“So you’ll probably be on the board of directors by lunchtime and in a position to find out where they’ve taken Eddie.”

“You really think so?” said Jack.

“Just follow the American Dream.”

“I am a little confused by the American Dream, as it happens,” said Jack as he and Dorothy walked on, passing the Hollywood Suit Company, which knocks out really natty suits at a price that one can afford.[29] “I mean,” Jack continued, “if it is every American’s born right to follow the American Dream and succeed in this following, how come most Americans aren’t googlaires living in mansions?”

“It’s their right to try,” said Dorothy.

And that was that for that conversation.

“Let’s go on to a club,” said Dorothy.

Jack took to halting and gazing at her. “Actually, let’s not,” he said. “As you might be aware, I have nowhere to sleep tonight.”

“You can sleep with me if you want.”

“I was hoping you’d say that. Why don’t we give the club a miss, go to your place, have some more sex and get an early night? I have a hard day ahead.”

Dorothy looked up at Jack. “All right,” she said. “We should both have an early night. There’s no telling what might happen to us tomorrow at the Golden Chicken headquarters.”

“Us?” said Jack. “I will be going alone.”

“I think you’ll find that all management staff have been invited. Restaurant management as well as kitchen management.”

“So that’s why I’ll be going alone.”

“And that’s why you won’t. I follow the American Dream, too, Jack. I manage our branch of the Golden Chicken now.”

“What?” said Jack.

“There was some unpleasantness with the previous manager,” said Dorothy. “She didn’t go quietly. I was forced to use my Dimac.”

“Early night it is, then,” said Jack.

The Californian sun rose once again. As it always does, unfailingly.

Its warmth and golden wonder did not fall on Eddie Bear, however, for he lay dismally in a barred cell, many floors beneath ground level in that Area known as Fifty-Two.

It touched upon the cheek of Jack, though, who lay in the arms of Dorothy in the single room she rented in a house in Blue Jay Way that would one day be rented in its entirety by George Harrison, who would write a rather pleasant song about it. But not yet.

Jack yawned, stretched, rose. Viewed his clothes, all washed, ironed and ready, hanging on a hanger. Looked down upon the sweet sleeping face of Dorothy and kissed her on the cheek.

Dorothy stirred and murmured, “Not now, Brad.”

“Brad?” said Jack.

And Dorothy awoke.

“Brad,” said Jack. “You said Brad.”

“Brad is the name of my dog,” said Dorothy.

“You said that your dog was named Toto.”

“Bradley Toto,” said Dorothy. “He’s a thoroughbred from England.”

Jack laughed loudly. “Your first lie,” said he. “We should celebrate it with some early-morning sex.”

“I’m not in the mood,” said Dorothy.

“Your second lie,” said Jack.

And when the early-morning sex was done and Jack was once more feeling really rotten about himself for having such a good time whilst Eddie was either in peril, or dead, they had their breakfast. Which Jack really hated himself for enjoying so much.

And then they got dressed and went out.

And that sun was still shining. Like it does.

And they caught a downtown train and it took them to downtown LA, where they alighted downtown.

And Jack looked up at GOLDEN CHICKEN TOWERS and Jack went, “Wow, that’s big! Especially the lettering.”

Golden Chicken Towers was located next to the Eastern Building, which remains to this day a triumph of Art Deco and is celebrated for the fact that Predator 2 stood upon its roof and was not at all concerned when his retractable spear jobbie was struck by lightning.

The foyer, entrance hall, vestibule, lobby or whatever you might wish to call it of Golden Chicken Towers was nothing less than palatial.

It was sumptuous. It was golden. It was chickeny.

To either side of the expanse of golden floor tiles stood golden plinths, upon which rose statues of golden hens. These hens stood in noble attitudes. Some held tall upward-thrusting spears beneath their golden wings, spears capped with golden pennants, each emblazoned with the company logo. Some of these hens wore uniforms decked with golden medals. Others looked defiant, bearing golden guns.

“I don’t know about you,” Jack whispered to Dorothy as they joined a queue to receive their official passes, “but all this is very wrong.”

“It’s like some temple dedicated to the God of All Chickens,” Dorothy observed. “Those are very big statues.”

Jack craned his neck and peered along the queue. It was a long queue made up of eager-looking young Americans. They were all spick and span and as near to business-suited as they could afford. They had that scrubbed quality about them that is somehow unwholesome, although it’s difficult to explain exactly why.

To Jack they all looked all of a sameness. And this, Jack felt, was odd. And then it occurred to Jack, perhaps for the first time, that they all were of a certain sameness. That everyone he had encountered since entering this world that was exclusively peopled by his own kind, even though they had certain superficial differences, they were all of a sameness.

They were all of a single race. The human one.

And suddenly Jack yearned to be back in Toy City. This was not his world, even if these were somehow his people. There was such diversity amongst the denizens of Toy City, the gollies and the dollies, and the teddies and the clockwork folk. Each with their own specific, particular outlook on life, their own ways of being. They were Jack’s folk. Jack was one of them now. He had always been an outsider, always looking for something. But there was nothing here he wanted.

Jack looked towards Dorothy.

No, not even her, really.

Jack just wanted to be back with Eddie. Back in Toy City with all of this horror behind him.

“What are you thinking about?” asked Dorothy. “Eddie, I bet.”

“More than Eddie,” said Jack. “I was thinking about … well, no, it doesn’t matter.”

But it did. It really did.

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

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

Jack peered and Jack saw and recognised these figures.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Next,” said the lovely to Jack.

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

“And Jack what would it be?”

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

“Your surname. You are Jack what?”

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

“I require your surname.”

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

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

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