“I see,” said Smithy. “Well, if it is any consolation, you are really good. I mean, I never suspected for a second.”
The man placed one of his meaty paws on Smithy’s shoulder. “Thank you so much. You don’t know how much that means to me. I’ve been going to classes for a couple of years, but let’s be honest, roles are incredibly limited for someone like me. I’ve been pencilled to get the crap beaten out of me by Jason Statham next year.”
Smithy was taken aback to discover the man was a kindred spirit. Nobody knew better than him how frustrating it was to be pigeonholed as an actor because of your size. He patted the hand of the artist formerly known as Zero. “Hey, that’s a tough gig to get. Don’t put yourself down. My friend didn’t even make it into the room at that audition.”
Zero leaned back his head. “I just want this to be over. Chaz has asked me twice now to spank him for being a naughty boy. I keep grunting and walking off. Between you and me, that guy has some serious issues.”
“Yeah,” said Smithy. “I was getting that vibe alright.”
The artist formerly known as Zero stood up as they heard the distinctive sound of Wilkins being withering coming from around the corner.
“Let’s hope this row is the right one,” the butler was saying. “I don’t want to die of exhaustion while Pocahontas here leads us around in circles.”
“Oh no,” said Zero, flapping his hands in front of his face. “They’re coming back. C’mon, Keith. Get it together.” He leaned down and grabbed Smithy’s shoulder again. “Please, I know you guys must be working on a way out of here. You’ve got to take me with you! I’ll do all I can to help.”
Keith straightened up just as Muroe, Wilkins and their minders came around the corner. Smithy looked up to see Zero once again, standing there impassively.
“See,” said Twitchy. “I told you this was the place.”
Zero nodded. Damn, he really was good.
Chapter Thirty-Six
“Where the hell is he?”
For the first hour they’d been back at the ex-museum, now garage, it had been Smithy who had been assuring all and sundry that Diller would be fine and not to worry about him. Now he cracked and admitted that he was terrified.
Smithy had held it together until the point at which Diller’s chaperone had returned, sporting a badly bandaged head wound and a particularly surly disposition. All that Smithy had been able to get out of him was that Diller had disappeared, but only after getting him into a fight.
Zero was nowhere to be seen, having been called off to attend to whatever lunatic request Chaz had had now, which may or may not have involved spanking.
“Look,” said Muroe, “you said it yourself – he’s a resourceful guy. He’ll be fine.”
“Yeah, well, I’m an idiot. If I wasn’t an idiot, not only would I not be here, but neither would he. I sent him out into this pack of feral low-lifes. What the hell was I thinking?”
Several of the feral low-lives who were sitting nearby, playing cards, reacted in such a way that made it clear they weren’t wild about this description, but Smithy was past caring. As if they didn’t have enough problems on their plate, Chaz had sent over half a dozen more guards to watch them around the clock. No reason was given. That was the thing with megalomaniacs literally high on their own supply – reasons are rarely given and dangerous to ask for.
Muroe had already spoken to the guards about getting tools, and despite her considerable efforts cajoling and threatening, they offered no help. If Smithy were able to care, he’d have noticed that the threat of Chaz’s wrath no longer carried the weight it once had.
The mission to the junkyard had gone pretty well. They’d found a Chevrolet, a less precariously positioned Volkswagen Beetle and a station wagon, all of which had mostly working engines and out of which Muroe reckoned she could make something. They’d spent the last hour of daylight rushing around trying to find various parts. Muroe had said they might have what they needed, or else they’d have to go back to the junkyard at dawn to find it.
Of course, that was assuming they made it to dawn – Smithy was about to use some of the scant tools they had to fight his way out of the garage to see if he could locate Diller. He was trying and failing not to picture what might be happening to him when his thoughts were interrupted by a loud bang on the door.
Smithy ran over to answer it, which caused several of the card-playing guards – those who had a bad hand that they were delighted to drop, presumably – to get up and block his way.
“Well, somebody open the damn door, then.”
Somebody did.
A wave of relief so strong washed over Smithy. He felt like collapsing to his knees.
“Where the hell have you been?”
Diller looked taken aback. “Sorry, Dad. I was out making friends in the neighbourhood, like you asked me to.”
Adolf stood up from his seat. “I want a word with you, fuckface.”
“Oh, hey, Adolf,” said Diller cheerfully. “I was wondering where you had got to.”
“Adolf?” said Smithy. “Seriously?”
“Since birth. Family tradition.” Diller stepped to one side in the doorway and waved his clipboard. “Sorry, come on in.”
Smithy watched in amazement as four men entered the garage, carrying equipment.
“I didn’t know what we needed, but I asked some of the guys for suggestions.” He pointed at the stuff as it came in. “We got a mechanic’s full tool kit, a drill, a bandsaw that can cut metal – isn’t that right, Fido?”
A guy wearing a dog collar – not of the clerical variety – nodded enthusiastically.
The last guy to walk in was Cobra – or the Cobra, to give him his full title, aka the guy who had fought the ninja assassin. “And last but not least, my man El Cobra is lending us his oxy-acetylene welding kit.”
Diller’s new acquaintances put the equipment down.
Adolf had almost reached Diller and was pulling a blade from his boot. “I’m gonna fuck you up.”
Adolf didn’t see the headbutt coming, so the first thing he knew he was on the floor, his head spinning, as three versions of the Cobra stood over him. They blended into one blurry one, which grabbed him around the throat.
“Anybody lays a finger on the Dill-dog, they answer to me. ¿Comprende?”
Adolf had the common sense to nod before falling unconscious.
The Cobra turned and embraced Diller.
“Gracias, amigo,” said Diller. “I’m going to stick you down for an extra box of those cigars you like.”
The Cobra extended his hands to indicate this was too much.
“No, I insist. You’ve been great. All of you. Thank you so much.”
The quartet of killers waved their goodbyes as if they were leaving their grandma’s birthday party, and made their exit.
Diller turned to the three stunned expressions looking back at him.
“Hey, guys, how’d it go at the junkyard?”
Smithy, Wilkins and Muroe looked at one another before Muroe cleared her throat. “Time for a team meeting, gentlemen?”
Their group huddled between the cars, away from the prying ears of their guards.