“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]
Samuel J. Maggott weighed up the pros and cons. The feisty young female officer did have a very short skirt. And he was going through a very messy divorce. “I’ll take my own Goddamn car,” declared Sam.
And he would have, too, had he not been run down by a very short-sighted officer with thick pebblelensed glasses, who was rather quick off the mark but not at all good at backing up.
“Did I just run over a sleeping policeman?” he asked.
And out into the streets of LA they went.
Dorothy with her foot down hard and Jack bouncing around in the back. The troubled young man in his Ford Mustang, Sally. The feisty young woman in the Cobra. And black-and-white after black-and-white and finally Sam Maggott, who was at last in a squad car.
Now it could be argued that the streets of San Francisco are far better than the streets of LA when it comes to a car chase. They have all those hills and the tramcars that get in the way. And the sea views are nice, too. And in the 1960s, Owlsley would produce the finest LSD that any generation had ever experienced, which although having nothing particularly to do with car chases (although you can have them on acid without actually leaving your armchair) ought to be taken into consideration when it comes to the matter of deciding whether to shoot the car chase for your movie in LA or San Francisco.
Although it could well be argued, in fact it is difficult to argue against, that the best car chase ever filmed was filmed in Paris.[32]
But this was Los Angeles and this was where this car chase was occurring. Now!
And at this point. Before things get very hairy. It might also be worth mentioning that anyone who has never visited LA knows what the headquarters of the Los Angeles Police Department really looks like. It doesn’t look like that big building with the great columns and everything that you see in virtually every crime movie that’s set in LA. That building is, believe it or not, the General Post Office.
The genuine headquarters of the Los Angeles Police Department is housed in an ivory palace that looks like the Taj Mahal, but with feathered wings and pink bubbles and …[33]
Dorothy swung a hard right.
“Speak to me, people, speak to me now,” demanded Sam from his squad car, which was being driven along at some speed by another officer. “Speak to me, what’s happening?”
“Escaped prisoners moving west on Wilshire Boulevard,” came a voice to Sam, the voice of the feisty young female officer. “Am in pursuit. Hey, get back there.”
“Leave this to me,” came the voice of the troubled young detective.
Sam heard the sounds of a Mustang called Sally striking an AC Cobra.
Dorothy put her foot down and glanced into the rear-view mirror. “They seem to be trying to drive each other off the road,” she told Jack, who had struggled up beside her. “This is Koreatown, by the way.”
“Very nice,” said Jack. “Look out!”
A police car travelling south on South Western Avenue crossed their path. Dorothy struck its rear end and sent it spinning around. The feisty young female officer crashed into this car, which put her out of the chase rather too quickly for her liking. The troubled young detective, however, kept on coming and behind him Officer Wong, the fat officer, the gay officer whose day was yet to dawn, but sadly not the short-sighted officer, who was now travelling south on South Broadway and heading for the beach.
Samuel Maggott was close upon the rear of the gay officer, though. Which was something that he would have to discuss with his therapist at a later date.
Dorothy took another turn to the right, north onto Beverly Boulevard.
And what a nice neighbourhood that is.
Although.
A chap in a uniform jumped out in front of the speeding automobile, hand raised, face set in an expression of determination. Dorothy tried to swerve around him, but he jumped once more into her path. Dorothy slewed to a stop. The chap in the uniform with the determined expression on his face came around to the side of the car.
“Sorry, ma’am,” he said, “but this is Beverly Hills. We don’t allow car chases here, nor tourist buses. You’ll have to go back the way you just came.”
Dorothy glanced once more into the rear-view mirror. The troubled young detective and all the other squad cars had halted at the Wilshire/Beverly intersection. They knew the rules. Some things were just not done.
“Sorry,” said Dorothy, backing up the car.
“What?” went Jack. Astounded.
31
Number twenty-three being that number which always turns up in American movies. On hotel room doors, on the sides of freight train carriages. Here, there, everywhere. Why? Well …