“What about poor Sydney?” asked Marilyn as the lift doors opened on the first floor.

“I’m sorry,” said Jack. Who was sick of saying sorry, but felt that upon this occasion he really should say it. “I lost my temper. He’s a nice fellow. You have a copy of the script, I assume?”

“Don’t hit me,” said Marilyn. “I do.”

“Then we’ll go and look at yours.”

“Whatever you say, all right?”

And Marilyn left the lift and Jack and Dorothy followed her and Jack gazed once more at Marilyn’s legs and thought certain thoughts. And Dorothy, as if, once more, she was able to access Jack’s thoughts, dealt Jack a hearty slap to the face.

The lecture theatre was deserted.

But for a fellow in a vest and bare feet who lay all prone upon the floor. Jack stepped over this fellow.

“It had to be done,” said Dorothy.

And Jack just shrugged, as he was beyond caring anyway.

They moved through the lecture theatre, then out onto the mezzanine floor, then down the great escalator into the greater entrance hall with its golden statues and reception desk.

No one sat behind this. Indeed, but for Jack and Dorothy and Marilyn, this great golden area was deserted.

“Gone for lunch?” Jack suggested.

“Let’s just get this script,” said Dorothy.

And so they crossed the great golden entrance hallway, passed through the great golden doorway and into the great golden sunlight of Los Angeles.

And here they paused, all well lit in goldenness.

Before the Golden Chicken Towers were many police cars. Many black and white police cars. Which had conveyed many of Los Angeles’ finest to …

The scene of the crime.

And a voice, coming through what is known as an electric bullhorn, called unto Jack.

And its call went thus ways. And so. And suchlike also.

“Drop your weapons and get down on the ground. You are surrounded,” it went.

Thus ways.

And so.

And suchlike.

Also.

19

LA Police Chief Samuel J. Maggott was having a rough one.

Such is the way with police chiefs, that they are generally having a rough one. Things conspire against them all the time. Things pile up. Often it is that they have just given up smoking, and drinking, and are going through a messy divorce. And that the “powers that be” are coming down hard upon them, demanding results on cases that seem beyond all human comprehension.

Then there’s the matter of their underlings. That feisty new policewoman who doesn’t play by the rules but always gets results. And that troubled young detective who won’t give up smoking or drinking and has never been married and gets all the girls and doesn’t play by the rules, but also always gets the job done.

And then there’s that coffee machine that never works properly and it’s a really hot summer and the air conditioning’s broken down and …

So on and so forth and suchlike.

And now there’s this fellow.

LA Police Chief Samuel J. Maggott sat down heavily in his office chair, behind his office desk. The office that he sat down in was a proper police chiefs office. There were little American flags sprouting from his inkwell. There were medals in small glass cases on the walls. Near the picture of the President. And the ones of Sam’s family, which included the wife who was presently divorcing him. And there were other American flags here and there, because there always are. And there were framed citations won in the cause of police duty (above and beyond the call of it, generally). And there was a coffee machine and an air-conditioning unit, the latter making strange noises.

And there was this fellow.

This fellow sat in the visitors’ chair, across the desk from Sam’s. This fellow sat uneasily, uncomfortably. His hands were in his lap. His wrists were handcuffed together.

After he’d done with the heavy sitting down, Sam did some puffings. He’d been putting on weight recently. It was all the stress that he’d been under, which had caused him to put more food beneath his belt, which put him under even more pressure to lose some weight.

Sam sighed and inwardly cursed his lot. The things he had to put up with. And he hadn’t even touched upon the racial politics, because Sam was, of course, a black man.

As are all American police chiefs.

Apparently.

Sam puffed and Sam sighed and Sam mopped sweat from his brow. He mopped it with an oversized red gingham handkerchief. It had belonged to his mother, who had died last week, and had only yesterday been put under.

And still there was this fellow.

This fellow sat, with his hands in his lap, naked in the visitors’ chair.

Sam shook his head, which was thinning on top, and said a single word. “Coffee?”

The naked fellow looked up at Sam. “Did you say ‘coffee’?” he asked.

“I’m asking you, do you want coffee?”

“I’d rather have a pair of underpants.”

“Don’t be foolish, boy,” said Sam. “You cannot drink underpants. Unless, of course …” And Sam’s mind returned to something he’d done recently at a club on the East Side, which he really shouldn’t have been at, and wouldn’t have been at if he hadn’t been so depressed about his dog getting stolen and everything.

“Could I have my clothes back, please?” asked the naked fellow. He was a young naked fellow, rangy and tanned, spare of frame and wiry of limb.

“Are you cold?” asked Sam.

“No,” said the fellow, “but it’s pretty humiliating sitting here naked.”

“You’ve got nothing that I ain’t seen before, fella,” said Sam, almost instantly regretting that he had. What was it his therapist kept telling him?

“Well, if men’s genitalia are so commonplace to you,” said the fellow, “I can’t imagine what pleasure you will have viewing mine.”

“Pleasure don’t come into this,” said Sam.

“I do so agree,” said the fellow.

“But anyway, your clothes are with forensics. We’ll soon see what they have to tell us.”

The fellow, whose name was Jack, thought suddenly of Wallah. Suddenly and sadly too thought he.

“My clothes will have nothing to say to you,” said Jack.

“On the contrary.” Sam rose heavily from his chair to fetch coffee for himself. “They’ve told us much already.”

“They have?” Jack asked as he watched the large black police chief worry at the coffee machine.

“Oh yes.” And Sam kicked the coffee machine. “A great deal.” And Sam shook the coffee machine. “A very great deal, in fact.” And Sam stooped heavily and peered into the little hatchway where one (such as he) who had pressed all the correct buttons above might reasonably expect to see a plastic cup full of coffee.

No such cup was to be found.

Sam peered deeper into the little hatch. “A great deal of Aaaaagh!”

“A great deal of what?” asked Jack.

But Sam didn’t hear him. Sam was wildly mopping boiling water from his face with his oversized red gingham handkerchief.

“Goddamn useless machine!” And Sam moved swiftly for a heavy man and dealt the machine many heavy blows.

The glass partition door opened and the attractive face of a feisty young policewoman smiled through the opening. “Chief,” said she, “I’ve just cracked the case that’s had you baffled for months. I –”

“Get out!” shouted Sam, returning without coffee to his desk.

“Stressful job, is it?” Jack asked. “The American Dream not working out?”

Sam, now once more in his chair, leaned forward over his desk. Two little flags fell onto the floor along with an overfull ashtray. “Now just listen here, fella,” said Sam, “don’t go giving me no lip. I don’t like a wise guy, understand me?”

“Yes,” said Jack. “About my clothes.”

“Ah yes, your clothes.” And Sam leaned back and Sam took up a folder. And having opened same, examined the contents therein. “Fingerprints not on file,” said Sam. “No ID. No record, it seems, that you even exist.”