The Toyminator

20

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.

“Nasty,” said Dorothy. “But I’m sure he leapt from the car in time.”

They were now, and praise the Lord for this also, travelling along Route 66. They were, they really were. Not that they were running from St Louis down to Missouri, taking in Oklahoma City, which everybody knows is oh so pretty. They were in fact passing Horse Thief Canyon Park, La Verne, Cable Airport and now Rancho Cucamonga, where a young Don Van Vliet, who would later change his name to Captain Beefheart and become a legend in his lifetime, would as a teenager try to sell a vacuum cleaner to Aldous Huxley.[35]

It’s a really long straight road there, above San Bernardino. You can get up an unhealthy speed if you really put your foot down. Which was what the gay officer, whose day was yet to dawn, was doing. His police car overtook Sam’s, much to Sam’s disgust, because his police car had just overtaken his. The gay officer’s police car now drew level with Dorothy’s. The gay officer addressed Dorothy through his public-address system, which is located somewhere on police cars, although no one has ever been able to ascertain exactly where.

“Give yourselves up,” came his amplified voice through the special speaker in the radiator grille.[36] “There’s no need for all this kerfuffle. You don’t really want to behave in this fashion. It’s not your fault – you are a product of your upbringing, you are programmed to behave in this way. I have this self-help manual I could lend you –”

Dorothy swerved the car and drove the gay officer off the road. His car, once again in glorious slow motion, sailed from Route 66 and down onto the famous California Speedway, where numerous speeding motorbikes, with very nice leather-clad riders, the gay officer noted, before all things went black for him, came all a-mashing into his rear parts and everywhere else.

“Right,” said Sam. “I’m angry now.” And he leaned out of his window and fired his gun once more.

And there at last it was.

Because we have been expecting its arrival for some time now, if only subconsciously. But there it was at last, that great big truck, with its great big dangerous cargo on the back. It was being driven towards them at considerable speed by a trucker called Joe-Bob, who was, coincidentally –

And who was also chatting on the CB to a fellow trucker called Joe-Bob, who was, coincidentally –

“Well, that’s a big ten-four,” said driver Joe-Bob. “Heading for the City of Angels on Route Sixty-Six. Pulling turkey with a shorthaired rabbit. Doing a manky dance rattle on my blue suede shoes.”[37]

“Come on?” said the driver called Joe-Bob at the message-receiving end.

“I said … Oh, Goddamn!”

And, “Goddamn!” also went Police Chief Sam Maggott as Dorothy swerved around the on-rushing truck and Sam Maggott’s car struck it dead on.

Boom.

In slow motion.

Of course.

Some time later, Dorothy drew the raddled, bullet-pocked black-and-white to the side of the road, climbed from it and opened the boot.

Jack peered out. “Are we still alive?” he asked.

“We’re fine,” said Dorothy. “We’ve shaken them off.”

Jack climbed out in a wibbly-wobbly way. “How did you learn to drive like that?” he asked.

“My daddy won the Indianapolis Five Hundred,” said Dorothy. “Oh, look, there’s a police uniform in the trunk.”

“I know,” said Jack, dusting down his all-but-naked self. “I’ve been fighting with it for several miles. It smells really bad.”

“Well, you’d best put it on. Then you can drive for a bit. We don’t want to arouse suspicion.”

Jack’s jaw dropped. “Well, no,” said he. “We wouldn’t want to do that.”

And Dorothy smiled upon Jack and said, “Well, hurry up now, come on.”

Jack dressed himself in the uniform, and but for its acrid qualities it did have to be said that he cut a rather dashing and romantic figure. He settled down into what was left of the driving seat.

Dorothy sat beside him. “Mmm,” she said to Jack.

“Mmm?” Jack asked. “What means ‘Mmm’?”

“As in, ‘Mmm, you look cute.’”

“Cute?” said Jack. “A teddy bear looks cute.”

“Not your one,” said Dorothy.

And Jack once more thought of Eddie. Not that Eddie had slipped Jack’s mind, but what with all the excitement and everything …

Eddie Bear lacked for excitement. In his cage many floors beneath the Nevada desert in Area Fifty-Two, Eddie Bear was having a bit of a snooze. And then things suddenly became exciting for Eddie, or perhaps “alarming” was better the word.

Eddie awoke as hands were laid upon him. Rough were these hands, although not in texture. Rough as in violent and forceful.

“Ow!” went Eddie. “That’s as rude as. Get off me.”

But Eddie was hauled from his cage by the other Jack and flung to a concrete floor.

“There’s no need for that!”

And then the other Jack kicked him.

“Oh!” went Eddie, climbing to his paw pads. “You are so going to get yours when my Jack gets here.”

“No one is going to rescue you.” The other Jack took a big step forward. Eddie took several steps back. “Along the corridor, hurry now.”

Eddie turned and plodded up the corridor. It was one of those all-over-concrete kind of jobbies with bulkhead lights at regular intervals. The number twenty-three[38] was painted on the walls at similarly regular intervals. Eddie assumed, correctly, that this meant that he was on the twenty-third level beneath the ground.

“Where are you taking me?” Eddie asked.

“To meet your maker,” said the other Jack.

“My maker was Mister Anders Anders,” said Eddie, “the kindly, lovable white-haired old Toymaker.”

The other Jack laughed and his laugh all echoed around. “He’ll soon have his work cut out for him,” he said.

“And what does that mean?” Eddie asked.

“In twelve hours from now,” said the other Jack, “Toy City will be wiped from the map. If there is a map with it on. My employer will suck it dry of all life. Lay it to waste. Oh yes.”

“Why?” Eddie asked. “To what purpose?”

“Why?” asked the other Jack. “Because we can. And to what purpose? To further our own ends.”

“Now, I’m only guessing here,” said Eddie, turning and peering up at the other Jack, “but would these ‘own ends’ be of the world-domination persuasion?”

“You’ll know soon enough.” The other Jack nudged Eddie with his shoe. “Now get a move on. To the elevator.”

“Where am I?” asked Eddie. “Tell me where I am.”

“Where are we?” asked Jack. “Exactly.”

He was making good progress, considering he had never driven a car with an internal combustion engine before. He’d almost got the hang of the gears.

Dorothy flinched as Jack changed from second to fourth.

“Exactly?” she said. “We are travelling North on Interstate Fifteen. We just passed Las Vegas, which you would probably have liked, lots of lights and things like that. We are heading towards the Nevada desert.”

“And is that good?” Jack asked. “Only I’m not sure what we should be doing next. The plan was to follow the American Dream. Find the top man. Beat the truth out of him.”

“Perhaps you were over-hasty bringing that meat-cleaver into play. But look on the bright side – at least we got to meet Marilyn Monroe and Sydney Greenstreet. I wish I’d got their autographs. And the names of their agents and –”

“Stop now,” said Jack. “We’ll have to go back to LA. We need the movie script. I’m sure a lot will be explained when we read it.”

“LA is no longer an option,” said Dorothy. “And I don’t know where this leaves my career. I know that it’s expected of starlets to do disreputable things that will later come back to haunt them when they become famous, but I might just have stepped too far over the line this time.”

Jack sighed, changed from fourth to first, changed hastily back again and said, “You do talk some toot at times.”

“Not a bit of it,” said Dorothy. “The people who get to the top in this world do so because they are risk-takers. They thrive upon risk. Every woman or man at the top has a shady past. They’ve all done things that they wouldn’t want their contemporaries to find out about. They wouldn’t want these things to come out once they are famous, but they’re not ashamed that they did these things. They did them because they got a thrill out of them. They did them because they are risk-takers.”

“So what are you saying?” Jack asked, as he performed another interesting gear change. “That it’s all right to do bad things?”

“It’s never right to do bad things. Bad things hurt good people.”

“I don’t mean to be bad,” said Jack.

“You’re not bad,” said Dorothy.

“I am,” said Jack. “I’m selfish. I put myself first.”

“Everyone does that.”

“Eddie doesn’t,” said Jack. “Eddie would risk anything to protect me, I know he would.”

“And you would do the same for him.”

“Of course I would,” said Jack. “But time is running out for Eddie and if I don’t find him soon and take him back to Toy City he will die.”

“You’ll find him,” said Dorothy. “Somehow.”

“Somehow,” thought Eddie, “Jack will find me somehow.”

“Into the elevator,” said the other Jack. “Go on now.”

Eddie entered the elevator. The other Jack joined him, pressed a button, the doors closed, the elevator rose. Eddie Bear fumed. Silently.

And then the doors took to opening and Eddie Bear gazed out.

And wondered at the view that lay before him.

It looked to be a big round room with shiny metal walls. There were all kinds of strange machines in this room. Strange machines with twinkling lights upon them, being attended to by men in white coats who all looked strangely alike.

“Where are we now?” asked Eddie.

“Central operations room,” said the other Jack. “Go on now.”

“I do wish you’d stop saying that. It’s as repetitive as.”

“Go on now.” And the other Jack kicked Eddie.

“But where shall we go now?” Jack asked.

“How about somewhere to eat?” asked Dorothy. “Lunch would be nice.”

“I’m really not hungry.” But Jack’s stomach rumbled.

“We do need a plan of some kind,” said Dorothy.

“Plan?” said Jack. “What we need is a miracle.” Jack hunched over the wheel.

Presently they approached a route-side eatery. It was a Golden Chicken Diner. Jack drove hurriedly past it.

Somewhat later, with the police car making those alarming coughing sounds that cars will make when they are running out of fuel, they approached another eatery: Haley’s Comet Lounge.

“This will do us fine,” said Dorothy.

The car clunked up to a petrol pump.[39]

A tall man with short hair smiled out from the shade of a veranda. He wore a drab grey mechanic’s overall that accentuated his drab greyness and wiped his hands upon an oily rag, which implied an intimate knowledge of automobiles.

“Howdy, officer,” said he as Jack wound down what was left of his window. “Suu-ee, what the Hell happened here?”

“Nothing to concern yourself with,” said Jack.

Dorothy leaned over him. And Jack sniffed her hair. “Fill her up,” said Dorothy, “and check the oil, please, and the suspension.”

“Have to put her up on the ramp for that, ma’am.”

“Fine, please do it.”

Dorothy led Jack off to eat as the drab grey mechanic drove the stolen police car into the garage.[40]

“It’s best out of sight,” said Dorothy to Jack as they entered the eatery.

“Do you have money?” Jack asked as he patted his uniform pockets. “Because I don’t.”

“Leave all the talking to me.”

The eatery was everything that it should have been. Everything in its right place. Long bar along the right-hand wall. Tables to the left with window views of Interstate 15. A great many framed photographs upon the walls, mostly of men in sporting attire holding large fish.

There were some trophies on a shelf behind the bar, silver trophies topped by figures of men in sporting attire holding large fish.

Behind the bar counter stood a short man with tall hair. He wore sporting attire and held a large fish.

“Good afternoon, officer, ma’am,” said he. “Would you care to take a number?”

“A number?” said Jack. “What do you mean?”

“So that I can seat you. In the right order.”

“But there’s just the two of us.”

“In the right order to be served.”

“There’s still just the two of us.”

“Take a number,” said Dorothy.

“Can I have any number?” Jack asked.

“You can have this number,” said the short man with tall hair. And he placed his fish upon the countertop, peeled a number from what looked to be a date-a-day calendar jobbie on the wall next to a framed picture of a man in sporting attire holding –

“Can we sit anywhere?” Jack asked. And he viewed the tables. All were empty.

“What number do you have?” asked the short man.

“Twenty-three,”[41] said Jack.

“Then you’re in luck. Table over there, by the window.”

Dorothy and Jack sat down at this table.

“Was I supposed to understand any of that?” Jack asked.

“What’s to understand?” asked Dorothy, and she took up a menu. It was a fish-shaped menu. Jack took up one similar.

“So,” said the short man, suddenly beside them, “allow me to introduce myself. My name is Guy and I will be your waiter. Can I recommend to you today’s specials?”

Jack looked up at the short man called Guy. “Why don’t you give it a go?”

“Right,” said the short man called Guy, and he drew a tall breath.

And sang a jolly song.

We have carp from Arizona

And perch from Buffalo,

A great big trout

With a shiny snout

From the shores of Idaho.

We’ve a pike called Spike

And I’m sure you’d like

A bowl of fries with him.

There’s a shark called Mark

That I’ll serve, for a lark,

With salad to keep you slim.

I’ve monkfish, swordfish, cramp fish, cuttlefish,

Goby, goldfish, gudgeon.

I’ve sperm whale, starfish, bottle-nose dolphin,

I ain’t no curmudgeon.

If you like salmon, perch or bass,

Mullet, hake, or flounder,

Dory, plaice, or skate, or sole,

Try Guy, he’s a great all-rounder.

And there was plenty more of that, twenty-three[42] verses more of that, all sung in the “country” style.

“Well,” said Jack, clapping his hands together when the song was finally done, “I quite enjoyed that.”

“Enjoyed what?” asked Guy.

“The song,” said Jack.

“What song was that?”

“The one about fish.”

“Oh, that song. I’m sorry, officer, it’s been a rough morning, what with all the toing and froing.”

“Yes,” said Jack. And added in as delicate a fashion as he could, “Do you have anything other than fish on your menu?”

Guy looked puzzled. He was puzzled.

“Meat,” said Jack. “Any meat?”

“A burger,” said Guy.

“A burger,” said Jack.

“Certainly, officer. One mackerel burger coming up. And for your lovely daughter?”

“Daughter?” said Jack.

“So sorry, officer, it’s these new shoes, the insteps pinch.”

“I’ll have the sardines,” said Dorothy, perusing the menu. “Do they come with the quahog sauce?”

“Surely do, ma’am. And whiting mayo and chingree chitlins.”

“Mahser on the side?”

“With hilsa and beckti?”

“That’s the way I love it.” And Dorothy smiled at Guy and he smiled back at her.

“And a mackerel burger for your uncle,” said Guy.

“Yes,” said Jack, “With snodgrass and mong-waffle and pungdooey. Oh and add a little clabwangle to my little chikadee while you’re about it.”

Guy bowed and departed.

“You made all that up,” said Dorothy.

“Well, so did you.”

“Here you go then,” said Guy, presenting his discerning patrons with an overloaded tray.

“That was fast!” said Jack.

“This is America,” said Guy, and he placed the tray upon the table and lifted food covers from two plates.

“That’s not what I ordered,” said Jack.

“Nor me,” said Dorothy.

Guy burst into tears.

Dorothy reached out and patted his shoulder. “There’s no need to go upsetting yourself,” she said. “I’m sure that whatever this is, it will be very nice.”

“What is it?” asked Jack, taking up a fork and prodding at the items that lay steaming up on his plate.

“It’s chicken fish,” said the sobbing Guy. “Locally caught and as fresh as the day is long.”

“It’s chicken,” said Jack. “There’s no fish at all involved here.”

“’Tis too,” said Guy.

“’Tis not,” said Jack. “It’s chicken. That’s a chicken leg.”

“It’s a fish leg,” said Guy.

“Fish do not have legs,” Jack informed him.

“Chicken fish do.”

“I don’t believe that there is such a thing as a chicken fish,” said Jack.

“There’s one there on the counter,” said Guy. “I was petting it when you came in.”

“It doesn’t have any legs.”

“I de-legged it earlier. That’s what’s on the plates.”

“Fish don’t have wings, either,” said Dorothy. “There are wings on my plate.”

“Well, that’s where you’re wrong,” said Guy. “Flying fish have wings, everybody knows that.”

“This is definitely chicken.” Jack sniffed at the chicken on his plate.

“Mine’s definitely chicken, too,” said Dorothy.

“You’re sure?” Guy dabbed at his running nose with an oversized red gingham handkerchief. “You’re absolutely sure?”

“Jack here is a police officer,” said Dorothy, “so he knows these things.”

“I knew it!” Guy beat a right-hand fist into a left-hand handkerchief-carrying palm. “I knew it. Chicken fish be damned. I’ve been cheated, officer. I wish to register a complaint.”

“Do you have any fish in this restaurant?” Jack asked.

Guy sniffed.

“That wasn’t an answer,” said Jack.

Guy shrugged.

“Nor was that.”

“All right! All right!” Guy fell to his knees, although given his shortcomings in the tallness department the difference in height that this made was hardly perceptible. “I’m so sorry,” he wailed, and he beat his chest with diminutive fists. “Thirty years I’ve been in business here. Thirty years in these parts, winning every fishing competition, known in these parts as Guy Haley, Champion of Champions. I took an eighty-pound buckling up at the creek in forty-seven. Never been beaten. Never been beaten.”

“Where is this leading?” Jack asked. “Only we are hungry. And we are in a hurry.”

“I’ll leave you to your chicken fish, then.”

“No,” said Jack, “you won’t. I don’t want chicken. I will eat anything that you have, but not chicken.”

“All right! All right!” Guy was back on his feet.

“Get up,” said Jack.

“I am up.”

“Then please, in as few words as possible, offer us an explanation.”

“For what?” asked Guy.

“Would you like me to hit him?” asked Dorothy.

Guy flinched.

“No,” said Jack. “He’s only little.”

“I’m not that little,” said Guy.

“True enough,” said Jack. “I’ll hit you myself.”

“No, please.”

“Then tell us. Everything.”

“Well, like I say, I’ve been fishing these parts for –”

Jack raised his fist.

“No, please, officer, no.”

“Then tell us,” said Jack. “Everything. And you know what I mean by that.”

“It’s not my fault.” Guy wept. “The chickens made me do it.”

“The chickens?” said Jack. “The chickens?”

“Out there.” Guy pointed with a short and trembly finger. “Out there in the desert, twenty miles from here in Area Fifty-Two.”