“Hi, fellows,” called Jack.

The fellows looked up towards Jack.

And now Jack’s attention was drawn back to the first and second cells. Their occupants were beating at the doors, crying out for Jack to return, shouting things about being the daddy and knowing a bitch when they saw one.

“Shush!” Jack shushed them.

But the cell-three Puerto Ricans now joined in the crying aloud.

“Damn,” went Jack. And Jack pressed on.

And finally found Dorothy.

“Dorothy,” called Jack. And the beautiful girl looked up from her basic bunk.

“Jack,” she said, and she hastened to the door to observe him through the grille. “You are naked,” she continued.

“Well, yes,” said Jack. “But –”

“Nothing,” said Dorothy. “This is California. Please would you open my cell?”

“I certainly will.” And Jack spat out the other paperclip. The one he had kept in his mouth to perform this very function. Because he did think ahead, did Jack. Because he was a private detective.

And with this paperclip and to the growing cacophony of shouting victims of circumstance, Jack picked the lock on Dorothy’s cell door and freed her from incarceration.

Good old Jack.

“Here,” said Dorothy, lifting her skirt and dropping her panties. “Put these on, it will help.”

“Help?” Jack looked hard at the panties. Now in the palm of his hand.

“Unless you really want to run completely naked through the streets of LA.”

“But they’re your …” Jack shook his head and put on the panties.

“It’s an interesting look,” said Dorothy, “and not one that would normally ring my bell, as it were, however –”

“Time to run,” said Jack.

And Jack was right in this. Because a door at the far end of the corridor, back beyond his fallen length of ducting, was now opening and heavily armed policemen and -women were making their urgent entrance.

“That way, I think,” said Dorothy, pointing towards a fire exit. “That way at the hurry-up.”

And that was the way Jack took.

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]