And on they went and they reached the lift. And at the lift Dorothy caught up with them.

“Is everything all right?” Jack asked her.

“Yes, it is
now
,” she replied.

“I don’t like the sound of that.” And Jack reached out and pressed the “up” button. “What happened? You didn’t kill anyone, did you?”

“No, I just knocked them on the head.”

“All of them?”

“No, just the one – the chef who’d stripped down to his vest and bare feet and hidden himself in the air-conditioning system.”

Jack shook his head. “Do chefs often do that?” he asked.

“They do here in Hollywood,” said Dorothy. “Going up.”

And the lift doors opened.

“Everyone inside,” said Jack.

“Do I really have to?” asked Mr Tinto.

“Yes,” said Jack. “You do.”

“But you don’t need two hostages. Why not just take Amelie here?”

All were now inside the lift and the lift doors closed upon them. Jack pressed the topmost button. The lift began to rise.

“What did you say?” asked Amelie.

“I’m only saying,” said Mr Tinto, “that in hostage situations such as this, I’m the one most likely to get shot. They rarely shoot the pretty girl – she’ll probably end up snogging the hostage-taker.”

“Snogging?” said Amelie.

“Well, shagging,” said Mr Tinto.

“What?” said Amelie, and she smacked Mr Tinto right in the face.

“Go girl,” said Dorothy.

“Not in the face,” cried Mr Tinto. And he burst into tears.

“She didn’t hit you that hard,” said Jack. “Don’t be such a baby.”

“I’m not paid to get smacked,” said Mr Tinto. “Taken hostage, yes, that was in my contract. But not smacked. I always demand a stunt double if there’s any smacking involved. Or being thrown through windows.”

Jack rolled his eyes.

“Well, I’ve not been paid for any shagging,” said Amelie. “That’s work for a body double. I don’t do
that
kind of work.”

“Oh, please,” said Mr Tinto. “It’s common knowledge that you’ve done stag films.”

“I’ve done no such thing. And we all know how
you
get work. Whose casting couch did you have to bend over to –”

“Would you please stop now,” said Jack. “I’m in charge here. I have the cleaver.”

“Yes,” said Mr Tinto, “and I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that. That is a
real
cleaver – you could have injured me with that. If I wasn’t a professional I would have stopped you dead on the set and demanded a prop.”

“A
what
?” said Jack.

“A soft cleaver. A rubber one.”

“This is a real cleaver,” said Jack.

“Yes, I know, and you can stop threatening me with it now – we’re no longer on camera.”

“We might be,” said Amelie. “The director never called ‘cut’.”

Jack looked towards Dorothy. “Is it just me,” he asked, “or is something not altogether right with these two hostages?”

“Oh, come off it, luvvie,” said Mr Tinto. “Just because you’re all Stanislavski method acting to disguise the fact that you can’t remember your lines –”

“What?” went Jack.

“It’s true,” said Amelie. “You were far too rough with Sydney.”

“Thank you, Marilyn.”

“Sydney?” went Jack. “Marilyn?”

“Oh please, sir,” said Sydney. “As if you didn’t recognise us.”

The lift went clunk and stopped. They had reached their destination.

“Now just
stop
!” shouted Jack. “What is all this about? What are you saying? What is all this Marilyn and Sydney business?”

“You have to be jesting and your jest is in very poor taste,” said Sydney. “Well, we’re here now. Back in character everyone. And cue. Press the open-door button, please.”

Jack shook his head and pressed the “open” button.

And the lift doors opened.

And Jack beheld.

And Dorothy also beheld. And so did Sydney and so did Marilyn.

And Sydney said, “Typical, that.”

“Typical?” said Jack, and he stared. There was nothing. Nothing at all. The lift was at the top of its shaft, but there was no floor for them to step out onto. Just a big empty nothing. Four interior walls of the building. And these, it appeared, constructed from canvas and timber. Far, far below them there was to be seen the above parts of a ceiling below – the ceiling of the lecture room they had so recently left. And the above parts of another ceiling that followed the corridor that they had followed to enter the lift they now stood in. And stood in somewhat fearfully. Clinging onto one another now, for fear of falling the considerable distance to their doom below.

“Utterly typical,” said Sydney, pressing himself back from the open lift doors and flattening himself against the opposite wall.

Jack did more slack-jawed starings. Then he turned, shook Marilyn away from his arm and squared up large before Sydney. “Speak to me,” Jack demanded. “Explain what is going on here.”

“The set’s not finished,” said Sydney. “Utterly typical. Labour disputes with the union, I expect. I was on
Casablanca
, back in forty-two with Bogart, half the sets weren’t finished. We had to double up the Blue Parrot Café with the airport lounge, although I don’t think anyone noticed. They were too entranced by my acting.”