And then I straightened up and put the boot in. Sending Sam into a deep dark whirling pit of oblivion, from which I trusted he would sometime awaken, an older but wiser man.
“Well,” said I, flicking specks of blood from my old tweed jacket. “I guess I have to thank you guys for helping me out. Sam’s sidekick cooked to a puddle and Sam in the land of nod. I’ll be taking my leave now. I’ll meet you in a bar somewhere.”
“Just a minute,” said the kid called Icarus. “Mum said I was to give you a message, the next time I saw you.”
“Kid,” said I, “I’m not your brother. How can I get this through your skull?”
“You certainly look like my brother,” said Icarus. “In fact you look exactly like my brother. Identical to my brother in fact.”
“Kid, have you ever met Lazlo Woodbine?”
“Of course not,” said Icarus.
“And have you ever seen a photograph of Lazlo Woodbine?”
Icarus shook his head.
“Because there are no photographs. No-one knows exactly what Woodbine looks like. All anyone knows for sure about Woodbine is that he wears a trenchcoat and a fedora, but no-one can put a face to the name. And do you know why that is? Don’t speak, I’ll tell you. It’s one of the secrets of my success. My exciting exploits are always told in the first person, so the reader is Woodbine. And the reader projects his own image onto the blank canvas. The reader identifies with Woodbine. Sees himself as Woodbine.”
“You don’t look like me,” said Icarus. “You look like my brother.”
“I haven’t finished, kid. If the reader doesn’t identify himself with Woodbine, then he does the next best thing. Puts his hero’s face on Woodbine’s body. You obviously look up to your brother as a hero.”
“Someone hold me back,” said Icarus. “Someone hold me back, or I’ll punch his lights out.”
“Christmas dinner must be a lot of laughs at your house,” said Johnny Boy. “I’m holding your leg, that’s the best I can do.”
“Give it up, kid,” I said. “I’m not your brother, though I’d be honoured, if I were you, to think I was. If you know what I mean and I’m sure that you do.”
“He’s barking,” said Icarus. “What did I tell you, Johnny Boy?”
“But he thinks he’s telling the truth. Look at him, you have the gift, you can see his colours.”
And Icarus could. He could see the intricate webbings of colour that were thoughts and emotions swimming all over the man. And he could see the man inside the man. The man who was his brother?
“We don’t have time for this,” said Icarus. “We have to get out of here and fast.”
“Leave it to me, kid.” I straightened my shoulders with more sang-froid than a San Fernando sandwich salesman at a sanitary-wear symposium. “I’ll have us out of here in less than twenty minutes.” I stepped over the VCR and removed the surveillance tape. I slid this into my inside pocket and then stepped over to the desk. Here I retrieved my trusty Smith and Western Union and slotted this into my shoulder holster. Then I stepped over to the telephone and dialled out a digit or two.
And then I spoke words and received words in return and then I replaced the receiver. “All done,” said I.
“What is done?” asked Icarus. “How are you getting us out of here?”
“I dialled out for a pizza, kid.”
“At a time like this!”
“Easy, kid, easy. It’s one of those pizza companies where, if they can’t deliver the pizza in twenty minutes, you get it for free. And did you ever hear of anybody actually getting their pizza for free?”
“No, I didn’t,” said Icarus.
“No, kid, you didn’t. Because those guys find you wherever you are. And I’ve tried hiding. In the spirit of experimentation, you understand, or devilment, when I have imps in me. You know how it is.”
“I know you once hid in the loft,” said Icarus. “And the pizza man abseiled down the roof and found you.”
“Good example,” said I. “Not me, of course. But good example.”
“Did you order us all a pizza?” asked Johnny Boy. “Because I’d like anchovies on mine. I love anchovies, they’re small and delicious. A bit like me, really.”
“Gimme a break.”
Icarus sighed. He’d been doing a lot of sighing lately. More than was normally natural for one of his tender years. “So you really think”, said he, “that if we just wait around here, in this secret underground establishment, a pizza delivery man is going to knock on the door?”
“There isn’t a door any more,” said Johnny Boy.
“Knock on the doorpost then. Pizza in hand?”
“And then we just follow him out,” said I. “You don’t get to be the best in the business without having a flair for this kind of thing. I’m telling you, kid, in my business, having a flair can mean the difference between a pair of drainpipe trousers or a pair of bell-bottoms. If you know what I mean, and I’m sure I could have put it somewhat better than that.”
“Barking,” said Icarus. “He’s barking mad.”
“I think we should just run,” said Johnny Boy.
Captain Ian nudged the arm of Icarus. “Do you want me to punch your brother’s lights out?” he asked. “I could carry him over my shoulder.”
“I heard that,” I said, checking my watch.
“Oh, get real,” said Icarus. “This rubbish isn’t going to work.”
“I’ll give you a slice,” I said to Johnny Boy. “But if there’s only one olive, I’m having it.”
“Fair enough. I hope you ordered extra cheese.”
“Doesn’t everybody?”
“For the love of God!” said Icarus. “This is insanity. There isn’t going to be a pizza man. We’re down here in the Ministry of Hell. We have to be serious. We have to escape.”
“Pizza for Mr Woodwork,” said a voice. “Hot pastrami, double cheese and triple chewing fat.”
I looked at the kid called Icarus.
And he looked back at me.
“Don’t say it, kid,” I said. “Don’t go getting all dewy-eyed and all choked up and saying, ‘Thank you, Mr Woodbine, you’re the bestest friend a boy could ever have.’ Just bow to the inevitable. Forget the rest, when you’re dealing with the best. This is Woodbine you’re dealing with and Woodbine always gets the job done.”
The kid was speechless and who could blame him? I took his hand in mine and gave it a shake.
A couple of tablets dropped from his hand and into my manly palm. They looked kind of sweaty, but a tablet is a tablet and I had a real old headache from the bopping that Sam had given me.
“Aspirins,” I said.
And I tossed one down my throat.
13
“Sit down,” said Icarus Smith. “Something is about to happen to you. We don’t have much time.”
“Listen, kid,” I told him. “I’m done with sitting down. I have a case that needs solving.”
“You have to listen, something is about to happen. That wasn’t an aspirin that you just swallowed. That was the Red Head drug.”
“Who’s paying for this pizza?” asked the pizza guy, doing that thing that they always do with their helmets.
“I’m paying,” said I. “And I’ve got fifty big ones for you if you give me a lift out of here on the back of your bike.”
“No,” said Icarus. “Hold on.”
“Fifty big ones!” said the pizza guy. Now doing that thing they always do with their gloves. “Hop on, Mr Woodcock, and I’ll have you away in a jiffy.”
“No! Hold on!” And Icarus made a pair of fists.
The guy with the military bearing stepped forward to block my passage. And I don’t take kindly to that, when I’m not wearing corduroy. I drew out the trusty Smith and “Go West” by the Village People.
“Out of my way, fella,” said I. “Or know the joy that a bullet brings, which ain’t no joy at all.”
The guy took another step forward and I took a small one back. This guy was brave, I had to give him that.