“What did you say?” asked Jack.
“Don’t say anything, Amelie,” said the man in beige.
“Amelie?” said Jack. “Mister Tinto? What is this?”
And then Jack saw it. Because perhaps this was the special moment. In fact, the other special moment, which had seemed like a special moment at the time, was, in fact, only a warm-up sort of special moment.
Jack stared hard at the man in beige.
And then Jack saw it.
And had a special moment.
The man in beige was Tinto. Well, he wasn’t the Tinto, but he was, well, what was he? Yes, he was a human manifestation, a human counterpart – he was the human version of Tinto. And the lovely? The lovely? Yes! Jack glanced at her and his glance became a stare. She was Amelie. Amelie made flesh.
Jack fell back for a moment, gawping and shaking his cleaver about. It was them. Why hadn’t he seen it immediately? He’d known there was something …
But …
“Jack!” shouted Dorothy, most loudly, too. “Jack, get a grip on yourself.”
“But it’s them.” And Jack did foolish pointings all around with his free hand. “It’s Amelie and Tinto. It’s them. It’s them if they were people. It is.”
Jack’s confusion turned to anger. As is often the case.
“Elevator,” said Jack. “Upstairs,” said Jack.
“Yes,” said Mr Tinto. “Anything you say.”
“Dorothy?” called Jack.
“I’ll follow,” said Dorothy. “Once I’ve dealt with this lot.”
“You’re not going to shoot them?”
Chefs and managers ducked and flinched.
“I’ll just have a word with them.”
“You promise?” Jack had some doubts in his head.
“I promise,” said Dorothy. And as Jack led Amelie and Mr Tinto from the stage, one hand on the beige man’s collar, the other holding the cleaver high, Dorothy addressed the shaking, trembling audience.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she said, “I am so sorry that this talk, which I’m sure you were all looking forward to, has been brought to a premature conclusion. I suggest now that you vacate the premises and do so in an orderly fashion. I would also strongly advise that you say nothing about what has occurred here. We have two hostages and should you inform the police, we will not hesitate to kill them. Do you understand?”
Heads nodded thoughtfully. Eyes strayed to the exit doors.
“Ah, just one more thing,” said Dorothy, “before you leave. Which one of you is it?”
The crowd, as one, made a puzzled face.
“Come on,” said Dorothy. “You know what I mean.”
The crowd, as one, shook its head.
“The hero,” said Dorothy. “The one who will stay behind. The one who although working as a chef used to work for Special Ops, or something, but got sacked through no fault of his own, which led to the break-up with his wife, a bit of a drink problem. But who, rising to such a situation as this, will slip away from the departing crowd, crawl through air-conditioning ducts and bring my companion and me to justice. There’s always one. We all know that.”
“Ah,” went the crowd, as one. Because, after all, we all know that.
“So come on, then,” said Dorothy. “Which one of you is it?”
The crowd now took to a collective silence.
“All right,” said Dorothy. “Then let me put it another way. I will count to ten, and if the hero has not identified himself before this time I will execute two people at random. Come on, now, I’m counting down.”
“Oh, all right,” came a voice from an air-conditioning duct. “Don’t shoot anyone, I’m coming out.”
Jack was making good progress along the corridor. If good progress can indeed be measured by progress along a corridor.
“We really can’t help you,” said Amelie, wiggling in front.
Jack looked down at those long, long legs. They were just like re – Oh, they were real legs, weren’t they?
Jack said, “Get a move on.”
“Amelie’s right,” said Mr Tinto. “We can’t help you. We don’t know anything.”
“You know something,” said Jack. “I’ve been following the American Dream, me, and I know how it works. You can lead me to the next person in the chain of command. That’s how it works, I know it.”
They were approaching a lift. The doors of this were gold.
“That’s not how it works,” said Mr Tinto. “Well, I suppose it is in theory, but not in reality, no.”
“I have no time to debate issues with you,” said Jack, flashing the cleaver’s blade before Mr Tinto’s frightened eyes. “I am a desperate man.”
“Well, clearly so, yes. But you are making a mistake.”
“They always say that,” said Jack.
“Who do?” asked the man in beige as Jack hauled him bodily onwards.
“Baddies,” said Jack. “It’s a threatening thing to say, ‘You are making a big mistake.’”
“I don’t mean it to be threatening,” the beige man protested. “I’m just telling you the truth – you are making a big mistake.”
“We’ll see,” said Jack. “Get a move on, please.”
And on they went and they reached the lift. And at the lift Dorothy caught up with them.
“Is everything all right?” Jack asked her.
“Yes, it is now,” she replied.
“I don’t like the sound of that.” And Jack reached out and pressed the “up” button. “What happened? You didn’t kill anyone, did you?”
“No, I just knocked them on the head.”
“All of them?”
“No, just the one – the chef who’d stripped down to his vest and bare feet and hidden himself in the air-conditioning system.”
Jack shook his head. “Do chefs often do that?” he asked.
“They do here in Hollywood,” said Dorothy. “Going up.”
And the lift doors opened.
“Everyone inside,” said Jack.
“Do I really have to?” asked Mr Tinto.
“Yes,” said Jack. “You do.”
“But you don’t need two hostages. Why not just take Amelie here?”
All were now inside the lift and the lift doors closed upon them. Jack pressed the topmost button. The lift began to rise.
“What did you say?” asked Amelie.
“I’m only saying,” said Mr Tinto, “that in hostage situations such as this, I’m the one most likely to get shot. They rarely shoot the pretty girl – she’ll probably end up snogging the hostage-taker.”
“Snogging?” said Amelie.
“Well, shagging,” said Mr Tinto.
“What?” said Amelie, and she smacked Mr Tinto right in the face.
“Go girl,” said Dorothy.
“Not in the face,” cried Mr Tinto. And he burst into tears.
“She didn’t hit you that hard,” said Jack. “Don’t be such a baby.”
“I’m not paid to get smacked,” said Mr Tinto. “Taken hostage, yes, that was in my contract. But not smacked. I always demand a stunt double if there’s any smacking involved. Or being thrown through windows.”
Jack rolled his eyes.
“Well, I’ve not been paid for any shagging,” said Amelie. “That’s work for a body double. I don’t do that kind of work.”
“Oh, please,” said Mr Tinto. “It’s common knowledge that you’ve done stag films.”
“I’ve done no such thing. And we all know how you get work. Whose casting couch did you have to bend over to –”
“Would you please stop now,” said Jack. “I’m in charge here. I have the cleaver.”
“Yes,” said Mr Tinto, “and I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that. That is a real cleaver – you could have injured me with that. If I wasn’t a professional I would have stopped you dead on the set and demanded a prop.”
“A what?” said Jack.
“A soft cleaver. A rubber one.”
“This is a real cleaver,” said Jack.
“Yes, I know, and you can stop threatening me with it now – we’re no longer on camera.”
“We might be,” said Amelie. “The director never called ‘cut’.”