The Toyminator (16 page)

“And there’s definitely a movie in this,” said Dorothy. “I might eschew acting in favour of a role as producer.”

“Hm,” went Jack.

“Hm?” went Dorothy.

“Ignore him,” said Eddie. “He’s had woman trouble. The love of his life left him. I suspect that his ‘hm’ represented something along the lines that your unexpected evolution from the wide-eyed innocent on Hollywood Boulevard to lean, mean killing machine with pretensions to movie moguldom within the space of a short half-hour is somewhat disconcerting for him.”

“You’re a most articulate little bear,” said Dorothy.

“And most democratic,” said Eddie. “I hold no prejudice. I bite man or woman alike if I consider that they are patronising me.”

“That flight of yours over the big top,” said Dorothy. Suggestively. “I overheard that.”

“I’ll get you when you’re sleeping,” said Eddie.

“Stop it, please,” said Jack. “All right, Dorothy, I
am
impressed. If you want to help us, it would be appreciated.”

“Not by
me
,” said Eddie. “We’re a team, Jack. A partnership, you and me, Jack and Eddie, bestest friends through thick and thin.”

“This won’t affect our partnership.”

“Yes it will. It will lead to a romantic involvement and then there’ll be all the drippy smoochy stuff and that will interfere with the action and the car chases.”

“Rubbish,” said Jack, although unconvincingly. The thought of indulging in some drippy smoochy stuff with Dorothy had indeed crossed his mind. As indeed had some of that get down, get naked and get dirty kind of stuff. “She
can
help us, Eddie,” said Jack. “And we need all the help we can get.”

“We were doing fine on our own. What happened to your inspired calculating stuff? It was you who calculated that the murderers would strike next at the Opera House, remember?”

“Ah,” said Jack, who in all the excitement and everything else had quite forgotten about Wallah the calculating pocket. “About that.”

“We’ll manage on our own,” said Eddie. “Thank you for your offer, Dorothy, but you’ll only get Jack all confused and he won’t be able to keep his mind on the job.”

“Listen,” said Jack, wringing out his serviette ice pack into his empty coffee cup and shaking his fingers about, “I’m up for you helping us, Dorothy, but I have to go to the toilet now. Eddie and I are a partnership, and it’s a fifty-fifty partnership. If Eddie says no then I have to respect his decision, even if I don’t agree with it. But I
am
going to the toilet, so please speak to him. I’m sure you can win him over.” And Jack winked at Dorothy.

It was an intimate kind of a wink and if Eddie had seen it he would have recognised it to be the kind of wink that meant, “I would
love
you to help us and I’m certain that a beautiful, intelligent
woman
such as yourself can soon win over a stroppy toy bear.” And if Eddie
had
seen it and
had
recognised it, Jack would have received such a biting from Eddie that if Jack had owned a bicycle he would not have been able to ride it again for at least a week.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” Jack said. “Which way
is
the toilet?”

“Over there,” said Dorothy.

And Jack went off to the toilet.

And went into one of the stalls and locked the stall door behind him. And Jack withdrew Wallah from his trenchcoat and gave her a little stroke.

Wallah gave a little yawn and made a sensual purring sound.

“I’m sorry not to have spoken with you for a while,” said Jack. “As you are probably aware, things have been a little hectic of late.”

“Naturally I am aware. That horrid woman hurt your face – it’s all bruised. Hold me against it, I’ll make it better.”

“Well,” said Jack.

“Please,” said Wallah.

And Jack held the pocket to his face. And it
did
feel rather nice.

“You don’t need
her
,” whispered Wallah into Jack’s ear. “I calculate that although in the short term she might facilitate some success, in the long term disaster awaits.”

“You don’t foresee a lasting relationship, then?”

“It looks unfavourable in percentage terms.”

“So I should dump her? Is that what you’re saying? You’re not being a little biased, are you?”

“Biased?” whispered Wallah. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes you do,” said Jack, “and
our
relationship, our
special
relationship will only continue if you are totally honest with me.”

“I am dedicated to your success,” said Wallah. “In fact, our special relationship depends directly upon it.”

“Well, I’m asking for your help,” said Jack. “I need all the help I can get. Which is not to say that I do not value yours above all others’, of course.”

“I wonder,” said Wallah, “whether a relationship actually exists anywhere that is based upon pure truth, rather than one partner telling the other partner what they think the other partner wants to hear, rather than the pure truth that that partner should hear from someone he or she trusts.”

With his free hand Jack scratched at his head. “I’m not quite certain what all of that means,” he said, “but I’m sure it’s most profound. So, can you help me out here? Can you tell me what I should do next?”

“Not directly,” said Wallah. “I can calculate odds. And I can tell you this: if you do not bring the malcontents to justice within one week, not a single soul in Toy City will remain alive.”

“One week?” said Jack.

“According to my calculations the evil is growing exponentially. It’s working on a mathematical principle. You have one week at the most.”

“So what must I do?”

“Corporate enterprises such as this Golden Chicken organisation function upon a pyramidal principle. At the base you have the most folk, those in customer facilitation, the counter-service folk, the factory workers, et cetera. Next level up, lower management, supervisors – far fewer. Next level, middle management, then up and up, executive management, board of directors, chief executive officer. And he is not the pinnacle of the pyramid. Above him is a single figure. You must move up the chain of command, seek out this individual – they will be the brains behind it all.”

“That’s rather obvious, surely,” said Jack.

“Obvious perhaps, but it’s how you do it that counts. How you penetrate the chain of command, find your way to the top.”

“And how do I do
that
?” said Jack.

“I calculate your chances of doing so in your present situation as zero,” said Wallah. “You will have to take employment with the Golden Chicken Consortium. Infiltrate, as it were.”

“Is there time for
that
?” Jack asked.

“Yes,” said Wallah. “There is, just. I am susceptible to vibrations, Jack. I pick them up, assimilate them. You are now in a land that you do not understand, and I now
do
understand it. Within three days, if you work hard, persevere and keep your eyes and ears open, you will be able to rise up the pyramid sufficiently to discover who hides upon the pinnacle.”

“I’m hardly likely to get promoted up the management chain in three days,” said Jack.

“Oh yes you can,” said Wallah. “You are now in a land called America where many things are possible. You will realise what is known as ‘The American Dream’.”

“All right,” said Jack. “I’ll do my best.”

“You will have to do better than that.”

“My best is all I have. And I’ll have you to help me, which I appreciate, believe me.”

“Sadly, that is not going to be the case. I calculate that I will only be able to help you for another twelve hours at the most.”

“Why?” asked Jack.

“Because I am dying,” said Wallah.

“What?” and Jack held Wallah out before him. “What are you saying to me?”

“I’m saying that I’m dying. Me and my kind cannot survive here in this world. This world will kill us.”

“Why are you saying this? How do you know this?”

“Believe the evidence of your own eyes,” said Wallah. “You were here no time at all before your wristwatch ceased to work, and less than eight hours after that so did your weapons.”

“Yes,” said Jack. “I suspected that it was something like that when I tested the grenade in the alleyway.”

“I know,” said Wallah. “The simple things die first, then the more complex. I have perhaps another day, maybe a little more. My calculations cannot be entirely precise.”

“Then I’ll take you back right now,” said Jack, “pop you through The Second Big O onto the other side.”

“And without my help you will fail and all Toy City will die.”

“But I can’t let
you
die.”

“It’s a percentage thing,” said Wallah. “I will die so many will live.”

“No,” said Jack. “I can’t have that.”

“Then you will have to do more than your best.”

“Yes I will,” said Jack. “I promise I will.” And then Jack said, “Oh no!”

“I know what you’re thinking,” said Wallah, “and yes, it’s true.”

“Eddie,” said Jack. “You mean –”

“Three days at most,” said Wallah. “I’m sorry.”

“Then I’m taking you both back.”

“And if you do you’ll doom all of Toy City. You can’t do this on your own, even with the help of Dorothy. You need us to succeed.”

“But I can’t risk Eddie’s life.”

“He wouldn’t hear of you trying to save him at the expense of all the others. You know Eddie well enough – do you think that he would?”

“No,” said Jack. “I do not. Eddie is –”

“Noble,” said Wallah, “is the word you’re looking for.”

“But I
must
tell him.”

“I think that’s only fair. And by my calculations it is something that you should do now. And fast.”

“Fast?” said Jack.

“Very fast,” said Wallah. “Trust me.”

“I do.”

And Jack slipped Wallah back inside his trenchcoat and then Jack left that toilet at the hurry-up.

And Jack returned to Dorothy and Eddie.

Or at least.

“Dorothy?” asked Jack. “Where is Eddie?”

Dorothy looked up at Jack and said, “Why are you asking me that?”

“Because I left him here with you,” said Jack, “but he’s not with you now.”

“No,” said Dorothy. “That’s not what you did. You went off to the toilet and then you returned. And I commented on how impressed I was that you had managed to clean up your trenchcoat in such a short time. Which rather confuses me now, as it is all dirty again. But then you said that you wanted a quiet word for a moment outside with Eddie and then the two of you left. And now you’ve come out of the toilet again – how did you do that?”

Jack’s jaw did a terrible dropping, and then he gave vent to a terrible scream.

Jack left the Golden Chicken Diner at the hurry-up.

He sprinted through the open doors and out into the sunlit street beyond. The sunlit Californian street that was Hollywood Boulevard.

Jack was a very desperate lad. He sprinted here and sprinted there in desperation, up this way and down that way, but all to no avail. Passers-by did passings-by, but none paid Jack any heed.

Jack took now to shouting at and accosting passers-by.

“Have you seen him?” Jack shouted at a large man in a larger suit of orange plaid. “Small bear, about this size? Being led along by me, but it wasn’t me?” The large man thrust past Jack, continued on his way.

Jack started on another. Dorothy’s hands caught Jack by the shoulders. “Stop it, Jack,” said Dorothy. “You’ll get yourself arrested.”

“But I have to find him, time is running out.”

“He could be anywhere now – he was probably taken in a car.”

“A car?” and Jack made fists. “I need a car. Do you have one?”

“Of course I don’t have a car. Do I look like I could afford a car? And I’m too young to drive, anyway.”

“I’ve got to find him. How could you let this happen?” Jack turned bitter eyes upon Dorothy. “I left him in your care.”

Dorothy’s eyes weren’t bitter, but they flashed an emerald fire. “You did no such thing,” she said to Jack. “You left him with me in the hope that I could win him over.”

“You’re part of this.” Jack made fists and shook them all about. “You’re in on it. This is all a conspiracy.”

“Now you are being ridiculous. Come back inside and sit down with me and then we’ll talk about this.”

“I’ve no time to talk. They’ve got Eddie and if I can’t get to him quickly he’ll die.”

“If they’d wanted to kill him,” said Dorothy, “they could have done it there and then in the diner. Ripping a teddy bear apart would hardly have caused the customers much concern.”

Jack put his hands to his head and raked them through his hair. Knocked his hat off, stooped to pick it up, kicked it instead and watched as it rolled beneath the wheels of a passing car to be ground to an ugly flatness.

Dorothy stifled a smirk. This was no laughing matter.

“Let’s go inside,” she said.

“I can’t.” There was a tear in Jack’s left eye. “It’s my fault, I shouldn’t have left him. I should have protected him at all times. If any harm comes to him –”

“No harm will come to him.”

“That’s a very foolish thing to say.”

“I’ve said that if they’d wanted to kill him they would have. They’ve taken him captive, probably as a hostage, probably to use to bargain with you.”

“With me?”

“To get you to stay out of their affairs.”

“That’s not going to happen,” said Jack. “I’ll track this other me down and if he’s harmed Eddie, I’ll kill him. I’ll probably have to kill him anyway, but if he’s harmed Eddie, I’ll kill him worse.”

Dorothy’s green eyes fairly glittered. “You really love that bear,” she said. “You really, truly do.”

“Of course I do,” Jack said. “He’s my bestest friend. We’ve been through a lot together, Eddie and me. And he’s saved my life more then once.”

“Come back inside, then, and we’ll work out some plan together. We’ll get him back somehow.”

Jack followed Dorothy back to the diner. “I’m so sorry, Eddie,” he said.

Eddie Bear was rather sorry, too. Sorrowful was Eddie Bear, puzzled somewhat, scared a bit and quite uncomfortable also.

He was all in the darkness and all getting bumped about.

“How did I let this happen?” Eddie asked himself. “How could I have been so stupid? I’m as stupid as. How didn’t I know that it was the wrong Jack? Why didn’t I smell a rat?”

But Eddie Bear had not smelled a rat and neither had he smelled that that Jack wasn’t Jack. So to speak.

And this worried Eddie more than most things.

“I don’t understand this.” Eddie sniffed at the air. Hot air, it was, and humid, too, as can be the way of it in the boot of a car on a hot and sunlit day. Eddie sniffed the air some more and then he growly grumbled. “I’ve lost my sense of smell,” he growly grumbled. “I can’t smell anything. Why has this happened? Do I have a cold? This can’t be right – my nose has never let me down before and OUCH!”

The car, in whose boot Eddie was presently domiciled, bumped over something, possibly a sleeping policeman, and Eddie was bounced about something wicked.

“I’ll have things to say when I get out of here,” said Eddie Bear.

“And he’ll die,” Jack told Dorothy over another coffee. “He has three days left at the most. If I don’t get him back to his own world before then, he’ll die.”

“And how did you arrive at this revelation?” Dorothy asked.

“I have my sources,” said Jack. “Let’s leave it at that.”

“So we have to do something fast.”

“
You
don’t have to do anything,” said Jack. “I’ll do this on my own.”

“We’ve been through all that. You need me, Jack. You won’t last long here on your own. You’ll get stopped by the police, they’ll ask you for ID, you won’t have any and they’ll take you off to juvenile hall.”

Jack did grindings of the teeth. He felt utterly helpless. Utterly impotent. Neither of these were nice ways to feel. The second in particular didn’t bear thinking about. So Jack did some heavy thinking about other things. And certain thoughts entered his head. Regarding his most recent conversation with Wallah the calculating pocket.

Wallah’s advice to Jack, based upon her calculations, had been that he must take employment at a Golden Chicken Diner and penetrate the higher echelons by utilising the American Dream. Also that Dorothy would prove to be a useful asset during the short term, if ultimately a disaster.

Jack leaned forwards, elbows on the table, and buried his face in his hands.

Dorothy said, “Let’s think about this, Jack. Work together, throw some ideas around.”

Jack groaned.

Dorothy continued, “I think we have established that whoever is the brains behind the Golden Chicken Diner is the most likely candidate for being behind the murders in Toy City.”

“Yes,” said Jack. “Of course.”

“Well, not necessarily ‘of course’ – there could be other options to choose from. But he or she –”

“Or
it
,” said Jack.

“He, she or
it
is the most likely candidate. That entity is the one that you have to find and deal with.”

“And I will,” said Jack.

“So the questions is, how?”

Jack nodded through his fingers.

“Well,” said Dorothy, “the most logical thing to do, in my opinion, would be to gain employment at one of the Golden Chicken Diners, then work your way up into a position that would gain you access to this, er, entity.”

“Eh?” said Jack, and he looked up through his fingers.

“It’s the most logical solution,” said Dorothy. “By my calculations, it’s the best chance you’d have.”

“By your
calculations
?”

“Yes. You see, it’s an American thing – the belief that anyone in this country can do anything, if they just try hard enough. That they’ll get a fair deal if they try. It’s called pursuing the American Dream.”

“I know what it’s called,” said Jack.

“You do?”

“I do. Do
you
really think it would work?”

“It might with my help.”

“Ah,” said Jack.

“You have no ID,” said Dorothy. “You’re, well, an illegal alien, really. You’d need a work visa. But there are ways. I could help.”

“I have no choice,” said Jack, and he threw up his hands, knocking over his coffee, which trickled into his lap. “Oh damn,” went Jack. “I think this trenchcoat is done for.”

Dorothy giggled, prettily.

Jack smiled wanly towards her. “When I said I had no choice,” said he, “I didn’t mean it in a bad way towards you. I’m very grateful for your help. So how do we go about getting jobs?”

“Just leave that to me.”

Now it is a fact well known to those who know it well that in America, in accordance with the American Dream, you can always get a job in a diner. No matter your lack of qualifications, the fact that you cannot add up to ten, the fact that you have rather strange ways about you, a curious squint, buck teeth, answer to the name of Joe-Bob and hail from a backwoods community where your father is your brother and your aunty your uncle (although it has to be said that there
is
a more than average chance that you will be very good at playing the banjo), you can always get work in a diner.

In England (a small but beautifully formed kingdom somewhat to the east of America) it is the case that you can always get a job in a pub. Here, of course, you will not be expected to be able to count up to ten, as, if you are, like Jack, an illegal alien (probably from Australia, in the case of England), it will be expected that you will short-change the customers. Oh, and be an alcoholic, which is apparently a necessary qualification.

But this is neither here nor there, nor anywhere else at the present.

Twenty minutes passed in the Golden Chicken Diner and when these twenty minutes were done, certain things had occurred.

Dorothy now stood behind counter till number three, all dolled up in a golden outfit. And Jack stood somewhere else.

Jack stood in the kitchen washing dishes.

Jack had his arms in suds up to the elbows.

Jack had a right old grumpy look on his face.

“Back in the bloody kitchen again!” swore Jack, frightening Joe-Bob, who was drying dishes. “A couple of days ago I was washing dishes in a Nadine’s Diner, and now I’m back at it again. Is this to be my lot in life? What is going on?”

“You ain’t from around these parts, aintcha, mister?” asked Joe-Bob, spitting little corncob nibblets through his big buck teeth. “You a wetback, aintcha?”

“I don’t know what one of those is,” said Jack, “but whatever it is, I’m not one.”

“You must be from England, then.”

“If this is some kind of running gag,” said Jack, really wishing that he’d rolled up his shirt sleeves before he began the washing up, “then it stinks.”

“Not as bad as that trenchcoat of yours,” said Joe-Bob.

“No,” said Jack, “but it’s washing up nicely.” And he scrubbed at the trenchcoat’s hem.

“I don’t figure the manager’d like you washing your laundry in his kitchen sink,” said Joe-Bob. “But I guess I’d keep my mouth shut and not tell him if you’d do a favour for me.”

“Listen,” said Jack, “I can’t lose this job. It’s really important to me. But then so is a smart turn-out. I’ll soon be done washing the trenchcoat. Then we can dry it in the chicken rotisserie.”

Joe-Bob shook his head and did that manic cackling laughter that backwoods fellows are so noted for. “That’s even worse,” said he. “I’ll want a
big
favour.”

Jack sighed deeply and wrung out his trenchcoat. “You won’t get it,” said Jack.

“Then I’ll just mosey off and speak with the manager.”

“All right,” said Jack. And he sighed once more. “Tell me what favour you want.”

“Well,” said Joe-Bob, “you’ve got a real perty mouth and –”

Joe-Bob’s head went into the washing-up water and then Joe-Bob, held by the scruff of the neck by Jack, was soundly thrashed and flung through the rear kitchen door into the alleyway beyond.

“And
don’t
come back!” called Jack.

The head chef, who had been in the toilet doing whatever it is that head chefs do in the toilet – going to the toilet, probably, but neglecting to wash their hands afterwards – returned from the toilet. He was a big, fat, rosy-faced man who hailed from Oregon (where the vortex is)
[26]
and walked with a pronounced limp due to an encounter in Korea with a sleeping policeman.

“Where is Joe-Bob?” asked the head chef.

“He quit,” said Jack. “Walked off the job. I tried to stop him.”

The head chef nodded thoughtfully. “Tried to stop him, eh? Well, young fella, I like the way you think. You have the right stuff – you’ll go far in this organisation.”

Jack did further trenchcoat wringings, but behind his back.

“I’m going to promote you,” said the head chef, “to head dryer-up.”

“Well,” said Jack, “thank you very much.”

“Not a bit of it,” said the head chef. “Loyalty is always rewarded. It’s the American Dream.”

By lunchtime Jack had gained the post of assistant to the head chef. He had risen rapidly through the ranks, from dishwasher to dryer-up to plate stacker to kitchen porter (general) to kitchen porter (specific) to head kitchen porter to rotisserie loader to supervising rotisserie loader to assistant to the head chef.

There had been some unpleasantness involved.

There had in fact been considerable unpleasantness involved and no small degree of violence, threats and menace. And a few knocks to himself. Jack sported a shiner in the right-eye department; the kitchen porter (general) was beginning a course of Dimac.

Jack’s role as assistant to the head chef gave him a degree of authority over the lower orders of kitchen staff. Who were now a group of boisterous Puerto Ricans whom Jack had seen dealing in certain restricted substances outside the kitchen in the alleyway and asked in with the promise of cash in hand and free chicken for lunch.

Jack stood next to the head chef, decapitating chickens.

The chickens, all plucked and pink and all but ready, barring the decerebration, came out of a little hatch in the wall, plopped onto a conveyor belt and were delivered at regulated intervals to the chopping table for head-removal and skewering for the rotisserie.

Jack put a certain vigour into his work.

“You go at those chickens as one possessed,” the head chef observed after lunch (of chicken).

“What do you do with all the heads?” Jack asked as he tossed yet another into a swelling bin.

“They go back to the chicken factory,” said the head chef. “They get ground up and fed to more chickens.”

“That’s disgusting,” said Jack, parting another head from its scrawny neck.

“It’s called recycling,” said the head chef. “It’s ecologically sound. I’d liken it to the nearest thing to perpetual motion that you can imagine.”