The Case of the Stolen Film

by Gareth P. Jones

  ‘Holly insurance,’ replied Dirk, improvising as he went along. ‘Holly of Hollywood. We cover the World Film Studios. I understand a tape went missing this morning.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of you. Who is this?’ demanded Theo.

  ‘I told you, I’m –’

  ‘Don’t give me no story about an insurance company. I already spoke to the studio insurance people. He’s put you up to this, hasn’t he? Well, I told him that I don’t know who took the film and that’s what I’m telling you. And I’ve never heard of no Mr Sorrentino. Now leave me alone.’

  The phone went dead.

  The sun was setting and the sky was turning mauve. Dirk felt a wave of exhaustion sweep over him. All in all it had been a long day. He decided to return to the hill for the night then make an early start in the morning.

  He was bounding up the hill through the trees and had reached the Hollywood sign when a thorny weight landed on his back.

  ‘Where you goin’, Dilly?’ said Kitelsky, his spikes digging into Dirk’s back.

  ‘Get off me,’ growled Dirk. ‘How many times do I have to say it? I’m trying to help. Where’s Putz?’

  Kitelsky released Dirk. ‘He’s down the hill, actin’ a fool. Come on, I’ll show you,’ he said, walking into the trees.

  Dirk opened his mouth and shot fire at Kitelsky’s backside.

  ‘Ow! What d’you go doin’ that for?’ said Kitelsky.

  ‘That’s a reminder not to go jumping on me again,’ said Dirk.

  They found Putz standing in a clearing, carefully patting down a mound of old newspapers. He stood back, took aim, closed his eyes and blew. Bits of newspaper went flying everywhere.

  ‘What’s he doing?’ asked Dirk.

  ‘Tryin’ to breathe fire,’ replied Kitelsky, smirking.

  Torn pages of newspaper fluttered back down to the ground.

  ‘If you can do it, I can do it,’ said Putz, seeing Dirk. ‘We’re dragons, ain’t we? We got wings and teeth and claws and green blood. Ain’t no reason why we can’t breathe fire. Show me how you do it. I reckon I could learn easy.’

  Dirk grabbed a sheet of newspaper from the ground, rolled it up and exhaled a thin line of fire, instantly igniting it.

  ‘Looks easy enough,’ said Putz, grabbing another couple of sheets and blowing on them. Instead of setting the paper on fire, he only managed to make it flap pathetically.

  ‘I keep tellin’ him that we ain’t designed for fire-breathin’,’ said Kitelsky.

  ‘Give me that,’ said Dirk, snatching the paper from Putz’s paws.

  ‘Hey, mind your claws,’ said Putz. ‘I reckon I got close that time. I could feel my throat gettin’ kinda warm.’

  Dirk wasn’t listening. He had opened the paper. It was a page of classified ads. At the bottom of the page was an advert that read:

  Sorrentino Solutions

  If you’ve got a problem, we’ll find the solution

  Chapter 15

  ‘It should be a right turn … sorry, a left. No, a right,’ said Big Hair.

  ‘There it is,’ said Holly, noticing a sign saying, ‘Sands Mansion’, with the Global Sands logo of a G and an S in a circle.

  Mr Bigsby turned the car up the winding path through a gate that buzzed open automatically. In the car park were Mr Buchanan’s silver Bentley and a yellow VW van.

  ‘I won’t be long,’ said Holly’s dad, parking the car and opening the door.

  ‘Can’t we come and have a look?’ said Holly, eager to see what a billionaire’s mansion looked like.

  ‘We’re already late for our dinner reservations,’ said Big Hair.

  ‘But we want to say thank you to Mr Buchanan for such an amazing holiday,’ said Archie, winking at Holly.

  Big Hair smiled. ‘That’s very sweet of you, Archie,’ she said.

  ‘OK, but you both need to be on your best behaviour,’ said Mr Bigsby.

  ‘Particularly you, Holly,’ said Big Hair, who hadn’t forgotten how Holly had broken into a high-security Global Sands animal-testing laboratory.

  Holly wanted to protest but she felt Archie’s hand on her arm. She kept quiet and stepped out of the car.

  Sands Mansion overlooked the high-rise financial district of the city. It was an old-fashioned building with white walls and a grey stone roof. In front of it were layers of garden, each level symmetrically designed and immaculately maintained. Hundreds of security cameras covered the building, watching every square inch of the grounds.

  ‘Nice pad,’ said Archie. ‘It reminds me of my second home. Or is it my third?’

  ‘You’re always getting those two mixed up,’ said Holly.

  Mr Buchanan appeared at the top of the steps with two scruffy-looking men wearing colourful T-shirts and flared trousers, one with a dark goatee beard, the other with a lighter under-chin beard. Brant Buchanan shook both their hands and said, ‘Gentlemen, I’ll see you tonight?’ He handed the man with the under-chin beard a sealed envelope.

  The two men shook his hand and said goodbye. As they passed Holly, the man with the goatee turned to Big Hair and said, ‘How you doing?’

  ‘Very well, thank you,’ replied Big Hair primly, as though she had just been greeted by something that had come out of a dog’s bottom.

  ‘Malcolm,’ said Mr Buchanan warmly. ‘And Bridget.’ He kissed the air next to Big Hair’s cheeks. ‘And the enigmatic Holly Bigsby.’ He extended his hand.

  Holly hesitated, still mistrustful of the billionaire.

  ‘Holly,’ said her father, with a warning tone.

  Mr Buchanan smiled and turned to Archie. ‘And I see you have a friend, Holly,’ he said. ‘It’s so important for children to have company.’

  ‘Are those hippies?’ said Archie, pointing at the two men getting into the yellow van.’

  Mr Buchanan laughed. ‘In a way. They’re conservationists. You see, I’m very interested in endangered animals. I contribute to a number of charities for lesser-spotted species.’

  ‘Oh, Brant,’ sighed Big Hair, ‘the world is a better place for philanthropists such as yourself.’

  ‘What’s a philanthropist?’ asked Archie.

  ‘Someone who uses their money to do good,’ said Mr Bigsby.

  Brant Buchanan led them down the steps towards the mansion, past an ornate fountain.

  ‘It’s a wonderful building,’ said Big Hair. ‘Who designed it?’

  ‘A very famous architect whose name completely eludes me,’ said Mr Buchanan. ‘I do recall that it was built in 1924.’

  They turned a corner, finding themselves in front of a large cylindrical building surrounded by scaffolding.

  ‘Of course the disadvantage of an old building is that we often need repairs such as this,’ said Buchanan. He looked at Holly and said, ‘Actually, this is an interesting part of the building. Come and have a look.’

  Mr Buchanan pulled a sheet of tarpaulin to one side and motioned them into the room.

  ‘Cool room,’ said Archie as they stepped inside.

  The curved walls were filled with rows and rows of books from the wooden floors right up to the glass ceiling.

  ‘What a beautiful space,’ said Big Hair.

  ‘It was built as a place to store coal apparently, which is why it has no windows. So I put in the glass roof and converted it into a library,’ said Mr Buchanan.

  ‘It’s an impressive collection,’ said Holly’s dad.

  ‘Thank you,’ replied Mr Buchanan. ‘There are some very valuable books here. I’m afraid you won’t find any novels or poetry though. I have to admit I don’t have much time for fiction. I always say, there’s so much remarkable fact, why make things up? In fact, look.’ He grabbed a book from the shelf and handed it to Big Hair. ‘You were asking about the building. This gives you its history. Please borrow it.’

  ‘Thank you very much,’ said Big Hair.

  ‘I tell you what,’ continued Mr Buchanan, ‘why don’t you dine here tomorrow night? I can show you around
properly, you can tell me what you’ve learnt about my home, and Malcolm and I can discuss boring business matters then instead.’

  ‘Will the work wait until tomorrow?’ asked Holly’s dad.

  ‘Of course,’ replied Mr Buchanan, leading them out of the library and back towards the car. ‘I’ll see all of you at seven o’clock tomorrow.’

  Back in the car, on the way to the restaurant, Big Hair said, ‘How kind of Brant. He is a remarkable man.’

  ‘I don’t understand it,’ said Mr Bigsby. ‘He flew me five thousand miles urgently and I haven’t had one thing to do since being here.’

  ‘Don’t complain, Malcolm,’ scolded Big Hair. ‘When you work for a man like Brant, this is the kind of treatment you can expect.’

  Chapter 16

  Dirk, Kitelsky and Putz spent the night on the hill overlooking Los Angeles, taking turns to stay awake and keep watch for humans. Dirk took the first shift then settled down by Kitelsky, leaving Putz on look-out duty.

  It had been a long day and Dirk fell asleep instantly. He dreamt that he was in a film version of St George and the Dragon, in which he was playing the knight opposite Brant Buchanan as the dragon. In the dream an unseen director kept shouting at Dirk for forgetting his one line, which was ‘Die, dragon, die!’

  When he woke up, the sky had turned a hazy yellow and the vast city was half hidden by heavy smog.

  Both Kitelsky and Putz were sleeping, curled up with their spikes on the outside, looking like two dense patches of cactuses.

  Dirk stretched, and his back made an alarming clicking noise. He yawned and picked up the piece of newspaper with the phone number for Sorrentino Solutions, then tiptoed away.

  He made his way down the hill and then across the roofs to the same spot by the telephone mast. He connected using his claws and carefully tapped out the number.

  An answerphone message kicked in: ‘This is Sorrentino Solutions. If you want to speak to us, that’s just fine, but call us back after nine,’ said a chipper female voice.

  Dirk hung up and waited, gazing at the rooftops, mulling over the case. The film had been out there for twenty-four hours. For all he knew it was already too late. If it got into the media’s hands, it would be picked up by every news channel and chat show in the world. It would be big news.

  Dirk could see a wall-clock inside one of the houses but he had never been much good at telling the time, so he was pleased when a woman in a tracksuit came out of the house, walked to her enormous four-wheel drive SUV and shouted, ‘Come on, kids. It’s nine o’clock already.’

  Dirk connected to the phone line and called the number again.

  ‘If you’ve got a problem, be it awful or gruesome, pick up the phone and call Sorrentino Solutions. Sandra speaking. How can I help you?’ said the receptionist.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ said Dirk.

  ‘You don’t like it? What about this?’ chirruped Sandra. ‘If you’ve got problems, big or small, let Sorrentino Solutions solve them all.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Dirk. ‘I wonder if you can help me.’

  ‘I’ll certainly do my best, sir.’

  ‘I’m supposed to be delivering a parcel to you this morning,’ said Dirk, ‘and I’ve got this number but I think they’ve given me the wrong address.’

  Sandra gave him the address and directions and he made his way there.

  He came to a stop on top of a cinema that showed old black and white films, from which he could see into the ground-floor office of Sorrentino Solutions, where the blonde receptionist was sat behind a large bunch of daffodils. On the wall was a painting of more daffodils and when she got up to make herself a coffee, Dirk noticed that she even had a daffodil pattern on her skirt.

  She picked up the phone. Dirk grabbed a telephone wire that ran across the road, over the roof he was resting on, and connected his claw. He located the line into the building, and listened in on the phone conversation.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, Mr Sorrentino isn’t available right now,’ Sandra was saying. ‘Can I take a message?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the man on the line. ‘Tell him I’m not going to pay any more than the agreed price.’

  ‘I’ll pass on the message,’ said Sandra, who must have been lying about her boss being busy because when the next call came through from a Mr Smith she said, ‘Just one moment, please …’ There was a click then, ‘Mr Sorrentino, there’s another Mr Smith on the line. Oh, and Mr Tanner phoned and said he won’t increase his offer.’

  ‘Thank you, Sandra,’ said Sorrentino. He spoke quickly in a clipped American accent. ‘So, Mr Smith, what’s your problem?’

  ‘It’s my neighbour’s dog. He keeps urinating against my fence,’ said Mr Smith.

  ‘I see, and you want me to teach the little pooch a lesson?’ replied Sorrentino.

  ‘Yeah, I do. Dumb dog!’ said Mr Smith.

  Throughout the day Sorrentino had a number of calls along similar lines. The clients would tell him their problems, which ranged from petty parking disputes right up to one caller who wanted to put a family-run cookie shop out of business so he could buy their premises and turn them into a new hotel complex.

  In each case Mr Sorrentino would listen, take down all the details, then give the client his rates and assure them of his utmost discretion, without showing any sign of caring about the consequences of his actions.

  In between work calls, Sandra had long gossipy phone conversations with her sister about her boyfriend, Clive, who was an out-of-work actor and hadn’t landed a part for several months.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind but there’s only so far my wages will stretch,’ said Sandra.

  ‘Ask Mr Sorrentino for a pay rise,’ replied her sister. ‘You keep saying how well business is going. I still don’t understand what he does.’

  ‘To tell the truth, nor do I,’ said Sandra, giggling. ‘But I’m sure it’s really boring, probably to do with computers or something. He does have a lot of Mr Smiths phoning up though.’

  At one o’clock Sandra walked to the bank to pay in cheques, then bought herself some lunch and returned to the office for the rest of the afternoon. At five-thirty she left. Dirk stayed where he was.

  After she had gone Mr Sorrentino made one more call.

  ‘Hey, man,’ said a voice.

  ‘It’s me,’ said Sorrentino. ‘You got the money?’

  ‘Yeah, man, we got the cash.’

  ‘Good. Meet me on the top level of the parking lot by the Grove shopping complex in half an hour,’ said Sorrentino.

  Dirk looked across the road at the multi-storey car park with GROVE printed down the side. He waited for Sorrentino to appear. The day’s eavesdropping had left Dirk with a mental image of what he would look like. From his voice he pictured a man in his forties, maybe pushing fifty, with stubble and dark, uncaring eyes. But no such man appeared. In fact no one came out of the building.

  Dirk knew that if he was in Sorrentino’s line of business he certainly wouldn’t want to make it easy for people to find him. Figuring there was a back door to the building, he decided to catch up with him at the meeting point.

  Dirk checked there was no one looking up then sprang from the roof, flying across the road, along the top of a market place and up to a department store. In the middle of the shopping centre was a fountain sending out spurts of water in time with music which was being piped out of speakers. Shopping-laden humans were milling around. None of them noticed Dirk flying over their heads, somersaulting in mid-air and landing softly in a crouching position behind a large rubbish bin in the other corner of the highest level of the car park.

  It was empty. Dirk heard a car engine approaching. A yellow VW van drove up the ramp and did a circuit of the level before stopping in front of the lift doors.

  The car stopped and two men with long hair and flared trousers stepped out.

  ‘You there, Sorrentino?’ said one of the men.

  A bright flashlight was switched on from the shadow beside the lift. The t
wo men shielded their eyes. ‘What’s with the interrogation lights, man?’ said the other.

  ‘That’s far enough,’ said Sorrentino, from behind the light. ‘Let’s see the money.’

  The man with the under-chin beard pulled out an envelope and made to walk forward.

  ‘Throw it,’ said Sorrentino.

  The man threw the envelope into the shadow. After a moment’s pause a suitcase slid out into the light.

  ‘This better be worth the money,’ said the man.

  ‘If you’re not satisfied, you’ve got my number,’ said Sorrentino.

  ‘Well, it was a pleasure doing business with you, man,’ said the man with the goatee beard and both of them got back into the van and left.

  With no reason to follow the van, Dirk waited for Mr Sorrentino to show himself, wondering again whether he was going to match the image he had built up in his head. The flashlight went off. Dirk saw a movement in the shadow by the lift. Then Sorrentino stepped into the light, revealing his face. He had a long nose, yellow eyes, and his grey skin was covered in thin white spikes.

  ‘So Sorrentino’s a Desert Dragon,’ muttered Dirk to himself.

  Chapter 17

  Dirk watched the Desert Dragon emerge from the shadows and peer over the edge of the car park.

  ‘Pretty view,’ said Dirk, stepping out from behind the bin.

  Sorrentino spun around. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded.

  ‘The name’s Dirk Dilly,’ Dirk replied. ‘And I didn’t catch your first name.’

  ‘My name’s Mo. Mo Sorrentino. What’s it to you, Mountain Dragon?’

  ‘Mo? You’re the dragon Kitelsky and Putz mentioned,’ said Dirk, approaching on all fours, with his head lowered.

  ‘How do know Kitelsky and Putz?’ snarled Sorrentino, sidestepping in the same way Dirk had seen the other Desert Dragons do.

  ‘Don’t you ever worry about all those human lives you ruin?’ said Dirk.

  ‘Listen, I make some people happy, I make some people sad. What business is it of yours, anyway?’ Sorrentino said, flicking out his claws threateningly.

  ‘None at all,’ said Dirk, ‘but films of dragons make it my business.’