The Toyminator (20 page)

Now, it’s never easy to escape from a police station. Especially during the hours of daylight. And especially when naked.

And Sam set off the alarm, which had police all running about. And Sam opened his office door and shouted at the feisty young policewoman and the troubled young detective who was smoking a fag and chatting her up. And all the other policemen and -women in the big outer office. And he berated them and ordered them to reapprehend the naked escapee
at once
, or heads would roll and future prospects be endangered. And police folk hurried thither and thus, but Jack was not to be found.

Jack eased his naked self along the air-conditioning duct. The one he’d climbed into from the police chiefs desk, through its little hatch, which he had thoughtfully closed behind him. He was uncertain exactly which way he should be easing his naked self, but as far away from the office as possible seemed the right way to go.

“I don’t bear the man a grudge,” said Jack to himself as he did further uncomfortable easings along. “And I do think his wife treated him unfairly. But even though I am a youth, in the early bloom of my years, I am drawn to the conclusion that life is
not
fair and the sooner one realises this and acts accordingly, the less one will find oneself all stressed out in later years.

“I think that I will remain single and use women purely for … OUCH!” and Jack snagged a certain dangling part upon a bolted nut.

And as chance, or coincidence, or fate, or something more, or less, would have it, at that
very
moment, and many miles south of Jack, and many floors beneath the desert sand, Eddie Bear was having trouble with a nut.

“Nuts?” said Eddie, taking up a nut between his paws and peering at it distastefully. “Nuts? Nuts? That is what you’re offering me to eat?”

The other Jack grinned into Eddie’s cage. “That’s what bears eat in the wild, isn’t it? Nuts and berries.”

“I wouldn’t know,” said Eddie. “I never associate with such unsophisticated company. I’d like a fillet steak, medium rare, sauted potatoes –”

The other Jack kicked at Eddie’s cage. “Eat up your nuts,” he said, “like a good little bear. You’re going to need all your strength.”

Eddie’s stomach grumbled. And Eddie’s stomach ached. Eddie didn’t feel at all like himself. He wasn’t feeling altogether the full shilling, was Eddie Bear. “What do you want from me?” he asked. “Why have you brought me here?”

“You have to pay for your crimes,” said the other Jack.

“I’m no criminal,” said Eddie.

“Oh yes you are. You and your companion shot down one of our spaceships. Murdered the crew –”

“Self-defence,” said Eddie. “Your accusations won’t hold up in court.”

“Would you care to rephrase that?”

“No court involved, then?” said Eddie.

“No court,” said the other Jack. “No court and no hope for you.”

“What are you?” asked Eddie. “What are you, really?”

“I’m Jack,” said the other Jack. “I’m the Jack this side of The Second Big O. I’m the Jack in this world.”

“An identical Jack?” said Eddie. “I don’t think so.”

“Oh, we’re all here, human counterparts, reflections of your world – or rather your world is a reflection of ours. We’re all here, even you.”

“The murdering me,” said Eddie, peeping through the bars of his cage. “The me who murdered the monkeys and the band and the orchestra?”

“And all the rest, soon. The contents of your world will be sucked into ours. For our use.”

“But for why?” asked Eddie Bear. “To be produced as giveaways for promoting the sale of fried chicken? That’s as mad as.”

“You eat up your nuts,” said the other Jack. “I’ll be back in a little while. Don’t make me have to ram them down your throat.”

And with that the other Jack turned to take his leave.

“Oh, Jack,” said Eddie.

The other Jack turned.

“When my Jack gets here, as he will, he’ll really kick your ass.”

And in his air-conditioning duct, Jack snagged his ass on a pointy something. And whispered, “Ouch!” once again.

Jack could hear lots of sounds beneath him. The sounds of the alarm and the sounds of shouting and of running feet. And if his hearing had been a tad more acute he would have been able to discern the sound of gun cabinets being opened and pump-action shotguns being taken from these cabinets and loaded up with high-velocity cartridges. But there is only so much that you can hear from inside an air-conditioning duct.

Jack added to the easings along he had formerly done with more of the same, but more carefully. Where
exactly
was he now?

Light shone up through a grille ahead. Jack hastened with care towards it.

“Hm,” went Jack, peering down. “Corridor, and by the look of it, deserted. Now the question is, how might I open this grille from the inside and lower myself carefully to the floor beneath?”

Good question.

Jack put his ear to the grille. Alarm, certainly … Ah, no, alarm switched off. Running feet? Shouting? Not in
this
corridor. Jack took a deep breath, then took to beating the grille. And then beating some more. Then rattling everything around. Then beating some more.

And then screaming, as quietly as he could, as the length of ducting containing himself detached itself from its fellow members and fell heavily the distance between the ceiling to which it had been attached and the floor beneath.

Which was uncarpeted.

Exactly how long Jack was unconscious, he had no way of telling. The police had confiscated Jack’s watch. And it no longer worked anyway. Jack awoke in some confusion, crawled from his fallen length of aluminium ducting, climbed to his feet and rubbed at the bruised parts, which comprised the majority of his body. Wondered anew
exactly
where he was.

A sign on the wall spelled out the words:

POLICE CELLS: AUTHORISED ACCESS ONLY.

“I think
that’s
fair,” said Jack. “I deserve a little luck.”

And Jack made his way onwards upon naked feet.

And presently reached the cells.

Now, as we all know, and we
do
, police cells contain all kinds of individuals. And, curiously enough, all of them innocent.

It is a very odd one, that – that
all
police cells contain innocent, well, “victims”, for there is no other word. As do prisons. Prisons are full of folk who have never confessed to any crimes. In fact,
all
of them pleaded innocent at their trials. And even though the evidence piled against them might have appeared, on the face of it, compelling and condemning, nevertheless the “victims” of “circumstance” and “injustice” protested their innocence and were unjustly convicted.

Odd that, isn’t it?

Jack peered through another little grille, this one in the door of the first cell.

Here he espied, a-sitting upon a basic bunk, an overlarge fellow, naked to the waist, his chest and torso intricately decorated via the medium of tattoo.

“Wrong cell,” said Jack. Although perhaps too loudly. As his words caused the overlarge fellow to look up, observe Jack’s peering face and rise from his basic bunk.

Cell two presented Jack with a small well-dressed gentleman who rocked to and fro on his basic bunk, muttering the words, “God told me to do it,” over and over again.

“Definitely wrong,” said Jack.

And this fellow looked up also.

In the third cell Jack observed a number of Puerto Ricans. They sported bandannas and gang-affiliated patches. Jack recognised them to be the kitchen workforce he had employed the previous day.

“Hi, fellows,” called Jack.

The fellows looked up towards Jack.

And now Jack’s attention was drawn back to the first and second cells. Their occupants were beating at the doors, crying out for Jack to return, shouting things about being the daddy and knowing a bitch when they saw one.

“Shush!” Jack shushed them.

But the cell-three Puerto Ricans now joined in the crying aloud.

“Damn,” went Jack. And Jack pressed on.

And finally found Dorothy.

“Dorothy,” called Jack. And the beautiful girl looked up from her basic bunk.

“Jack,” she said, and she hastened to the door to observe him through the grille. “You are naked,” she continued.

“Well, yes,” said Jack. “But –”

“Nothing,” said Dorothy. “This is California. Please would you open my cell?”

“I certainly will.” And Jack spat out the
other
paperclip. The one he had kept in his mouth to perform this very function. Because he
did
think ahead, did Jack. Because he
was
a private detective.

And with this paperclip and to the growing cacophony of shouting victims of circumstance, Jack picked the lock on Dorothy’s cell door and freed her from incarceration.

Good old Jack.

“Here,” said Dorothy, lifting her skirt and dropping her panties. “Put these on, it will help.”

“Help?” Jack looked hard at the panties. Now in the palm of his hand.

“Unless you really want to run completely naked through the streets of LA.”

“But they’re your …” Jack shook his head and put on the panties.

“It’s an interesting look,” said Dorothy, “and not one that would normally ring my bell, as it were, however –”

“Time to run,” said Jack.

And Jack was right in this. Because a door at the far end of the corridor, back beyond his fallen length of ducting, was now opening and heavily armed policemen and -women were making their urgent entrance.

“That way, I think,” said Dorothy, pointing towards a fire exit. “That way at the hurry-up.”

And that was the way Jack took.

What they say about doors is well known.

As one door closes, another one opens, and all that kind of caper.

The door that Jack had opened he now closed behind himself and Dorothy and he dragged a dustbin in front of it and caught a little brreath. And then he viewed his surroundings and said, “This does not look at all hopeful.”

Dorothy shook her flame-haired head. “At least the sun is shining,” she said, with rather more cheerfulness than their present situation merited. “You’ll get a bit more of a tan – it will suit you.”

“A bit more of a tan?” Jack put his back to the dustbin, which was now being rattled about by policemen and -women belabouring the door. “We’re in the police car park. This is not a good place to be.”

Dorothy glanced all around and about. There were many police cars, all those wonderful black and white jobbies with the big lights that flash on the top, All were parked and all were empty.

All but for the one a-driving in.

Two officers sat in this one, big officers both, one at the wheel and one in the passenger seat. They were just coming off shift, were these two officers. Officer Billy-Bob was at the wheel and beside him sat his brother officer, Officer Joe-Bob, brother of the other Joe-Bob, the one Jack had thrown out of the diner’s kitchen the day before. (Small world.) They had had an unsuccessful day together in the big city fighting crime and were looking forward to clocking off and taking themselves away to a Golden Chicken Diner for some burgers.

These two officers peered through their windscreen at the young chap in the ladies’ panties who was fighting with a trashcan and the flame-haired young woman, who appeared now to be waving frantically in their direction.

Officer Billy-Bob drew up the black-and-white, wound down the window and offered a gap-toothed grin to the flame-haired young woman. “Any trouble, ma’am?” he enquired in a broad Arkansas accent.

“This maniac attacked me,” screamed Dorothy. “He’s taken my panties.”

“Taken your panties, ma’am?” Officer Billy-Bob took off his cap and gave his head a scratch. “That’s a four-sixteen.”

Officer Joe-Bob took off
his
hat. “That’s a four-twenty-three,” he said.

Jack continued his fight with the dustbin. “Run,” he told Dorothy.

“Stay,” said Dorothy to Jack. “I’ll take care of this.”

“Take care of it? I’m not a maniac. What are you doing?”

Officer Billy-Bob climbed from the car. Officer Joe-Bob did likewise.

“Four-sixteen,” said Officer Billy-Bob. “Cross-dressing in a car park.”

“A four-sixteen ain’t that,” said Officer Joe-Bob. “A four-sixteen is a Chinaman in a liquor store stealing liquorice with intent.”

“Intent to do what?” asked Officer Billy-Bob.

“Intent s’nuff,” said Officer Joe-Bob.

“Intense snuff? What you talkin’ about?”

“I said, intent is enough. Like a four-thirty-eight, being tall with intent.”

“Being tall? What kind of gibberish you talkin’, boy?”

“Excuse me, officers,” said Dorothy, “but I’d really appreciate it if you’d arrest this maniac.”

“All in good time, ma’am,” said Officer Billy-Bob. “Law takes due process. If we run him in on a four-fifteen and it turns out to be a three-six-nine –”

“A three-six-nine is a goose drinking wine in a Presbyterian chapel,” said Officer Joe-Bob. “You’re thinking of a six-sixty-six.”

“Goddamnit, Joe-Bob,” said Officer Billy-Bob, “six-sixty-six is the number of the Goddamn Beast of Revelation.”

“True enough, but you’re thinking of it, you’re always thinking of it.”

“True enough. But then I’m also always thinking of a thirty-six-twenty-two-thirty-six.”

“That’s Marilyn Monroe.”

And both officers sighed.

And then Dorothy hit both officers. In rapid succession. Although there was some degree of that slow-motion spinning around in mid-air. As there always should be on such occasions.

Officer Billy-Bob hit the Tarmac.

Officer Joe-Bob joined him.

“To the car,” cried Dorothy.

And Jack ran to the car.

Dorothy jumped into the driving seat. Jack fell in beside her.

“I should drive,” said Jack. “Climb into the back.”

“
I
will drive,” said Dorothy. And down went her foot. And Jack went into the back. Rather hard.

“Ow,” and, “Ouch,” went Jack, in the back. And, “Arrgh!” as the car went over a speed bump, which is sometimes known as a sleeping policeman. And, “Oh!” went he as his head struck the roof. Then, “Wah!” as Dorothy took a right and Jack fell onto the floor.

And now all manner of officers burst into the car park. The feisty female one with the unorthodox approach to case-solving. And the troubled young detective, with whom at times the very letter of the law was something of a grey area. A Chinese officer called Wong, who was in LA on a special attachment from Hong Kong and who spoke with a cod-Chinese accent but was great at martial arts. And there was a fat officer who got puffed easily if the chase was on foot. A gay officer, whose day was yet to dawn. And an angry, sweating black police chief by the name of Samuel J. Maggott.

“After them!” bawled Sam. “Taking and driving away a squad car. Add that to the charge sheet.”

“And two officers down,” said the feisty young woman.

“And add that, too. Someone get me a car.”

“Come in mine, Chief,” said the troubled young detective. And as various officers leapt into various black-and-whites, the troubled young detective leapt into an open-topped red Ford Mustang (which he called Sally). It was an unorthodox kind of vehicle for police work, but the troubled young detective did have a reputation for getting the job done in it.

“No Goddamn way!” bawled Samuel J. Maggott.

“Then come in mine,” cried the feisty young female officer, leaping into an open-topped AC Cobra. Lime green, with a number twenty-three on the side.
[31]

Samuel J. Maggott weighed up the pros and cons. The feisty young female officer did have a very short skirt. And he
was
going through a very messy divorce. “I’ll take my own Goddamn car,” declared Sam.

And he would have, too, had he not been run down by a very short-sighted officer with thick pebblelensed glasses, who was rather quick off the mark but not at all good at backing up.

“Did I just run over a sleeping policeman?” he asked.

And out into the streets of LA they went.

Dorothy with her foot down hard and Jack bouncing around in the back. The troubled young man in his Ford Mustang, Sally. The feisty young woman in the Cobra. And black-and-white after black-and-white and finally Sam Maggott, who was at last in a squad car.

Now it could be argued that the streets of San Francisco are far better than the streets of LA when it comes to a car chase. They have all those hills and the tramcars that get in the way. And the sea views are nice, too. And in the 1960s, Owlsley
would
produce the finest LSD that any generation had ever experienced, which although having nothing particularly to do with car chases (although you can have them on acid without actually leaving your armchair) ought to be taken into consideration when it comes to the matter of deciding whether to shoot the car chase for your movie in LA or San Francisco.

Although it could well be argued, in fact it is difficult to argue against, that the best car chase ever filmed was filmed in Paris.
[32]

But this
was
Los Angeles and this was where
this
car chase was occurring. Now!

And at this point. Before things get very hairy. It might also be worth mentioning that anyone who has never visited LA knows what the headquarters of the Los Angeles Police Department really looks like. It
doesn’t
look like that big building with the great columns and everything that you see in virtually every crime movie that’s set in LA. That building is, believe it or not, the General Post Office.

The genuine headquarters of the Los Angeles Police Department is housed in an ivory palace that looks like the Taj Mahal, but with feathered wings and pink bubbles and …
[33]

Dorothy swung a hard right.

“Speak to me, people, speak to me now,” demanded Sam from his squad car, which was being driven along at some speed by another officer. “Speak to me, what’s happening?”

“Escaped prisoners moving west on Wilshire Boulevard,” came a voice to Sam, the voice of the feisty young female officer. “Am in pursuit. Hey, get back there.”

“Leave this to me,” came the voice of the troubled young detective.

Sam heard the sounds of a Mustang called Sally striking an AC Cobra.

Dorothy put her foot down and glanced into the rear-view mirror. “They seem to be trying to drive each other off the road,” she told Jack, who had struggled up beside her. “This is Koreatown, by the way.”

“Very nice,” said Jack. “Look out!”

A police car travelling south on South Western Avenue crossed their path. Dorothy struck its rear end and sent it spinning around. The feisty young female officer crashed into this car, which put her out of the chase rather too quickly for her liking. The troubled young detective, however, kept on coming and behind him Officer Wong, the fat officer, the gay officer whose day was yet to dawn, but sadly not the short-sighted officer, who was now travelling south on South Broadway and heading for the beach.

Samuel Maggott was close upon the rear of the gay officer, though. Which was something that he would have to discuss with his therapist at a later date.

Dorothy took another turn to the right, north onto Beverly Boulevard.

And what a nice neighbourhood that is.

Although.

A chap in a uniform jumped out in front of the speeding automobile, hand raised, face set in an expression of determination. Dorothy tried to swerve around him, but he jumped once more into her path. Dorothy slewed to a stop. The chap in the uniform with the determined expression on his face came around to the side of the car.

“Sorry, ma’am,” he said, “but this is Beverly Hills. We don’t allow car chases here, nor tourist buses. You’ll have to go back the way you just came.”

Dorothy glanced once more into the rear-view mirror. The troubled young detective and all the other squad cars had halted at the Wilshire/Beverly intersection. They knew the rules. Some things were just
not
done.

“Sorry,” said Dorothy, backing up the car.

“What?” went Jack. Astounded.

“It’s an American thing,” Dorothy explained.

“Speak to me, people. Oh, Goddamn!” Sam Maggott’s car slammed into the rear end of the gay officer’s.

And then Sam said, “Goddamn,” once again as Dorothy shot past him, returning the way she had come. “Will somebody shoot that woman?” cried Sam, and he drew out his gun and did it himself.

“Duck to the right,” cried Dorothy.

And Jack ducked to the right.

Bullets sang in through one side window and exited through the other.

“Duck to the right?” said Jack to himself. “That’s what Wallah said to me this morning. ‘Don’t forget to duck to the right.’” And Jack felt sad once more. And somewhat scared, of course.

Police cars were swinging around in further pursuit. Officers in passenger seats, who had mostly non-speaking parts and so needed no particular characterisation, were sliding cartridges into pump-action shotguns and looking forward to firing these.

“This is Chinatown,” said Dorothy to Jack as she took a left to head north on the 110.

Officer Wong overtook Sam Maggot’s car. “This job for me,” he said in his cod-Chinese accent. “This call for much dangerous stunt work performed by me to much applause.” And he climbed out of the window of his speeding car and up onto its roof.

“What is that damn Chinee up to?” Sam asked his driver.

His driver just shrugged, for his was a non-speaking role.

“Whoa! Get down, Jack,” shouted Dorothy as Officer Wong’s car drew level and Officer Wong leapt from the roof of his car and banged down onto theirs.

“That was impressive,” said Jack, “although somewhat above and beyond the call of duty, I would have thought.”

“They’ll give him a medal,” said Dorothy, slamming on the brakes.

Officer Wong flew forward, rolled over the bonnet and fell into the road. Dorothy drove carefully around him. “And a neck brace, too,” she said.

Other police cars were now joining the chase. They do have a lot of police cars in LA. Mostly because during every police chase, they lose so many as they smash into one another and roll over and over into storefronts.

Dorothy swerved. Two police cars smashed into one another. One of them rolled over and over into a storefront.

“South Pasadena,” said Dorothy. “Look – there’s Eddie Park.”
[34]

Eddie Park made Jack feel even sadder.

The big fat officer opened fire.

“Duck,” shouted Dorothy as shotgun shells blew out the rear window, causing Jack much distress and considerable ducking.

There was of course much to be enjoyed in all the excitement, in the screaming of tyres upon asphalt and pedestrians leaping out of the way and the motor cars of innocent motorists slamming into one another. And why shouldn’t there be, eh? That’s what car chases are all about. And given their longevity, they probably
do
have the edge on explosions. Even really big ones.

“Ouch!” went Dorothy as the Mustang called Sally, being driven by the troubled young detective, shunted
her
rear end.

“Oi!” shouted Jack. “That’s
my
girlfriend’s rear end you’re shunting.”

And then Jack sort of vanished into the back of the car. Another impact crumpled up some of the boot, causing the rear seat to lift and Jack to roll into the boot.

Dorothy slammed on the brakes once more and the troubled young detective’s Mustang Sally struck her rear end once more, then travelled onwards, travelled upwards, and …

In slow motion (praise the Lord).

Sailed forward.

And, as they had now reached a place known as the Santa Fe Dam Recreational Area, it sailed over the dam and down and down and down.