Diller: “What happened?”
Diller: “You OK?”
Diller: “Smithy?”
Diller: “Answer me!”
Diller: “Oh God, this is bad.”
Diller: “Why aren’t you answering?”
Diller: “Not that I know where you are.”
Diller: “Or had anything to do with whatever you are doing.”
Diller: “I’ve been busy all day.”
Diller: “I’m going to call Cheryl.”
Smithy cursed silently to himself and then thumbed a response quickly.
Smithy: “All fine. DO NOT CALL CHERYL!!!”
After twenty seconds, the phone vibrated again.
Diller: “What happened?”
Smithy: “He came back early. I think he was excited to see what Springsteen had sent him.”
Diller: “Oh.”
Diller: “Oops! ”
Diller: “How did he not see you?”
Smithy: “I was always good at hide-and-seek.”
Actually, it had been a combination of luck and quick thinking. Mostly luck. Thankfully, because it was a big apartment and Lousy Louis was loud, Smithy had been able to shut himself in the walk-in closet using the Star Trek door without drawing any attention.
Smithy had nearly screamed when the automated voice of Samantha had come blaring over the speaker in the otherwise silent space. Between Lousy Louis’s booming voice and the phone call being carried right around the apartment, he had been able to ascertain where Lousy was. He had also heard more than enough to reaffirm his opinion that the man was indeed an unspeakable asshole – one who was, inexplicably, afraid of balloons. If Smithy had known that sooner … Still, too late now. As it was, he’d barely managed to avoid being seen.
When Lousy had proclaimed loudly that he was going for a dump Smithy had been able to escape from the closet. He’d also been lucky that when Lousy had heard the door open, he’d assumed it was down to some fault in the fancy-pants system. What on earth was wrong with ordinary door handles? They had worked fine for centuries. Lousy Louis deserved all the problems he’d got – and a whole lot more.
As soon as he’d fled from the bedroom, Smithy had looked around, desperate to find somewhere else to hide. There had been that moment – the point of no return. He’d stood facing the glass-enclosed kitchen, considering whether to make left for the front door and freedom, or head right and stick with his faltering plan. Then he had heard Louis make that crack about the PA’s kid – Smithy had turned right. Then he’d turned back. Not to leave – he’d realised that he’d messed up and left the crowbar behind. He padded into the kitchen, snatched it up and then made his way back into the apartment.
He’d only been in the kitchen, bedroom and bathroom so far. The open-plan living area was made up of a massive sunken lounge with a sofa stretching the length of it that could comfortably seat about ten people. The enormous wooden coffee table in front of it was about the size of Smithy’s entire apartment. Even as he’d looked around in panic, he couldn’t help but wonder how they’d managed to get it inside. Had they taken out some of the windows that opened on to the huge balcony?
The view of the sun crawling across the Manhattan sky was a billion-dollar one, literally. They didn’t call this stretch of real estate Billionaires’ Row for nothing. Smithy had considered the balcony as a possible hiding place but rejected it. There was some furniture out there, but not a great deal, and the shrubbery wasn’t the kind that would offer much cover. Besides, all he’d need was for Lousy to lock it and he’d be stuck out there all night.
The sunken lounge offered no concealment either. There was a bar in the far-left corner of the room, but that hadn’t seemed a good strategic choice either. It had struck Smithy that it was highly likely Lousy Louis was a solo drinker.
To Smithy’s right was a wall hung with massive movie posters. As Smithy had scanned the room, he’d ignored them pointedly. He couldn’t afford to get distracted. He’d walked further into the apartment, between the lounge and the wall of posters. There must be somewhere in this …
Smithy had turned the corner and stopped dead. Leonard Nimoy was staring right at him.
Smithy’s phone vibrated again.
Diller: “Where are you hiding?”
Smithy: “I’m in The Muppets.”
Diller: “What?”
Around the corner from the lounge lay an area about twice the size of the massive bedroom, filled with … everything. Lousy owned the most ridiculous collection of memorabilia known to man. He had a life-sized waxwork of Leonard Nimoy as Spock, his hand held aloft in the traditional Vulcan salute. He had the pinball machine from Tron – the original film, not the awful remake. He had a Batman suit, a Captain America suit, a suit of samurai armour – all displayed on full-sized mannequins. Alongside them was a velociraptor from Jurassic Park and life-sized models of both the Alien and the Predator. In the centre of the room, dominating proceedings, was what appeared to be the Batmobile from the original TV series. However they had got the immense coffee table inside now looked like it must have been a walk in the park. And there, against the far wall, was a massive collection of what appeared to be every single member of The Muppets.
Smithy had been considering going for the closed door at the back of the “museum area” when he heard, “Samantha, darken kitchen glass to max.” He’d panicked and dived in amongst the Muppets, burying himself in their furry safety. It had been instinctive. He came from a generation that didn’t trust politicians, the press or damn near anyone else on TV, but everyone trusted the Muppets. He’d rearranged them hastily, placing five-foot tall Fozzie Bear to the left of him, Gonzo and a few of the chickens to his right, and the bass player from Dr Teeth and the Electric Mayhem standing behind him. Elmo sat on Smithy’s lap. It had left Smithy just enough room to look out, but invisible to all but the most interested of observers.
Diller: “You’re hiding with The Muppets?”
Smithy: “Long story.”
Diller: “Has he got loads of other cool stuff, then?”
Smithy: “I’ll tell you later.”
Diller: “Does he really not have a TV?”
Smithy: “Bit busy right now, Dill.”
Diller: “Oh right, sorry. Good luck.”
Diller: “And if you happen to get your hands on that pistol …”
Smithy: “No.”
Smithy was starting to worry he was a bad influence on Diller. After all, the kid had enough on his plate – maybe he should stop involving him in his dumb ideas?
Over the next few hours, he had made good use of Lousy’s – well, not TV. You couldn’t call a twelve-foot HD screen that appeared out of the ceiling a mere TV. It was no doubt a “home entertainment system” or something. They watched a hockey game, which the Islanders had lost 4–3 to Arizona, bringing an unexpected trip to the play-offs to its expected end. There had been a point when Lousy had frozen the picture on one of the Islanders’ scantily clad “ice girls”. These women were like NFL cheerleaders, only they had to clean the ice between periods while waving at drunken fans. As Lousy had sat and stared at her frozen image, Smithy had feared the worst. He had looked away and covered Elmo’s eyes. Then, thankfully, Lousy had gone back to live TV in time to see the Islanders massacre another breakaway.