“It’s an American thing,” Dorothy explained.
“Speak to me, people. Oh, Goddamn!” Sam Maggott’s car slammed into the rear end of the gay officer’s.
And then Sam said, “Goddamn,” once again as Dorothy shot past him, returning the way she had come. “Will somebody shoot that woman?” cried Sam, and he drew out his gun and did it himself.
“Duck to the right,” cried Dorothy.
And Jack ducked to the right.
Bullets sang in through one side window and exited through the other.
“Duck to the right?” said Jack to himself. “That’s what Wallah said to me this morning. ‘Don’t forget to duck to the right.’” And Jack felt sad once more. And somewhat scared, of course.
Police cars were swinging around in further pursuit. Officers in passenger seats, who had mostly non-speaking parts and so needed no particular characterisation, were sliding cartridges into pump-action shotguns and looking forward to firing these.
“This is Chinatown,” said Dorothy to Jack as she took a left to head north on the 110.
Officer Wong overtook Sam Maggot’s car. “This job for me,” he said in his cod-Chinese accent. “This call for much dangerous stunt work performed by me to much applause.” And he climbed out of the window of his speeding car and up onto its roof.
“What is that damn Chinee up to?” Sam asked his driver.
His driver just shrugged, for his was a non-speaking role.
“Whoa! Get down, Jack,” shouted Dorothy as Officer Wong’s car drew level and Officer Wong leapt from the roof of his car and banged down onto theirs.
“That was impressive,” said Jack, “although somewhat above and beyond the call of duty, I would have thought.”
“They’ll give him a medal,” said Dorothy, slamming on the brakes.
Officer Wong flew forward, rolled over the bonnet and fell into the road. Dorothy drove carefully around him. “And a neck brace, too,” she said.
Other police cars were now joining the chase. They do have a lot of police cars in LA. Mostly because during every police chase, they lose so many as they smash into one another and roll over and over into storefronts.
Dorothy swerved. Two police cars smashed into one another. One of them rolled over and over into a storefront.
“South Pasadena,” said Dorothy. “Look – there’s Eddie Park.”[34]
Eddie Park made Jack feel even sadder.
The big fat officer opened fire.
“Duck,” shouted Dorothy as shotgun shells blew out the rear window, causing Jack much distress and considerable ducking.
There was of course much to be enjoyed in all the excitement, in the screaming of tyres upon asphalt and pedestrians leaping out of the way and the motor cars of innocent motorists slamming into one another. And why shouldn’t there be, eh? That’s what car chases are all about. And given their longevity, they probably do have the edge on explosions. Even really big ones.
“Ouch!” went Dorothy as the Mustang called Sally, being driven by the troubled young detective, shunted her rear end.
“Oi!” shouted Jack. “That’s my girlfriend’s rear end you’re shunting.”
And then Jack sort of vanished into the back of the car. Another impact crumpled up some of the boot, causing the rear seat to lift and Jack to roll into the boot.
Dorothy slammed on the brakes once more and the troubled young detective’s Mustang Sally struck her rear end once more, then travelled onwards, travelled upwards, and …
In slow motion (praise the Lord).
Sailed forward.
And, as they had now reached a place known as the Santa Fe Dam Recreational Area, it sailed over the dam and down and down and down.
“Nasty,” said Dorothy. “But I’m sure he leapt from the car in time.”
They were now, and praise the Lord for this also, travelling along Route 66. They were, they really were. Not that they were running from St Louis down to Missouri, taking in Oklahoma City, which everybody knows is oh so pretty. They were in fact passing Horse Thief Canyon Park, La Verne, Cable Airport and now Rancho Cucamonga, where a young Don Van Vliet, who would later change his name to Captain Beefheart and become a legend in his lifetime, would as a teenager try to sell a vacuum cleaner to Aldous Huxley.[35]
It’s a really long straight road there, above San Bernardino. You can get up an unhealthy speed if you really put your foot down. Which was what the gay officer, whose day was yet to dawn, was doing. His police car overtook Sam’s, much to Sam’s disgust, because his police car had just overtaken his. The gay officer’s police car now drew level with Dorothy’s. The gay officer addressed Dorothy through his public-address system, which is located somewhere on police cars, although no one has ever been able to ascertain exactly where.
“Give yourselves up,” came his amplified voice through the special speaker in the radiator grille.[36] “There’s no need for all this kerfuffle. You don’t really want to behave in this fashion. It’s not your fault – you are a product of your upbringing, you are programmed to behave in this way. I have this self-help manual I could lend you –”
Dorothy swerved the car and drove the gay officer off the road. His car, once again in glorious slow motion, sailed from Route 66 and down onto the famous California Speedway, where numerous speeding motorbikes, with very nice leather-clad riders, the gay officer noted, before all things went black for him, came all a-mashing into his rear parts and everywhere else.
“Right,” said Sam. “I’m angry now.” And he leaned out of his window and fired his gun once more.
And there at last it was.
Because we have been expecting its arrival for some time now, if only subconsciously. But there it was at last, that great big truck, with its great big dangerous cargo on the back. It was being driven towards them at considerable speed by a trucker called Joe-Bob, who was, coincidentally –
And who was also chatting on the CB to a fellow trucker called Joe-Bob, who was, coincidentally –
“Well, that’s a big ten-four,” said driver Joe-Bob. “Heading for the City of Angels on Route Sixty-Six. Pulling turkey with a shorthaired rabbit. Doing a manky dance rattle on my blue suede shoes.”[37]
“Come on?” said the driver called Joe-Bob at the message-receiving end.
“I said … Oh, Goddamn!”
And, “Goddamn!” also went Police Chief Sam Maggott as Dorothy swerved around the on-rushing truck and Sam Maggott’s car struck it dead on.
Boom.
In slow motion.
Of course.
Some time later, Dorothy drew the raddled, bullet-pocked black-and-white to the side of the road, climbed from it and opened the boot.
Jack peered out. “Are we still alive?” he asked.
“We’re fine,” said Dorothy. “We’ve shaken them off.”
Jack climbed out in a wibbly-wobbly way. “How did you learn to drive like that?” he asked.
“My daddy won the Indianapolis Five Hundred,” said Dorothy. “Oh, look, there’s a police uniform in the trunk.”
“I know,” said Jack, dusting down his all-but-naked self. “I’ve been fighting with it for several miles. It smells really bad.”
“Well, you’d best put it on. Then you can drive for a bit. We don’t want to arouse suspicion.”
Jack’s jaw dropped. “Well, no,” said he. “We wouldn’t want to do that.”
And Dorothy smiled upon Jack and said, “Well, hurry up now, come on.”
Jack dressed himself in the uniform, and but for its acrid qualities it did have to be said that he cut a rather dashing and romantic figure. He settled down into what was left of the driving seat.
Dorothy sat beside him. “Mmm,” she said to Jack.
“Mmm?” Jack asked. “What means ‘Mmm’?”
“As in, ‘Mmm, you look cute.’”
“Cute?” said Jack. “A teddy bear looks cute.”
“Not your one,” said Dorothy.
And Jack once more thought of Eddie. Not that Eddie had slipped Jack’s mind, but what with all the excitement and everything …
37
(For there is much jargon involved in being a trucker in the USA and chatting on the old CB.)