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.