The Toyminator (19 page)

And Jack hit Sydney. Right in the face.

And Sydney broke down in tears.

“You beast,” howled Marilyn. “How unprofessional. How dare you hit a Hollywood legend like that. He came out of retirement to play this part – you have no right to treat him in such a way.”

Jack turned upon her. “You speak to me,” he said, “or I’ll throw you out of the lift and you can make your own way downstairs.”

“No, stop, please.”

“Then
speak
.”

And Marilyn spoke. “We are actors,” she said. “Surely you recognise us. This is Mister Sydney Greenstreet and I am Marilyn Monroe.”

“Marilyn Monroe?” asked Jack. “But you can’t be her. I saw her effigy at the wax museum, although –”

“It
is
her,” said Dorothy. “But I didn’t recognise you – how come?”

“Because when I play a role, I
am
that person.”

Jack looked
most
unconvinced.
[30]

“It is her,” said Dorothy. “It really is. Could I have your autograph, Miss Monroe? I’m your greatest fan.”

“Now stop all this,” said Jack. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Of course it makes sense, man,” said Sydney. “What is the matter with you? This isn’t a real building. It’s a set. It’s part of a movie. But why am I telling you this? You’re an actor. Although not a very good one, I might add. What have you been in before? Have I seen any of your work?”

“Actors?” went Jack. “Set?” went Jack. “What does this mean?” went Jack.

“It could mean,” said Dorothy, “that we have fallen into a very large and elaborate trap.”

“No,” said Jack. And Jack shook his head. “That’s absurd. No one would go to all this trouble, set all this up, this building, the big foyer downstairs, all of this, simply to trap us.”

“Giving yourself airs and graces,” said Sydney, flinching as he said it. “Who would want to trap
you
?”

Jack shook his head. “But why?” he asked. “Why all this? What is it for?”

“You know what it’s for,” said Sydney. “You read your contract, or your agent did. You signed the confidentiality clause.”

Jack was about to say “What?” once more, but Dorothy, however, stopped him. “Jack’s from Arkansas,” she said. “I’m sure you recognised his hokey accent.”

Jack said, “What?” to this.

“Recognised it at once,” said Sydney. “I can do almost any accent. But then I was classically trained. But then I’m from England, of course.”

“Well,” said Dorothy, “Jack really
is
a method actor, trained at the New School’s Dramatic Workshop with Brando, where he studied with Stella Adler and learned the revolutionary techniques of the Stanislavski System.”

“Overrated,” said Sydney. “That Brando will never amount to anything.”

“What is this toot?” Jack asked. “Where is this leading?”

“Just leave this to me,” said Dorothy to Jack. And to Mr Greenstreet she said, “You see, Jack can’t read or write.
I’m
his agent.”

Jack shook his head. He had given up on the “What?s”.

“A sort of actor-manager,” said Sydney. “Like Henry Irving.”

“Henry Irving managed a theatre,” said Marilyn, knowledgeably. “He wasn’t an agent.”

“I do it all,” said Dorothy. “And all my own stunts.”

“Might we close the lift doors?” asked Sydney. “I have vertigo. Did a rooftop scene in the nineteen forty-nine remake of
Death is a Dame in a Doggy Bag
. A Lazlo Woodbine thriller. Brian Donlevy played Laz in that one and the final rooftop confrontation scene was shot on a real rooftop.
Cinema-verite
black and white. I nearly fell to my –”

Jack raised his hand.

Sydney said no more.

Dorothy said, “I signed the confidentiality clause on behalf of Jack, but I didn’t tell him about it. Sydney, please put Jack in the picture. We wouldn’t want him blurting anything out – it would not help to advance any of our careers.”

“Oh, it’s quite simple,” said Sydney, sighing as he said it. “Your agent, Dorothy here, signed the confidentiality clause for you, which states that we actors, employed by Golden Chicken Productions, must not discuss the script or contents of the movie prior to its release. There’s millions of dollars riding on this, what with the merchandising already being in place and everything. It’s a revolutionary concept, the toys being given away free and no one knowing that the movie, with big Hollywood stars playing the parts of the toys, is already in production.”

“I’m very confused,” said Jack.

“No you’re
not
,” said Dorothy. “Think about it.”

Jack thought and thought hard. “I’m
still
confused,” he said. “If this is a movie, Tinto is a barman,
not
a –”

“Motivational speaker,” said Sydney. “I know, I went up for the part of Tinto but I didn’t get it. I’m only calling myself Mr Tinto because the ‘Motivational Speaker’ doesn’t even have a name. Do you know who got the Tinto part in the end?”

Jack shook his head. Strangely he had no idea at all.

“Gene Kelly,” said Sydney. “Tinto the dancing barman, I ask you.”

“So let me just get this straight,” said Dorothy, “for Jack’s benefit, because he is from Arkansas. You two were hired for a single day’s work on this movie, which is a Golden Chicken Production, a live-action movie based upon the toys that are presently being given away free in the Golden Chicken Diners.”

“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.

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.

And still there was
this
fellow.

This fellow sat, with his hands in his lap, naked in the visitors’ chair.

Sam shook his head, which was thinning on top, and said a single word. “Coffee?”

The naked fellow looked up at Sam. “Did you say ‘coffee’?” he asked.

“I’m asking you, do you want coffee?”

“I’d rather have a pair of underpants.”

“Don’t be foolish, boy,” said Sam. “You cannot drink underpants. Unless, of course …” And Sam’s mind returned to something he’d done recently at a club on the East Side, which he really shouldn’t have been at, and wouldn’t have been at if he hadn’t been so depressed about his dog getting stolen and everything.

“Could I have my clothes back, please?” asked the naked fellow. He was a young naked fellow, rangy and tanned, spare of frame and wiry of limb.

“Are you cold?” asked Sam.

“No,” said the fellow, “but it’s pretty humiliating sitting here naked.”

“You’ve got nothing that I ain’t seen before, fella,” said Sam, almost instantly regretting that he had. What
was
it his therapist kept telling him?

“Well, if men’s genitalia are so commonplace to you,” said the fellow, “I can’t imagine what pleasure you will have viewing mine.”

“Pleasure don’t come into this,” said Sam.

“I do so agree,” said the fellow.

“But anyway, your clothes are with forensics. We’ll soon see what they have to tell us.”

The fellow, whose name was Jack, thought suddenly of Wallah. Suddenly and sadly too thought he.

“My clothes will have nothing to say to you,” said Jack.

“On the contrary.” Sam rose heavily from his chair to fetch coffee for himself. “They’ve told us much already.”

“They have?” Jack asked as he watched the large black police chief worry at the coffee machine.

“Oh yes.” And Sam kicked the coffee machine. “A great deal.” And Sam shook the coffee machine. “A very great deal, in fact.” And Sam stooped heavily and peered into the little hatchway where one (such as he) who had pressed all the correct buttons above might reasonably expect to see a plastic cup full of coffee.

No such cup was to be found.

Sam peered deeper into the little hatch. “A great deal of Aaaaagh!”

“A great deal of
what
?” asked Jack.

But Sam didn’t hear him. Sam was wildly mopping boiling water from his face with his oversized red gingham handkerchief.

“Goddamn useless machine!” And Sam moved swiftly for a heavy man and dealt the machine many heavy blows.

The glass partition door opened and the attractive face of a feisty young policewoman smiled through the opening. “Chief,” said she, “I’ve just cracked the case that’s had you baffled for months. I –”

“Get
out
!” shouted Sam, returning without coffee to his desk.

“Stressful job, is it?” Jack asked. “The American Dream not working out?”

Sam, now once more in his chair, leaned forward over his desk. Two little flags fell onto the floor along with an overfull ashtray. “Now just listen here, fella,” said Sam, “don’t go giving me no lip. I don’t like a wise guy, understand me?”

“Yes,” said Jack. “About my clothes.”

“Ah yes, your clothes.” And Sam leaned back and Sam took up a folder. And having opened same, examined the contents therein. “Fingerprints not on file,” said Sam. “No ID. No record, it seems, that you even exist.”

“I’m from England,” said Jack, “and I’m a friend of the Queen.”

“Is that so?” Sam nodded. “And your name is Jack, no surname. Just Jack.”

“Just Jack,” said Jack.

“As in Jack the Ripper?” asked Sam. “English psycho, said to be in league with the royal household?”

“I think we’re going off on a bit of a tangent,” said Jack, uncomfortably shifting from one bottom cheek to the other. “Could I please have my clothes back, please?”

“No,” said Sam. “Those clothes of yours could well be my passport out of here.”

“I’m certain that if I listen long enough,” said Jack, “I will be able to learn whatever language it is that you are speaking. But I do not have time. I must be off at once.”

“You’re going nowhere, fella. Nowhere at all.”

“But I’ve done nothing. I’m innocent.”

“Innocent?” Sam laughed and loudly, too. And then he coughed, because laughing too much always brought on a touch of the malaria he’d contracted whilst fighting U-boats in the jungles of South-East Asia. “Cough, cough, cough,” went Sam.

“If you’ll unlock these cuffs,” said Jack, “I’ll gladly pat your back.”

“I’m fine.” Sam reached into a desk drawer, drew from it the bottle of bourbon that he’d promised his specialist he’d poured away down the sink, uncorked it and poured away much of its contents down his throat. “I’m fine. Goddamnit.”

“Can I go,
please
?” Jack asked.

“No, fella, you cannot. You and your girlfriend held a crowd of managers and chefs at gunpoint, beat a chef called Bruce to within an inch of his life –”

“We never did,” said Jack.

“Took two hostages. Famous movie stars – Sydney Greenstreet and Marilyn Monroe.”

“Well …” said Jack.

“Beat poor Sydney nearly to dea –”

“Hold on.”

“Sexually harassed Marilyn –”

“I did
what
?”

“And we caught you with your chopper in your hand.”

“Cleaver, please,” said Jack. “Let’s not sink to that level.”

“Resisting arrest, et cetera, et cetera.” Sam closed the file. “You’re looking at twenty to life, if not the chair.”

“The chair?” said Jack, looking down at the chair. “
This
chair?”

“The electric chair, Old Sparky.” Sam mimed electricity buzzing through his own head and then death. And well he mimed it, too, considering that he’d no formal training in mime. Although there had been
that
incident that the department had hushed up, regarding that female mime artist, the raspberry jelly and the bicycle pump.
That
could always blow up in his face if he sought further advancement.

“I don’t like the sound of that,” said Jack.

“You won’t like the feel, either, or the smell as your brains boil in your head.”

“Listen,” said Jack, “you don’t understand. I’ve been trying to explain.”

“Explain to me about the clothes,” said Sam.

“Well,” said Jack, “it’s pretty basic stuff, really. The shirt is worn much in the way that you wear yours, although mine doesn’t have those large sweat stains under the arms. The trousers, well, that’s pretty basic also – you put your left leg in the left-leg hole and –”

Sam brought his fists down hard on his desk. Inkwells rattled, things fell to the floor. Jack was showered with paperclips. Jack ceased talking. And the glass partition door opened once again.

A young male detective stuck his head through the opening; he had a cigarette in his mouth. “Any trouble, Chief?” he asked. “Only I’ve just solved that other case that has had you baffled for months. I –”

“Get out!” bawled Sam. The young detective removed himself, slamming the door behind him.

“Now listen, fella, and listen good,” Sam said unto Jack. “The clothes, your clothes, the ones with forensics – I have a preliminary report here. Let’s deal with the labels first.”

“The labels?” And Jack shook his head.

“The Toy City Suit Company, Fifteen Dumpty Plaza. Explain that if you will.”

“It’s the shop where the trenchcoat came from. It’s not my trenchcoat.”

“So you stole it.”

“No, it belongs to someone who was murdered.”

“You took it from their corpse. Do you wish to make a confession?”

“I’d like to see a solicitor,” said Jack. “I believe I am entitled to one.”

“Ah, yes,” said Sam. “As I recall, your girlfriend shouted that at you when we had to have her carried down to the cells after she injured several of my officers.”

“I warned you not to try to cuff her,” said Jack. “She knows Dimac.”

“That I know,” said Sam, sipping further bourbon. “We located the official licence for her hands and feet. Registered here! But no matter. There is
no
Toy City Suit Company. No Dumpty Plaza.”

“It’s in England,” said Jack.

“Which part?” asked Sam.

“The whole shop,” said Jack.

Sam didn’t smile. But then who would?

“Which part of England is the shop in?”

Jack thought hard. “The south part?” he suggested.

“The south part,” said Sam. And he said it thoughtfully.

“Next door to the Queen’s palace,” said Jack.

“Right,” said Sam, and he plucked at his shirt collar. And, leaning back, he thumped at the air conditioner. Further strange noises issued from this and then it fell silent. Sam took to mopping his brow once more. “There is no Dumpty Plaza in England,” said Sam. “There is no Dumpty Plaza anywhere. And as for the fabric of this trenchcoat, there appears to be no such fabric.”

“Could I see a solicitor
now
?” Jack asked.

“Soon,” said Sam. “When you have answered my questions to
my
satisfaction.”

“I don’t think that’s how it’s supposed to work,” said Jack.

“Tell me again about this bear,” said Sam. “This …” and he consulted the notes he had taken down (before his Biro ran out), “this Eddie.”

“A valuable antique toy bear,” said Jack, as this was his present stratagem. “Stolen from my client by an employee of the Golden Chicken Corporation. I tracked the bear to the headquarters of this corporation. I was interviewing two suspects.”

Sam did further big deep sighings. “Ah, yes,” he said. “Because you are a private eye, sent here from England to recover –”

“The Queen’s teddy bear,” said Jack. “Like I told you.”

“And the Golden Chicken Corporation stole the Queen’s teddy bear?”

Jack made a certain face. It wasn’t perhaps the
best
stratagem that he’d ever come up with, but he
was
committed to it now. “Which is why I am here, undercover,” said Jack. “With no identification.”

Sam did further shakings of the head. And further noddings, too. “I wish,” said he, “I just wish that for
one
day,
one
single day, everything would just be easy.”

“Listen,” said Jack, “you’re not going to believe me no matter what I tell you. If I were to tell you everything and the whole truth and nothing but the truth, you wouldn’t believe me. You wouldn’t believe a word.”

“But you
won’t
tell me the truth.” Sam leaned back in his chair and all but fell from it. “Because no one tells the truth. No one. Take my wife, for instance …” Sam swivelled round in his chair, rose and gazed through the window. Outside, LA shimmered in the midday sunlight, high-finned autos cruised along the broad expanse of thoroughfare, palms waved drowsily, birds circled high in the clear blue sky.

“My wife,” said Sam. “I gave that woman everything. Treated her like the Queen of England, I did, me. She wanted dance classes, I got her dance classes. She wanted voice tuition, I got her voice tuition. She wanted singing lessons, I got her singing lessons. I paid for that woman to have plastic surgery, breast implants, nail extensions. And what does she do? Becomes a Goddamn movie star is what she does. Signs that contract and dumps yours truly. Is that fair? Is that just? Is that right? I ask you, fella, is that right?”

Sam turned to gauge Jack’s opinion on the fairness and rightness of all this.

But Jack was nowhere to be seen.

The handcuffs he had been wearing lay on Sam Maggott’s desk, their locks picked with a paperclip.