The Toyminator

  Eddie turned and plodded up the corridor. It was one of those all-over-concrete kind of jobbies with bulkhead lights at regular intervals. The number twenty-three* was painted on the walls at similarly regular intervals. Eddie assumed, correctly, that this meant that he was on the twenty-third level beneath the ground.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ Eddie asked.

  ‘To meet your maker,’ said the other Jack.

  ‘My maker was Mister Anders Anders,’ said Eddie, ‘the kindly, lovable white-haired old Toymaker.’

  The other Jack laughed and his laugh all echoed around. ‘He’ll soon have his work cut out for him,’ he said.

  ‘And what does that mean?’ Eddie asked.

  ‘In twelve hours from now,’ said the other Jack, ‘Toy City will be wiped from the map. If there is a map with it on. My employer will suck it dry of all life. Lay it to waste. Oh yes.’

  ‘Why?’ Eddie asked. ‘To what purpose?’

  ‘Why?’ asked the other Jack. ‘Because we can. And to what purpose? To further our own ends.’

  ‘Now, I’m only guessing here,’ said Eddie, turning and peering up at the other Jack, ‘but would these “own ends” be of the world-domination persuasion?’

  ‘You’ll know soon enough.’ The other Jack nudged Eddie with his shoe. ‘Now get a move on. To the elevator.’

  ‘Where am I?’ asked Eddie. ‘Tell me where I am.’

  ‘Where are we?’ asked Jack. ‘Exactly.’

  He was making good progress, considering he had never driven a car with an internal combustion engine before. He’d almost got the hang of the gears.

  Dorothy flinched as Jack changed from second to fourth.

  ‘Exactly?’ she said. ‘We are travelling North on Interstate Fifteen. We just passed Las Vegas, which you would probably have liked, lots of lights and things like that. We are heading towards the Nevada desert.’

  ‘And is that good?’ Jack asked. ‘Only I’m not sure what we should be doing next. The plan was to follow the American Dream. Find the top man. Beat the truth out of him.’

  ‘Perhaps you were over-hasty bringing that meat-cleaver into play. But look on the bright side – at least we got to meet Marilyn Monroe and Sydney Greenstreet. I wish I’d got their autographs. And the names of their agents and—’

  ‘Stop now,’ said Jack. ‘We’ll have to go back to LA. We need the movie script. I’m sure a lot will be explained when we read it.’

  ‘LA is no longer an option,’ said Dorothy. ‘And I don’t know where this leaves my career. I know that it’s expected of starlets to do disreputable things that will later come back to haunt them when they become famous, but I might just have stepped too far over the line this time.’

  Jack sighed, changed from fourth to first, changed hastily back again and said, ‘You do talk some toot at times.’

  ‘Not a bit of it,’ said Dorothy. ‘The people who get to the top in this world do so because they are risk-takers. They thrive upon risk. Every woman or man at the top has a shady past. They’ve all done things that they wouldn’t want their contemporaries to find out about. They wouldn’t want these things to come out once they are famous, but they’re not ashamed that they did these things. They did them because they got a thrill out of them. They did them because they are risk-takers.’

  ‘So what are you saying?’ Jack asked, as he performed another interesting gear change. ‘That it’s all right to do bad things?’

  ‘It’s never right to do bad things. Bad things hurt good people.’

  ‘I don’t mean to be bad,’ said Jack.

  ‘You’re not bad,’ said Dorothy.

  ‘I am,’ said Jack. ‘I’m selfish. I put myself first.’

  ‘Everyone does that.’

  ‘Eddie doesn’t,’ said Jack. ‘Eddie would risk anything to protect me, I know he would.’

  ‘And you would do the same for him.’

  ‘Of course I would,’ said Jack. ‘But time is running out for Eddie and if I don’t find him soon and take him back to Toy City he will die.’

  ‘You’ll find him,’ said Dorothy. ‘Somehow.’

  ‘Somehow,’ thought Eddie, ‘Jack will find me somehow.’

  ‘Into the elevator,’ said the other Jack. ‘Go on now.’

  Eddie entered the elevator. The other Jack joined him, pressed a button, the doors closed, the elevator rose. Eddie Bear fumed. Silently.

  And then the doors took to opening and Eddie Bear gazed out.

  And wondered at the view that lay before him.

  It looked to be a big round room with shiny metal walls. There were all kinds of strange machines in this room. Strange machines with twinkling lights upon them, being attended to by men in white coats who all looked strangely alike.

  ‘Where are we now?’ asked Eddie.

  ‘Central operations room,’ said the other Jack. ‘Go on now.’

  ‘I do wish you’d stop saying that. It’s as repetitive as.’

  ‘Go on now.’ And the other Jack kicked Eddie.

  ‘But where shall we go now?’ Jack asked.

  ‘How about somewhere to eat?’ asked Dorothy. ‘Lunch would be nice.’

  ‘I’m really not hungry.’ But Jack’s stomach rumbled.

  ‘We do need a plan of some kind,’ said Dorothy.

  ‘Plan?’ said Jack. ‘What we need is a miracle.’ Jack hunched over the wheel.

  Presently they approached a route-side eatery. It was a Golden Chicken Diner. Jack drove hurriedly past it.

  Somewhat later, with the police car making those alarming coughing sounds that cars will make when they are running out of fuel, they approached another eatery: Haley’s Comet Lounge.

  ‘This will do us fine,’ said Dorothy.

  The car clunked up to a petrol pump.*

  A tall man with short hair smiled out from the shade of a veranda. He wore a drab grey mechanic’s overall that accentuated his drab greyness and wiped his hands upon an oily rag, which implied an intimate knowledge of automobiles.

  ‘Howdy, Officer,’ said he as Jack wound down what was left of his window. ‘Suu-ee, what the Hell happened here?’

  ‘Nothing to concern yourself with,’ said Jack.

  Dorothy leaned over him. And Jack sniffed her hair. ‘Fill her up,’ said Dorothy, ‘and check the oil, please, and the suspension.’

  ‘Have to put her up on the ramp for that, ma’am.’

  ‘Fine, please do it.’

  Dorothy led Jack off to eat as the drab grey mechanic drove the stolen police car into the garage.†

  ‘It’s best out of sight,’ said Dorothy to Jack as they entered the eatery.

  ‘Do you have money?’ Jack asked as he patted his uniform pockets. ‘Because I don’t’

  ‘Leave all the talking to me.’

  The eatery was everything that it should have been. Everything in its right place. Long bar along the right-hand wall. Tables to the left with window views of Interstate 15. A great many framed photographs upon the walls, mostly of men in sporting attire holding large fish.

  There were some trophies on a shelf behind the bar, silver trophies topped by figures of men in sporting attire holding large fish.

  Behind the bar counter stood a short man with tall hair. He wore sporting attire and held a large fish.

  ‘Good afternoon, Officer, ma’am,’ said he. ‘Would you care to take a number?’

  ‘A number?’ said Jack. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘So that I can seat you. In the right order.’

  ‘But there’s just the two of us.’

  ‘In the right order to be served.’

  ‘There’s still just the two of us.’

  ‘Take a number,’ said Dorothy.

  ‘Can I have any number?’ Jack asked.

  ‘You can have this number,’ said the short man with tall hair. And he placed his fish upon the countertop, peeled a number from what looked to be a date-a-day calendar jobbie on the wall next to a framed picture of a m
an in sporting attire holding—

  ‘Can we sit anywhere?’ Jack asked. And he viewed the tables. All were empty.

  ‘What number do you have?’ asked the short man.

  ‘Twenty-three,’* said Jack.

  ‘Then you’re in luck. Table over there, by the window.’

  Dorothy and Jack sat down at this table.

  ‘Was I supposed to understand any of that?’ Jack asked.

  ‘What’s to understand?’ asked Dorothy, and she took up a menu. It was a fish-shaped menu. Jack took up one similar.

  ‘So,’ said the short man, suddenly beside them, ‘allow me to introduce myself. My name is Guy and I will be your waiter. Can I recommend to you today’s specials?’

  Jack looked up at the short man called Guy. ‘Why don’t you give it a go?’

  ‘Right,’ said the short man called Guy, and he drew a tall breath.

  And sang a jolly song.

  We have carp from Arizona

  And perch from Buffalo,

  A great big trout

  With a shiny snout

  From the shores of Idaho.

  We’ve a pike called Spike

  And I’m sure you’d like

  A bowl of fries with him.

  There’s a shark called Mark

  That I’ll serve, for a lark,

  With salad to keep you slim.

  I’ve monkfish, swordfish, cramp fish, cuttlefish,

  Goby, goldfish, gudgeon.

  I’ve sperm whale, starfish, bottle-nose dolphin,

  I ain’t no curmudgeon.

  If you like salmon, perch or bass,

  Mullet, hake, or flounder,

  Dory, plaice, or skate, or sole,

  Try Guy, he’s a great all-rounder.

  And there was plenty more of that, twenty-three* verses more of that, all sung in the ‘country’ style.

  ‘Well,’ said Jack, clapping his hands together when the song was finally done, ‘I quite enjoyed that.’

  ‘Enjoyed what?’ asked Guy.

  ‘The song,’ said Jack.

  ‘What song was that?’

  ‘The one about fish.’

  ‘Oh, that song. I’m sorry, Officer, it’s been a rough morning, what with all the toing and froing.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jack. And added in as delicate a fashion as he could, ‘Do you have anything other than fish on your menu?’

  Guy looked puzzled. He was puzzled.

  ‘Meat,’ said Jack. ‘Any meat?’

  ‘A burger,’ said Guy.

  ‘A burger,’ said Jack.

  ‘Certainly, Officer. One mackerel burger coming up. And for your lovely daughter?’

  ‘Daughter?’ said Jack.

  ‘So sorry, Officer, it’s these new shoes, the insteps pinch.’

  ‘I’ll have the sardines,’ said Dorothy, perusing the menu. ‘Do they come with the quahog sauce?’

  ‘Surely do, ma’am. And whiting mayo and chingree chitlins.’

  ‘Mahser on the side?’

  ‘With hilsa and beckti?’

  ‘That’s the way I love it.’ And Dorothy smiled at Guy and he smiled back at her.

  ‘And a mackerel burger for your uncle,’ said Guy.

  ‘Yes,’ said Jack,’ With snodgrass and mong-waffle and pungdooey. Oh and add a little clabwangle to my little chikadee while you’re about it.’

  Guy bowed and departed.

  ‘You made all that up,’ said Dorothy.

  ‘Well, so did you.’

  ‘Here you go then,’ said Guy, presenting his discerning patrons with an overloaded tray.

  ‘That was fast!’ said Jack.

  ‘This is America,’ said Guy, and he placed the tray upon the table and lifted food covers from two plates.

  ‘That’s not what I ordered,’ said Jack.

  ‘Nor me,’ said Dorothy.

  Guy burst into tears.

  Dorothy reached out and patted his shoulder. ‘There’s no need to go upsetting yourself,’ she said. ‘I’m sure that whatever this is, it will be very nice.’

  ‘What is it?’ asked Jack, taking up a fork and prodding at the items that lay steaming up on his plate.

  ‘It’s chicken fish,’ said the sobbing Guy. ‘Locally caught and as fresh as the day is long.’

  ‘It’s chicken,’ said Jack. ‘There’s no fish at all involved here.’

  ‘ ’Tis too,’ said Guy.

  ‘ ’Tis not,’ said Jack. ‘It’s chicken. That’s a chicken leg.’

  ‘It’s a fish leg,’ said Guy.

  ‘Fish do not have legs,’ Jack informed him.

  ‘Chicken fish do.’

  ‘I don’t believe that there is such a thing as a chicken fish,’ said Jack.

  ‘There’s one there on the counter,’ said Guy. ‘I was petting it when you came in.’

  ‘It doesn’t have any legs.’

  ‘I de-legged it earlier. That’s what’s on the plates.’

  ‘Fish don’t have wings, either,’ said Dorothy. ‘There are wings on my plate.’

  ‘Well, that’s where you’re wrong,’ said Guy. ‘Flying fish have wings, everybody knows that.’

  ‘This is definitely chicken.’ Jack sniffed at the chicken on his plate.

  ‘Mine’s definitely chicken, too,’ said Dorothy.

  ‘You’re sure?’ Guy dabbed at his running nose with an oversized red gingham handkerchief. ‘You’re absolutely sure?’

  ‘Jack here is a police officer,’ said Dorothy, ‘so he knows these things.’

  ‘I knew it!’ Guy beat a right-hand fist into a left-hand handkerchief-carrying palm. ‘I knew it. Chicken fish be damned. I’ve been cheated, officer. I wish to register a complaint.’

  ‘Do you have any fish in this restaurant?’ Jack asked.

  Guy sniffed.

  ‘That wasn’t an answer,’ said Jack.

  Guy shrugged.

  ‘Nor was that.’

  ‘All right! All right!’ Guy fell to his knees, although given his shortcomings in the tallness department the difference in height that this made was hardly perceptible. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he wailed, and he beat his chest with diminutive fists. ‘Thirty years I’ve been in business here. Thirty years in these parts, winning every fishing competition, known in these parts as Guy Haley, Champion of Champions. I took an eighty-pound buckling up at the creek in forty-seven. Never been beaten. Never been beaten.’

  ‘Where is this leading?’ Jack asked. ‘Only we are hungry. And we are in a hurry.’

  ‘I’ll leave you to your chicken fish, then.’

  ‘No,’ said Jack, ‘you won’t. I don’t want chicken. I will eat anything that you have, but not chicken.’

  ‘All right! All right!’ Guy was back on his feet.

  ‘Get up,’ said Jack.

  ‘I am up.’

  ‘Then please, in as few words as possible, offer us an explanation.’

  ‘For what?’ asked Guy.

  ‘Would you like me to hit him?’ asked Dorothy.

  Guy flinched.

  ‘No,’ said Jack. ‘He’s only little.’

  ‘I’m not that little,’ said Guy.

  ‘True enough,’ said Jack. ‘I’ll hit you myself.’

  ‘No, please.’

  ‘Then tell us. Everything.’

  ‘Well, like I say, I’ve been fishing these parts for—’

  Jack raised his fist.

  ‘No, please, Officer, no.’

  ‘Then tell us,’ said Jack. ‘Everything. And you know what I mean by that.’

  ‘It’s not my fault.’ Guy wept. ‘The chickens made me do it.’

  ‘The chickens?’ said Jack. ‘The chickens?’

  ‘Out there.’ Guy pointed with a short and trembly finger. ‘Out there in the desert, twenty miles from here in Area Fifty-Two.’

  21

  ‘Area Fifty-Two?’ went Jack, a-falling back in his seat. ‘Chickens from Area Fifty-Two?’

  ‘It’s as true as I’m sitting here, although I
’m actually standing up.’

  ‘Chickens,’ said Jack to Dorothy.

  ‘Area Fifty-Two?’ said Dorothy to Jack.

  ‘Where the crashed flying saucer was taken. The head chef at the Golden Chicken Diner told me all about it.’

  ‘It’s a “chef thing”,’ said Guy. ‘All chefs know about it.’

  Jack looked very hard at Guy. ‘What did the chickens make you do?’

  ‘Did I say chickens?’ said Guy. ‘I meant chicken people. The people who produce the chicken for the Golden Chicken Diners. It all comes from Area Fifty-Two, up the Interstate. The toxic waste from their factory out there in the desert polluted the creek, so I couldn’t catch fish anymore. And I complained. I went out there. And their guys said that if I just kept my mouth shut they’d see to it that I had free supplies of chicken for life to sell as fish.’

  ‘No one is ever going to be fooled by you passing off chicken as fish,’ said Jack.

  ‘No one’s ever complained before,’ said Guy.

  ‘No one?’ said Jack. ‘How long have you been serving this chicken?’

  Guy looked down at his wristlet watch. ‘Since ten this morning,’ he said. ‘You’re the first folk in the diner today.’

  ‘Right,’ said Jack, and he nodded. Thoughtfully.

  ‘Listen, Officer,’ said Guy, ‘this is my livelihood. Could you not just eat the chicken and pretend it’s fish? What harm could it do?’

  ‘Mister Haley,’ said Jack, ‘I’m going to ask you a question and I’d like you to think very carefully before you answer it. Do you think you can do that?’

  Guy Haley nodded also. Perhaps even a little more thoughtfully than Jack had.

  ‘My question is this,’ said Jack. ‘Why don’t you just sell chicken as chicken?’

  ‘Sell it as chicken,’ Guy said. Slowly.

  Jack did further noddings.

  ‘Ah,’ said Guy. ‘You mean not pretend it’s fish?’

  Jack made an encouraging face. And did a bit more nodding.

  ‘If I might just stop you there,’ said Dorothy, with no head noddings involved. ‘I feel that this conversation has gone quite far enough. Which way is it to Area Fifty-Two, Mister Haley?’

  ‘Not pretend it’s fish,’ said Mr Haley.

  ‘Which way?’ asked Dorothy.

  ‘Say it’s chicken,’ said Mr Haley.