Roy2

Roy₂

Mickey Morgan was a tall, broad-shouldered, strikingly handsome man, but his good looks were fatally compromised by the cruel set to his features and the cold, hard light of greed in his crystal blue eyes.

He walked swiftly down the busy street, hard eyes darting around him. Another block and he would find his accomplices, the Bosc brothers, waiting with a nondescript sedan. In his pocket he could feel the light weight of a small packet of stones. There were only half a dozen of them, but they were large, as diamonds go, a study in clarity and perfection of cut. Half a dozen stolen diamonds conservatively worth a half a million dollars.

Half a block from safety, he walked past a black sheriff's deputy and was alarmed to see recognition in the man's eyes. He knew the FBI had his picture, and that they were probably circulating it, but he hadn't expected to be spotted so soon, especially since he had taken the precaution of bleaching out his coal-black hair and dying it a rich strawberry blond.

Pretending not to see the deputy, he altered his steps and entered the six-story headquarters of the Ranier Corporation. Going in, he wondered briefly about the number of people pouring out. He crossed to the elevator, standing open and empty, and was nearly run down by a stream of bodies pouring out of the stairway. It wasn't until he left the elevator at the fifth floor that he heard the fire alarm and smelled the smoke.

#-#-#-#-

At Fire Station 51, John Gage sat at the kitchen table doing a "spot the ten differences" puzzle in the back of a children's magazine he'd found on the floor of his partner's car and watching Roy DeSoto clean out the belt pack where he kept his scissors. Roy finished sharpening a pair of bandage scissors and tested them on the magazine page. The end of the scissors clipped into a corner of one of the pictures.

"Hey! Aw, man!"

"Now there are eleven differences," Roy said unrepentantly.

Johnny gave him an exasperated look and edged the magazine further away. Roy returned the scissors to the pack and fastened it back on his belt, behind his left hip. At that moment the tones went off, loud and long, and the two paramedics jumped for their squad. The engine crew ran too, abandoning the television in the middle of a rerun of the Star Trek episode "Mirror, Mirror".

"Station 23, station 51, engine 110, station 99. Structure fire at the Ranier Corporation building downtown, 2222 E. Clementine. Cross street Tangelo Avenue. Time out 14:22."

#-#-#-#-

Mickey Morgan paced the deserted fifth floor of the Ranier building, one hand in his pocket, closed over the light bulk of the sack of stolen diamonds. He could hear sirens all around and cursed his luck at being spotted and at choosing this place to try to shake the cop. Now he was probably the only one left in here. He would be arrested when he left for sure. He could hide the diamonds, but there was no guarantee that he'd ever be able to retrieve them, especially if the building did burn to the ground. And even if he wasn't the only one left in here, it was a sure bet that everyone leaving the place was going to be searched.

Well, no, Mickey corrected himself. On second thought, not everyone would be searched. Standing close to the wall, he peeked out the window at the activity below, firefighters pulling lines and connecting hoses and a handful of men, clad in the bulky anonymity of turnout gear, entering the building to search for victims.

With a cold, cruel, calculating smile, Mickey Morgan slipped into the nearest dark office and waited for a handy fireman to come his way.

#-#-#-#-

Roy pulled the squad up and staged it behind the engine. He ran around to help Johnny set out their equipment before they donned their SCBAs and went in to help search the building. Close beside them, Chet Kelly was wrestling with a stubborn connection on a fire hydrant. Deputy Vince Howard ran over to see if he could help, but stopped and did a double take.

"Roy?!? What are you doing out here in those clothes?"

Roy gave Vince a bewildered look. "Uh, there's a fire. I'm a fireman."

"Yeah, I know but . . .," Vince shook his head in disbelief. "You were here already, in street clothes. I saw you go in the building just about the time the alarm went off. I was going to speak to you, but you walked right by me like I wasn't even there!"

Roy shook his head as he held Johnny's oxygen tank, helping his partner shoulder into the bulky contraption. "Wasn't me, Vince."

"But it was, Roy! I was standing as close to you then as I am now!"

Chet, still struggling with his hook up, chimed in, his face and voice broadcasting awe. "You know what that was? It was a doppelganger. That's a double of a living person. Those are bad news. Maybe you'd better sit this one out Roy. It could be an omen of doom."

"It's gonna be an omen of permanent latrine duty if you don't get that hose hooked up pretty soon, you twit!" Cap called over.

Roy shrugged into his own oxygen tank, shifted the harness to take the weight from Johnny's hands and buckled it across his midriff. Then he reached inside his turnout and pulled out his penlight, stepping forward and shining it in Vince's eyes.

"Hit your head lately?"

Annoyed, Vince batted his hand away and stepped back. "Okay, okay. So it wasn't you. Maybe I was imagining it."

"Maybe it was somebody who looked like me."

"Maybe. But if it was, it was somebody who looked just like you." The deputy turned away to help Chet with his hydrant and Roy and Johnny finished their preparations and ran over to where Cap waited.

"We've already got a team on the lower three floors. You guys take the top three. Start at the top and work down. Right now the fire's contained to the third floor, but we don't know how long it's gonna stay that way. Apparently a lot of that floor is being used for storage by a company called Braeburn Ltd., but we haven't been able to find out what they're storing. So, in and out, don't hang around. Got it?"

The two paramedics nodded and ran together for the door, waiting until they were just outside before they fixed their dangling facemasks. They went in and climbed swiftly, barely noticing the weight of their gear. On the fifth floor landing they paused and pulled their masks aside.

"Split up?" Johnny asked.

"If you want, since these floors aren't involved yet. We'd better plan on searching four together, though."

"You got it. I'll take six."

"I've got five, then. Meet you back here in . . .," he consulted his watch and Johnny did the same, "ten minutes?"

"Gotcha. Be careful!"

Roy shook his head. "You be careful!"

"Oh, I'm not worried. If I get into trouble and you can't help me, you can just send your doppelganger."

The blond paramedic snorted in amusement and turned for the fire door leading to the fifth floor. With his partner's footfalls still echoing in the stone stairwell, he went through the doorway and into the corridor beyond.

#-#-#-#-

Mickey Morgan lurked behind the door in a darkened office, watching the bulky figure of a fireman approach down the hallway. The man was stopping to check each room and though he grew impatient at the delay, Mickey knew that his best bet for taking down his opponent was to wait here in darkness and rely on surprise.

Lurking was one of Mickey's primary skills, though he also claimed more than competence in deception, deceit, and casual cruelty. Basically, he excelled at anything that offered to turn an unearned profit or grant him instant gratification of any of his many appetites.

At the far end of the hallway sunlight spilled in through a single narrow window. Grey industrial carpeting muted the fireman's footsteps, but his shadow moving ahead of him warned Mickey of his approach. Mickey pulled the small cosh from his coat pocket and tensed. The fireman came through the door and Mickey jumped him, knocking his helmet aside and bringing the weighted cloth bag down on the back of his head. The stranger fell without a sound. Mickey rolled him over and gasped in shock.

He was looking into his own face.

Mickey smiled, a slow, cruel smile, and considered the hand that fate had so unexpectedly dealt him. He had only intended to take the man's turnout gear, slip out past the police lines and then ditch it and disappear into the crowd. This, though, would be so much better! He could pass himself off as this firefighter, this -- he pulled the man's coat open and read his nametag -- this "R. DeSoto, Paramedic" -- and when R. DeSoto's body was found in the burned out building everyone would think that he, Mickey Morgan, was dead. Not only could he elude the cops, but he could ditch his accomplices.

In any situation involving profit, Mickey always asked himself what the percentage was. In this case the profit was half a million dollars in stolen gems and with the death of one insignificant firefighter Mickey's percentage went from 33⅓ to an even 100.

"Well, well," he said to his double, as he began stripping the man so he could exchange clothes with him, "it looks like this is our lucky day. Only for me, it's good luck. For you, it's very, very bad luck indeed!"

He took the man's clothes, forbearing only to exchange underwear with him. There were lines that even Mickey Morgan would not cross and, anyway, who would notice? Once he was wearing the fireman's uniform he stopped to consider a hiding place for the stolen diamonds. DeSoto had, for reasons Mickey couldn't begin to fathom, a small black pouch on his belt holding an assortment of scissors. Mickey, who had never heard of paramedics, wondered briefly why a fireman would bother with scissors. It didn't really matter, though. The pouch made an excellent place to tuck half a dozen brilliant little gems out of sight. He dropped them down into the bottom of the pack, replaced the scissors, and buckled the pack back on his belt. Then he took a second to dress the firefighter in his own discarded clothing.

As he manhandled the stranger into his cheap three-piece suit, DeSoto moaned and moved feebly. Up until that point Mickey had thought him dead, and now he considered finishing him off. After a moment's consideration, though, he decided it would be better to leave him to burn to death. He pulled the fireman's turnouts on over the uniform, wrestled the heavy oxygen tank onto his back, and got the helmet and mask on just in time as the door to the fire stairs opened and another fireman leaned out and hollered, "Roy?"

Roy. R. DeSoto must be Roy DeSoto. Hastily he stepped out into the hallway, trying not to stagger under the weight of the gear he was now wearing. The other fireman held the door and Mickey went to join him.

They had just stepped out into the stairwell when whatever Braeburn Ltd. was storing on the third floor went up with a bang. The building shook on its foundations and Mickey, finding the SCBA heavier than he had counted on, stumbled, missed his footing and pitched down the steep stairs. He struck his head on the iron railing and was unconscious before he hit the fourth floor landing.

#-#-#-#-

In the northeast corner of the fifth floor of the Ranier building the senior vice president's executive secretary enjoyed the rare privilege of a window in her office. The view it offered was only of a disused balcony and the many-windowed wall of what had been, sometime in the twenties or thirties, a luxurious penthouse in the now abandoned Jonagold Hotel next door. Still, in the corporate rat race, a window is a window and a small perk is a perk nonetheless.

As firemen below raced about with a new urgency at the call of "code I", two figures moved unheeded through the darkness of the old Jonagold penthouse. Glass shattered outwards from one of the windows and one by one the Bosc brothers emerged onto the balcony and crossed to the secretary's office.

John Thomas, J.T., was the older of the two. He was a wiry, skinny, little man with a big attitude and a mean disposition. His specialties were ordering people around and losing his temper. His "little" brother Willie was small only in a comparison with Lou Ferrigno and Andre the Giant. Willie was a retired prizefighter who had taken one too many blows to the head. While not exactly stupid, it would be fair to say that he wasn't the sharpest bulb on the Christmas tree, nor even the brightest tool in the tool shed. Optimistic and easygoing, he was usually the recipient of J.T.'s orders and temper tantrums.

The two men paused outside the Ranier building. J.T. looked around, spotted a chunk of masonry lying against the edge of the balcony and pointed to it.

"Willie. Rock. Window. Now."

Willie obediently put the rock through the secretary's cherished window and the two climbed into the increasingly smokier interior of the Ranier building. J.T. was muttering under his breath.

"Lying, scheming little double-crossing jackass! Trying to duck away from us so's he could keep them all for himself!"

"Maybe he had a reason to come in here," Willie suggested innocently. "Maybe he saw there was a fire and wanted to help. Maybe he got worried about that policeman there on the sidewalk. Maybe he hadda go to the baffroom."

J.T. rolled his eyes. "Maybe he better have those diamonds when we find him or I'm gonna watch while you twist his head right off!"

In some ways Willie was smarter than his brother. "If he doesn't have em, and I twist his head off, he won't never be able to tell us where they is. When heads come off you can't put 'em back on again. I know. I tried it. It doesn't work."

While they talked they were walking swiftly through the burning building. The explosion on the third floor had given the fire a boost that it really didn't need and now the fourth floor was heavily involved and flames were beginning to come through the floor on five. J.T. was on the brink of giving up when they entered a darkened office and found Roy DeSoto, dressed in Mickey Morgan's clothes, unconscious on the floor.

"Hey, look!" Willie exclaimed unnecessarily. "It's Mickey! And I think he's got hurt."

J.T. knelt down and slapped Roy's face none too gently. "Morgan! Dammit, Morgan. Wake up and tell me what you did with the diamonds!" Getting only a vague moan in answer, J.T. swiftly searched him and came up empty.

"Damn! What did he do with them? Could he have met somebody here and sold them already?"

"Sold 'em for what?" Willie asked reasonably. "He ain't got any money on him either."

J.T. looked up at his brother in surprise. "Yeah, you're right. That's pretty good, Bibb." (Bibb was an old nickname stemming not so much from Willie's eating habits as from the fact that anything J.T. dropped landed on him.) "You know, sometimes you're not half stupid. Look, we've got to get out of here before we burn to death. You bring pretty boy. He IS going to tell us what he did with those diamonds -- one way or another!"

#-#-#-#-

Mickey Morgan woke up to find a pair of concerned brown eyes a few inches away. He tried to draw back, but he was already lying flat on the ground. His head ached fiercely and his shaken brain was crammed with random detached bits of information that didn't seem to make any sense and didn't, so far as he could tell, fit together at all.

Brown Eyes flashed a tiny but painfully bright light at him and Mickey cringed and ducked away.

"Now, now. None of that. Come on, Pally. Work with me here. Can you tell me your name?"

Mickey tried to think of his name and came up blank, so he fell back on one of the few things that were deeply enough embedded in his brain to be reliable. "I have the right to remain silent," he mumbled.

Brown Eyes snorted and bit his lip. He gave Mickey a look that was intended to be a reassuring smile, but bottomed out at worried grimace. "Well, yeah, you do. But, look. I'm not trying to arrest you, here, partner. I'm trying to figure out how badly you're hurt. Come on, now, Pally. Tell me your name."

"I don't know your name."

"I'm not asking you my name, I'm asking you --" the man broke off as the words sank in. "What do you mean you don't know my name?"

"Do I know your name?"

"Roy!"

"Hi, Roy."

"No! No! I'm not Roy!"

"You just said . . . ?"

"You're Roy! I'm Johnny! Come on, Pally! Don't you remember?"

"Remember what?"

Johnny sat back on his heels and stared at Mickey in dismay. He looked like he was going to cry. "Aw, man!"

#-#-#-#-

Roy awoke in a strange room, lying on a strange bed, looking up at two strange men. Everything was strange here, but then he was a stranger himself.

The big man nudged the little man. "Look, J.T.! He's waking up."

J.T. growled in his throat. "Thanks, you moron. I always appreciate having you around to point out the obvious to me in case I've been suddenly stricken stupid."

"You're welcome."

J.T. sighed and smacked his forehead with the palm of his hand. "Look, have you still got enough ice there? Is there anything else we're supposed to do? I know you know about this stuff, Willie. You got knocked out enough yourself when you were in the ring!"

"Not my fault. I gotta glass head. And yeah. I think we're supposed to ask him stuff. I always remember people asking me things, like 'wow! Does that hurt?' and 'do you think you could go another round?'"

J.T. obediently grabbed the front of Roy's shirt, pulled him into a half sitting position and shouted, "where's the diamonds, you stupid little putz?"

The sudden movement was too much for Roy. The pounding in his head tripled and blackness closed over him like the waters of a pond. When he came to again J.T. stood back from the bed, one of Willie's massive hands holding him at a distance. "Not like that," Willie was saying. "You gots to be gentle-like." He smoothed Roy's shirtfront. "Okay, Mickey, can you tell me your name?"

"Mickey?" Roy guessed.

"See?" Willie was delighted. "He remembers his name!"

"You just told him his name. That ain't no fair."

"Oh, uh. Okay, Mickey. What's your last name?"

"Uh, Mickeeeeeeeyyyyyyyyy . . . Mouse?"

"Well, no. But you're kinda close. What round is it?"

"What round is it?" J.T. exploded. "What kind of question is that?"

"Well, they always used to ask me that."

J.T. leaned in and slapped his brother on the side of the head. "The diamonds, stupid! Ask him where the diamonds are!"

Willie turned back to Roy. "Mickey, what did you do with the diamonds?"

"What diamonds?"

"He don't remember, J.T.!"

J.T.'s eyes narrowed suspiciously. "He says he don't remember."

"I think he's telling the truth," Willie said, defensively. "He's acting honest -- not like his regular self at all. Hey, Mickey, do you know what day it is?" He got only a blank look in reply, so he persisted. "Who's the president?"

"Of what?"

"Can you tell me the year?" Again Roy had no answer to offer. Willie turned to his brother. "I think he's got amnesia, J.T.! Hey, Mickey! You got amnesia?"

Roy moved weakly to pat at his pockets. "I dunno. What's it look like?"

#-#-#-#-

A-shift got off duty at eight in the morning. By eight thirty the engine crew had joined Johnny and Joanne DeSoto in the waiting room at Rampart General. Dr. Early, the resident neurosurgeon, was in examining 'Roy'.

"Any change?" Cap asked.

Johnny put his arm around Joanne and gave her shoulders a reassuring squeeze as he answered.

"Nope, nothing. He still doesn't remember anyone or anything. The doc should be out in a minute to give us an update on his condition."

"It was the doppelganger, man," Chet said gravely. "I told him he should have sat that one out."

Cap smacked him upside the head. "Quiet, you twit! You think Joanne needs to hear this now?"

Before Chet could defend himself the door opened and Joe Early came in. The kindly, white-haired physician looked tired. He sat slouched on the arm of one of the chairs and addressed them gravely.

"First let me say that, apart from the memory problem, Roy's doing fine. He only has a moderate concussion and his other injuries just amount to bumps and bruises from the fall down the stairwell. His neurological responses are well within the normal range and I foresee a quick and easy recovery."

"Yeah," Chet said, "but is he ever going to get his memory back?"

Joe smiled sadly. "Leave it to you, Chet, to pose the difficult questions. That I can't tell you. We're going to go ahead and keep him for another day. I've got him mildly sedated and I want him to rest with a minimum of excitement. I'm sorry, but that means no visitors." He turned his gentle gaze on Joanne and Johnny. "That includes the two of you, as well. You can go in and tell him goodbye, but then I want you both to go home until tomorrow morning. He's in no danger, and he's more likely to remember spontaneously without the pressure of having you hanging on his every word. Besides, you both need a good meal and a decent sleep.

"Hopefully he'll begin to recover his memory on his own in the next day or two."

"And if he doesn't?" Johnny asked fearfully.

"Then we'll have to try to think of some ways to help him remember."

Disappointed, Cap, Chet, Mike and Marco said their goodbyes and left solemnly. Johnny and Joanne went into Mickey's hospital room.

Mickey was out of it, his eyes half open like a sleepy cat, and he made no indication that he was aware of their presence. Under Joe Early's watchful eye, Johnny stepped forward and clapped him on the shoulder and Joanne leaned in to give him a kiss on the cheek. Then Joanne picked up a plastic bag holding the remains of the clothes he'd worn in and she and Johnny went out into the hall together.

As soon as they were alone, Joanne put her hands in her face and began to sob. Alarmed, Johnny guided her into the nearest waiting room and put his arms around her.

"Hey! Hey, now! Take it easy! He's going to be okay! I'm sure of it."

"Johnny! Oh, Johnny," she cried. "There's something else."

"What is it, Jo?" he asked her gently, puzzled.

"I don't think I can tell you."

"You can tell me anything."

"Anything?"

"Anything!"

"Promise?"

"Promise!"

His partner's wife gulped and moved back. "Dixie gave me this bag that has his clothes in it. Johnny, he was wearing these!" She reached into the bag and pulled out a pair of bikini briefs, hot pink with little lavender lips all over them.

Johnny felt his face grow seven shades of scarlet. "Uh . . . ."

"I've never even seen these before! It's not what he was wearing when he left the house yesterday morning. He was only wearing regular tightie whities! Why would my husband be wearing underwear that I've never seen before? Why would he be wearing sexy underwear that I've never seen before?" She dropped them back into the bag and sobbed into her hands some more.

"And they're in such poor taste, too," she wept.

"Uh," Johnny said again, once more failing to become articulate.

"I've thought and I've thought," Joanne said, "and the only thing that I can think of is that some other woman gave them to him and he put them on because he was thinking about her. Johnny, is my husband having an affair?"

"No," Johnny said. On this at least he felt he could be definite. "Look, Jo. I don't know why Roy would have been wearing those . . . things. But I do know that he loves you and that he'd never, ever cheat on you. I'm sure when he gets his memory back he'll have an explanation for you."

"Well I can't think of any!"

"Maybe," Johnny thought fast, "maybe he ripped his underwear on a run earlier, or something. Yeah, I bet that's it! Something happened to his normal underwear and he had to run into the nearest store and grab a new pair. Only, for some reason, that was the only pair they had that he could wear. That'd explain it!"

"But wouldn't you know if something like that happened?"

"Why would I know?"

"Well, wouldn't he tell you?"

"You're kidding! Joanne, I'm the last person Roy would tell something embarrassing like that to! I'd never let him live it down! I'd tease him about it mercilessly for at least the next three shifts. And I'd make veiled references to it around the other guys, so that they'd start asking what was going on. I mean, I wouldn't tell them, of course, I'd just keep Roy really nervous thinking that I might. And I'd probably use it to blackmail him into doing dishes for me next time I got stuck with KP or something."

"But . . .," she blinked in confusion, "I thought that you were Roy's best friend!"

"Well, yeah! That's why. You don't think I'm gonna let anybody else treat him like that, do you?"

Joanne shook her head, trying to understand this masculine concept of friendship. "What would you do if you found out something embarrassing about somebody you didn't like."

Johnny shrugged. "Nothing, probably."

"Nothing?"

"Sure, nothing. Heck, why should I care if they're embarrassed? I'm only gonna go out of my way to embarrass someone I really care about!"

"That's nice?"

She meant it as a question, but Johnny took it as a compliment. He ducked his head, blushed modestly and said, "Aw, shucks! I know Roy'd do the same thing for me."

#-#-#-#-

Roy lay alone in semi-darkness, shades drawn to block out the sun. He was still in the same shabby little room he'd first woken up in, in the shabby little apartment in the big shabby building where the small gang of thieves and cutthroats had their hideout.

He was miserable. Not only had the headache never gone completely away, but Willie and J.T. had been telling him about himself. He had learned that he was a bank robber and a jewel thief, a carjacker, a kidnapper and worst of all, a wanted killer. It seemed he was a thoroughly vile individual, and the more he learned the more depressed he grew.

A light knock on the door interrupted his bout of gloom and self-loathing.

"Yeah?"

Willie stuck his head in. "Gala's here."

"Oh. That's nice. Gala who?"

A tall, thin woman pushed her way through into the room and Willie ducked his head in sympathy and retreated.

"Gala who? Well! I like that, Mickey Morgan!" Contrary to popular belief, outside of Hollywood, gangsters' girlfriends are not required to speak with an exaggerated and probably phony Brooklyn accent. This being Hollywood, however, Gala Royal did. Balanced on three inch, needle-thin heels she stood over six feet. Easily five inches of that was teased red hair. Her hair color, nails, and eyelashes were fake, and it was at least even odds that her cleavage was too. She tottered over and dropped to the bed beside Roy.

Roy swallowed hard and edged as far away as he could. "I'm sorry, ma'am. I didn't mean to offend you. I struck my head and I've lost my memory."

She tipped her head and looked at him speculatively. "Oh, yeah?"

"Uh, yeah."

"Maybe I can help you find it." She reached over and casually unfastened Roy's trousers, unzipped the fly and pulled it open.

Blushing and mortified, he scooted away and fixed his clothing.

Gala was pouting. "How come you're not wearing my underwear?"

Roy froze and swallowed hard, confronted with the horrific vision of himself in frilly pink lace panties. On top of all the other unsavory things he had been told about himself, this was almost too much. "Why would I --" He stopped as his voice came out several octaves too high. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Why would I be wearing your underwear?"

"Because you promised. To make me happy."

"Oh. Uh, sorry."

"Aw, that's okay. I like you best when you're not wearing anything." She reached for him again and he fell of the bed in a panicked retreat.

"I'm sorry, miss, but I'd like you to leave now."

"Miss?" she snorted. "Gee, I guess you have lost your memory. Usually you call me things that are a lot less polite. You know, a girl could get used to being treated like a lady."

"I'm sorry. Goodbye."

She lingered, dawdling on the bed. "Are you angry with me, Mickey?"

"Oh, no. Not at all."

"You are, aren't you? Do you want to punish me?"

"No, of course not."

"Do you want to spank me?"

"No!"

"Are you sure?"

"I'm positive!"

"Well, dang!" She finally gave up and left.

Roy staggered over and locked the door behind her, then dropped back onto the bed and lay there wishing his head would fall off and get it over with.

#-#-#-#-

It was two mornings after the accident before 'Roy' left Rampart in the company of John Gage and his temporary partner, a young, black paramedic named Charlie Romaine. They had kept him an extra night when his memory failed to improve. Now they had decided to try an experiment.

Since he had been on duty when he got amnesia, they were sending him to ride along with Johnny and Charlie. He wouldn't be allowed to actually work, of course, and certainly he could not treat anyone. Still, they were hoping that the familiar surroundings and routine would be enough to begin to trigger some measure of recall.

Johnny wished he felt more optimistic. This was his best friend sitting in the middle of the seat, looking around with idle disinterest. The fact that he couldn't remember his name didn't change the basic fact that he was Roy did it? After all, he looked like Roy. And he sounded like Roy.

Johnny sighed. Roy just didn't seem like Roy anymore.

They were driving back to the station when the first call of the day came through. Johnny brightened. It was for a woman in labor. Barring complications, these were the calls that he and his partner always loved. For Roy, adoring father of two, there was always a special poignancy in ushering a new life into the world. Perhaps witnessing this miracle was just what he needed to finally remember who and what he was!

Or perhaps not . . . .

Forty-five minutes later Johnny and Charlie walked to the ambulance beside a gurney carrying an angry woman and a squalling newborn. Johnny was apologizing profusely.

"I'm so sorry! He really isn't like that! He got hit on the head and he has amnesia. Normally he's a really nice guy, I swear!"

They loaded the ambulance and Charlie climbed in for the ride. Johnny closed the doors and slapped them, then went back to the squad, where Mickey waited, sitting in the passenger seat, eyes wide with shock.

Johnny climbed behind the wheel and Mickey immediately began talking again.

"Oh my God! I can't believe that! I can't believe you took me in there to see that! You do that? You're saying we do that? With the blood and the screaming and the smell and all? I mean, whose dumb idea is this anyway? Did you see that thing coming out of her there? Like a big, slimy pink frog, it was! Coming out of that woman's -- oh, my God! I mean, it's the 1970s already! You'd think we'd be getting kids outta vending machines or something by now! I can't believe you took me in there to see that thing! I ain't never gonna look at broads the same again!"

Sitting in the driver's seat, Johnny turned to look out the side window, resting his temple on the steering wheel. He felt like crying. "I want my partner back," he thought pathetically.

Meanwhile, across town . . . .

#-#-#-#-

"Everybody freeze and put up your hands! Don't nobody move, don't nobody scream, don't nobody get hurt!"

Four tellers and a handful of customers gasped and froze as a trio of masked men carrying rifles charged into the bank. The smallest of the three men ran forward and thrust a pillowcase at the nearest teller. "Keep your hands where I can see 'em and put the money in the bag. Now! Do it!"

The biggest man guarded the door while the third robber hovered uncertainly between them. One of the other tellers started breathing quickly, taking deep, panicked gulps and holding her chest. The third robber immediately went to her.

"Here now, don't do that! You've got to calm down and try to breathe regularly." He handed his rifle off to the next teller in line and pulled off his mask, revealing a handsome blond man with kind, concerned blue eyes. "You're going to hyperventilate." He looked around. "Has anyone got a paper bag? Oh, here! This manila envelope should do."

Unaware that all activity in the bank had come to a screeching halt and that everyone, robbers and victims alike, were frozen and staring at him in shock, he reached over the counter, picked up a large manila envelope and stuck his hand down in it to open it. Then he handed it to the stricken woman. "Now I just want you to breathe into this. What you're doing, you see, is you're flooding your body with oxygen. Your body needs oxygen, of course, but it also needs carbon dioxide. When you hyperventilate it drives out the carbon dioxide. The more you breathe the more you feel like you're suffocating. Breathing into the envelope just helps you put the carbon dioxide back. You should be feeling better now. Are you?"

The teller nodded. Next to her, her co-worker finally reacted to the sight of a gun in her hands. She held it as far from her body as she could and started screaming hysterically. The little robber snapped out of his trance, ran over and grabbed the gun and turned to shout at the blond man.

"What in the hell's the matter with you? You suddenly think you're Doctor Kildare? You gave your goddam gun away! She coulda shot us all! We coulda been killed."

Roy blinked. "It's all right," he told J.T. reassuringly. "It isn't loaded."

"Whaddya mean it isn't loaded? I loaded all these guns myself!"

"I know." Roy crossed his arms and looked down at J.T. like a father scolding an errant child. "I unloaded them. It's very dangerous running around with loaded weapons. Someone could have gotten hurt. Remember, guns don't kill people. Bullets kill people."

"No!" J.T. exploded. "I kill people!" He swung his own rifle, catching Roy on the side of the head with the stock. Roy dropped like a stone and J.T. turned the barrel of the gun towards him. The spectators screamed. Some covered their eyes and turned away while other stared, fascinated.

Willie ran over. "J.T., no! You can't kill him, J.T.! The diamonds! Remember the diamonds! He's the only one who knows were the diamonds is hid at!"

J.T. lowered the gun in disgust. "I can't kill him anyway," he said, sounding close to tears. "He took the bullets out of my gun!" Sirens sounded in the distance and J.T. gave up. "We gotta get outta here. You bring Florence Frickin' Nightingale. If I touch him, I'm like to strangle the idiot."

Willie stooped and lifted Roy, slung him over his shoulder and backed towards the door. As he went he addressed the crowd apologetically.

"I'm really sorry about that! He's not normally like that. He hit his head, you see, and lost his memory. Usually he's really mean. Honest he is!"

Meanwhile, across town . . . .

#-#-#-#-

By the middle of the afternoon it had become clear that the whole "ride-along" idea wasn't working. They had avoided any more disasters of the woman in labor variety by keeping Mickey at a distance while they worked and things had calmed down some, but he was still as vague and confused as ever. He did demonstrate a familiarity with the street names and values of the contents of the drug box that Johnny found surprising, though he couldn't name any of the equipment in the trauma box.

The three men climbed into the squad to go to Rampart for supplies and Johnny sat for a moment, thinking desperately, trying to find some way to restore his partner's memory.

"You know what's wrong with this picture?" he asked.

"What's that?"

"You're sitting in the wrong seat, Pally. Normally you drive this thing. Whaddya think? Want to take the wheel?"

Mickey blinked. "Uh, okay."

Johnny got out, Mickey slid over, Charlie slid over to the middle and Johnny went around and climbed into the passenger seat. Mickey started the engine and looked down at the wheel, gauges and gearshift uncertainly.

"So, uh, is this thing a stick shift or what?"

Meanwhile, across town . . . .

#-#-#-#-

"Okay," J.T. said. "This is our chance to recoup our losses. No one will expect us to hit another bank this soon. Only this time YOU," he pointed at Roy, "YOU are going to wait outside! You can drive the getaway car."

"Uh, J.T.?" Willie interrupted nervously. "Are you sure that's a good idea? I mean, you know what a lousy driver Mickey is. I mean, remember that time he was on the wrong side of the highway and he thought that everyone else was going the wrong way? And the time he hit the parked car? And it was on a parking lot and we were on the street at the time? And the time he ran over the park bench? I never saw little old women run so fast!"

"Oh, shut up," J.T. said crossly. "He can't screw it up any worse than he did the last robbery."

Roy, meanwhile, still dazed and aching from the latest blow to the head, was staring bemusedly at the black sedan they had stolen for this heist.

"Where's my sports car?" he asked.

"You're dreaming," J.T. snorted derisively. "You ain't never had no sports car."

"But I can see it, in my mind. A little cream-colored sports car. And I see a big red truck with flashing lights. And 51 . . . ." His voice trailed off and he fell silent, puzzled by the images in his head and the terrible sense of loneliness and longing that they evoked.

"You're gonna be seeing flashing lights," J.T. warned, "if you go and screw up on me again!"

Meanwhile, across town . . . .

#-#-#-#-

"Left!" Johnny shouted desperately. "Left! Left! No! Your other left! Don't . . . . Don't . . . . What did you go and do that for?"

"You said to go on the traffic circle!" Mickey shouted back.

"I said don't go on the traffic circle!"

"Okay, so I missed the 'don't', but 'go on the traffic circle' was definitely part of it!"

Charlie, in the middle, was holding onto the dashboard with both hands. His eyes were squeezed shut and in the relative silence between shouts Johnny could hear him mumbling what sounded suspiciously like Hail Marys.

Trapped by what seemed like every other car in Carson, the little squad was looping endlessly around the 'Traffic Circle of Doom'. "You've got to get off this thing!" Johnny bellowed. He was shouting more from frustration than because he needed to raise his voice to be heard. 'Roy' was shouting back and it seemed that each shout was louder than the last.

"Fine! How?"

"First, you have to merge into the outer lane. Aaaaaaaa!" Johnny screamed in terror and covered his eyes as Mickey immediately merged without looking or signaling. Apparently several guardian angels were watching over them, because there was a squeal of brakes and a cacophony of angry horns, but no crash.

"Okay," Johnny struggled to lower his voice a fraction, trying to inject some calm into the situation. "Now we've got to turn out of here, but don't take the next right!"

Mickey took the next right.

"Aaaa!" Johnny swallowed hard. "The freeway! I can't believe you did that!"

"You said --"

"Forget it! Look, we can't stay in this lane! The cloverleaf will take us right back onto the traffic circle. You're going to have to merge left."

Mickey merged left.

"Aaaaaa!" A squeal of brakes . . . a cacophony of angry horns . . . no crash. Johnny relaxed marginally and glared at the driver, reminding himself that Roy was injured and it wasn't his fault that he was driving like a moron. "Okay, Roy. Next time I tell you to do something I want you to look first to make sure it's clear, then signal, then look again to make sure it's still clear, then do it."

"Do what?"

"Whatever."

"Like what, whatever?"

"Like, 'merge left'."

Mickey merged left.

"Aaaaaaaa!"

Meanwhile, across town . . . .

#-#-#-#-

Pulling off their masks, J.T. and Willie ran out and jumped into the back of the sedan. J.T. held a pillowcase stuffed with cash. "Hit it!" he shouted. "Go! Go!"

Roy checked the side mirror, flipped on his turn signal, waited for a significant break in traffic and eased out onto the street.

"What are you doing? Hurry! Don't you know how to drive fast?"

Roy blinked. "I can drive fast." He looked down at the dash in bewilderment. "We don't have a siren?"

"Of course we don't have a siren! The other guys have the siren! The idea here is for them not to catch us!"

Roy sighed and settled back in his seat. "I can't drive fast without a siren," he said definitely. "It isn't safe."

"Oh, for the love a --"

"How about if we make siren noises?" Willie suggested.

Roy blinked. In the murky depths of his concussed brain this sounded almost logical. "I dunno. You could always try it, I guess."

"I ain't making siren noises," J.T. growled angrily.

Willie threw back his head and did a passable impersonation of a fire truck. Reassured, Roy sat up straighter in the driver's seat. The stolen sedan was a five-speed, not much to look at but with a surprising amount of power under the hood. With Willie's siren noises ringing in his ears, he downshifted, found a narrow opening between a Volkswagen and a Gremlin, punched through with inches to spare and drove fast.

J.T.'s terrified screams blended with Willie's siren noises as the two criminals found themselves unexpectedly introduced to the skill and daring of a fire department rescue squad driver.

Meanwhile, across town . . . .

#-#-#-#-

In the parking lot of the Pluot strip mall life was slowly returning to normal. No one had been killed or even injured. Miraculously, there wasn't even any property damage. The possibilities for entertainment thus exhausted, the crowd returned to browsing the open-air farmers' market, drifting away from the bright red squad truck that sat inches from the watermelon stand.

The three men inside the truck sat still, shaking and gulping for air. John Gage turned to look at the driver. This was Roy, he reminded himself. This was his partner, his best friend, the man he loved like a brother. 'Thank God,' he thought to himself, 'that Charlie is sitting between us, because if he wasn't I'd surely have throttled him by now!'

He had muttered, "he's got a head injury, it's not his fault!" so many times today that the phrase was beginning to seem like a mantra. He was considering sticking a couple of "ohmmmms" in it somewhere. For now, though, he had something else to say, and it was something he'd never have imagined in his wildest dreams that he'd ever be saying to Roy DeSoto.

Reaching across Charlie with shaking hands, he pulled the key from the ignition. Then he leaned forward and reached up awkwardly to take his friend's chin in his hand and turn his head so that their eyes met.

"Roy," he said, "I am never going to let you drive the squad ever again!"

Meanwhile, across town . . . .

#-#-#-#-

Vince Howard sat in his crashed police car shaking. Water from the fire hydrant he had hit fountained overhead. He was unharmed as far as he could tell, but he was also trapped behind the steering wheel. The radio was still working and he called for backup, watching in disgust as the fleeing bank robbers cleared the snarl of traffic their near miss had caused. The road was open in front of them. No one would ever catch them now.

Then the black sedan turned and came back.

Vince's blood ran cold. He struggled to reach his gun, but it was jammed between his hip and the seat and he couldn't get it loose. The sedan screeched to a stop behind him and the driver got out and ran up to his car. Vince looked up at him and felt himself go limp with shock.

"Roy?"

"No, no. It's, Mickey. Mickey, uh, something. They keep telling me, but I can't remember." He was dressed in a shabby three-piece suit, his eyes were unfocused, there was blood on his head and he stood unsteadily, but it was Roy DeSoto. If Vince had had any doubts the man's next words confirmed it. "Look, take it easy. We're gonna get you outta here. Can you tell me if you hurt anywhere?"

Vince checked in his rearview mirror. The other two men in the getaway car were peeking over the backseat, watching in horror and disbelief. One of them popped the back door and eased out, gun at the ready.

The deputy turned back to Roy. "No, you're Roy. Roy DeSoto. It's me, Vince. I'm your friend. Don't you remember?"

Roy shook his head. "My name . . . my name's Mickey. And, and you wouldn't want to be my friend," he said sadly. "I'm not a very nice person."

At that moment the two bank robbers ran up and the smaller one tore into Roy.

"Mickey! What are you doing? You were doing good for a change! We were getting away! What you wanna turn around and come back for?"

Roy looked down at him and spoke reasonably. "There was an accident. It's against the law to leave the scene of an accident."

The little robber got right in his face and screamed. "We just robbed a bank, you moron!"

"It's not gonna help anything to get excited, J.T.," Roy replied calmly. He'd seen his share of hysterical people at accident scenes. He turned back to Vince, still speaking over his shoulder to his two companions. "I don't think he's hurt, but we're gonna need the jaws with a chain to pull this steering wheel off him. Better bring me a pry bar and the K12 too."

"What the hell's a K12?" J.T. bellowed.

Roy blinked, confused, and swayed a bit. "It's . . . it's . . . I don't know. But I know that we need one."

Vince jumped into the discussion, afraid of what could happen if his backup showed up just now. "Look, guys, I've already called for help. There's gonna be cops all over the place any minute. You two," he looked at J.T. and his oversized sidekick, "you guys still have plenty of time to get away. Your friend here doesn't want to go, just leave him. It's no skin off your nose if he gets arrested, right?"

"Oh, sure," J.T. snarled sarcastically. "And then, when he gets his memory back, he can tell you what he did with the diamonds. I don’t think so, Mr. Deputy, sir!" He swung his gun butt viciously, knocking Roy unconscious for the second time that day. "Bring him, Bibb," he told his companion. "I'll drive. This has gone on long enough. I'll have those diamonds tonight or I'll see him dead!"

The man addressed as Bibb slung Roy over one massive shoulder, gave Vince an apologetic shrug and left. Alone, the deputy grabbed his radio and updated the APB on the bank robbers. "Be advised that there are only the two robbers. The third man in the car is an injured hostage. Repeat! They have an injured hostage! Proceed with caution!"

Waiting for someone to arrive and free him from his car, Vince began putting two and two together. As the engine and rescue squad from station 99 pulled up next to him, he reached for the radio again. "Contact fire department dispatch. Find out if John Gage is working today, and if so, where he is."

In less than a minute the answer came back. "Affirmative. Fireman Gage is on duty with squad 51 today. They are currently listed as available from Rampart Emergency."

"Have them listed as unavailable and advise them to remain where they are until I can get there."

Meanwhile, across town . . . .

#-#-#-#-

Little Sharon Walters, the pretty young nursing student, was sitting in a seat where the hallway widened into a waiting area, wringing her hands in distress and blushing down at her white nurse's shoes.

"I didn't mean to," she said to the small group around her. Joe Early stood beside her, one hand on her shoulder in a fatherly gesture, and Dixie McCall sat next to her, patting her hand. Charlie Romaine had disappeared somewhere, but Johnny Gage remained, leaning against the wall nearby.

"I didn't even think," Sharon said. "It just caught me by surprise. I mean, I didn't expect it, from Roy DeSoto of all people! He's always such a gentleman! And when he grabbed my --," she blushed and waved a hand vaguely at her chest, "when he grabbed me, my knee just came up all by itself! I never really meant to hurt him! I mean, he's got a head injury --"

"Ohmmm," Johnny chimed in softly.

"It's not his fault!"

"Ohmmm."

Dixie glared at the paramedic. "Can't you think of anything useful to say?"

He pushed away from the wall and came to crouch in front of the distressed young woman. "Look, we all know Roy would normally never do such a thing. When he's himself again he's going to be mortified, and I promise he won't blame you at all for how you reacted. In fact, if I know Roy, he'll be glad to know that you're able to defend yourself so well. Okay?"

Sharon managed a little smile. "Okay. But I am sorry I hit him so hard."

Johnny's HT sounded three beeps and the dispatcher came on requesting their status.

"L.A., this is squad 51 available at Rampart."

"Squad 51, stand by." There was a brief wait and then L.A. came back. "Squad 51, you are temporarily unavailable at the request of the sheriff's department. Please stand by at Rampart until you are contacted by Deputy Howard."

Johnny and the Rampart staff exchanged puzzled glances, then Dixie stood and returned to the nurse's station. "Why don't we get that requisition filled while you're waiting?" she suggested. She opened the drug stores and started retrieving supplies, then stopped suddenly. "Oh, Johnny, I almost forgot." She took a small black pouch from one of the shelves. "This is Roy's. I missed it when I gathered up his clothes for Joanne the other day."

Johnny came over and took the scissors pouch, looking at it sadly. "Man, Roy had this almost the last time he was himself. We were at the station, just before that last call, and he was cleaning it out and sharpening all his scissors. He kept testing them on the magazine I was reading." He sighed sadly. "And I thought he was being annoying then!" He went to pocket the pouch until he could return it and it rattled in his hand. "Oh, great! He must have broken something when he fell down the stairs!"

"Well, see what it is," Dixie suggested. "Probably we can replace it for him."

Johnny opened the pouch, tipped it up, and gaped at the half-dozen sparkling stones that tumbled into his palm.

Dr. Brackett and Dr. Early came over for a closer look. "Are they real, do you think?" Dixie asked.

Footsteps approached from down the hall and Vince Howard appeared at Johnny's elbow. He looked down at the gems, unsurprised. "I see you've found the diamonds," he remarked casually.

The others simply stared at him. He let his glance take in each of them, then roam around the hospital. "Where's 'Roy'?"

"In treatment room three," Brackett supplied.

"Can you keep him there for the time being?"

"He's not going anywhere. What's going on here?"

Vince reached out and took the scissors pouch from Johnny, held it under the paramedic's other hand and used his own hand to tip Johnny's palm so that the diamonds tumbled back into their hiding place. Then he raised his eyes to them, his expression grave.

"We need to talk. In private."

#-#-#-#-

"About two weeks ago," Vince began, "we got word that a small-time gang of crooks from up around Seattle had shown up down here." He was sitting in Kelly Brackett's office, addressing Brackett, Joe Early, Dixie McCall and John Gage.

"There are only four gang members, as far as we can tell. Two of them are brothers, John Thomas, or J.T., and Willie Bosc. Willie is also known as 'Bibb'. There's a woman, Gala Royal, who sometimes acts as lookout and helps with scams, but is seldom involved in their more violent endeavors. The leader of this charming little outfit is a particularly nasty fellow named Mickey Morgan. Morgan's had his hand in just about every unsavory pastime you can think of, including murder.

"Just before the fire broke out in the Ranier Building, Morgan ambushed a courier two blocks up Tangelo and stole half a dozen exceptionally high-quality diamonds that were headed for some starlet's Academy Award outfit. I have here a picture of Morgan that the FBI is circulating." He handed the photo first to John Gage, nodding at the shocked look of comprehension on the paramedic's face.

"I think it's safe to say that he's dyed his hair since this was taken, don't you?"

Dixie took the photo from Johnny's hands and the two doctors crowded in close behind her to study it. "My God," Joe Early breathed. "He's the living image of Roy!"

"The doppelganger," Johnny said.

"The doppelganger," Vince agreed. "He walked right by me with a pocket full of stolen diamonds and I just let him go."

"I'm not following you," Brackett said.

Vince looked up and found that Early and Dixie McCall were also looking puzzled. He explained about seeing Mickey enter the Ranier Building and thinking that it was Roy DeSoto. "Then these guys showed up and went in to search. Correct me if I'm wrong, Gage, but I'm guessing you and Roy didn't stay together inside there, did you?"

"No, we didn't. We split up to search faster. In fact, I had to go looking for him because he was late getting back to our rendezvous. I thought something had happened to him because his air tank wasn't on quite straight and he looked like he was having trouble walking under the weight of it. I was gonna check him over outside, but he didn't make it that far." Johnny Gage's face suddenly paled. "But, Vince, if that's Mickey Morgan in the treatment room, then where's Roy? What'd he do to my partner?"

"Roy's alive," Vince reassured him quickly. "Or at least, he was half an hour ago. Somehow he's wound up with the Bosc brothers. They think he's Morgan. He thinks so himself." He told them about the day's two bank robberies, and described how he'd spoken with Roy DeSoto. "We need to get him away from them, though, before they can hurt him. Because it doesn't matter what they do to him, he can't tell them where the diamonds are. He doesn't know."

"Morgan must know where they're hiding out," Dixie said. "Go arrest him! Make him tell you!"

"That's the plan," the deputy agreed. "But I can't arrest him without some sort of proof that he really is Mickey Morgan, or at least that he isn't Roy DeSoto. The fact that I know it isn't enough. I have to be able to prove it. Is there some way we can get his fingerprints?"

"Probably," Brackett said, "but I hardly think that'll be necessary. Joe?"

Joe Early nodded. "X-rays." he said. "I've got his chart just outside, as it happens." He stepped out of the room and Vince Howard shot Brackett a questioning look.

"X-rays?"

"Most people don't think about it," the doctor told him, "but bone structure is every bit as individual as fingerprints. We took a full set of X-rays when Johnny brought him in after the fire. By comparing them with earlier X-rays, we can tell you immediately whether that man in treatment three is Roy DeSoto . . . or an imposter."

"And it'll hold up in court?"

"It will."

Early returned with a large manila folder. He saw Vince looking askance at the size of it and smiled slightly. "That's just this year. Firemen lead dangerous lives."

"We're having a new wing added on to hold Gage's records," Brackett joked as they all moved over to stand in front of a light box on the wall.

Early snapped a chest X-ray into the holder. "That's from after the Ranier Building fire." He leafed back through the folder and chose another chest X-ray. "This is from two months ago, broken rib. Remember?"

"Yeah," Johnny nodded, grinning faintly. "He claimed he just had a 'stitch' in his side. I hadda practically knock him unconscious to get him in here."

Early snapped the second X-ray up beside the first, then flipped on the light box. To Vince they both looked alike, which is to say they were equally incomprehensible jumbles of light and shadow. Dixie and the other three men were all nodding though.

"Better call up the records department, Dix," Brackett said. "Have them pull all the records of this latest injury out of Roy's file and put them in a new file. Label it 'John Doe' until we get a positive ID." He turned to Vince. "You've got your proof. What will you do now?"

"Arrest him, of course." Vince considered. "How genuine, do you think, is the amnesia?"

"Hard to say." Joe Early considered the question. "The human brain is a tricky thing. To be honest, though, given the injury, I'd have expected him to at least start regaining his memory by now. What do you think, Johnny? You've been around him more than anyone."

"I think he's probably regained a lot of his memory. Maybe most of it. But he hasn't remembered everything, so he's biding his time, passing himself off as Roy."

"Why do you say he hasn't remembered everything?"

"He hasn't asked about the scissors pouch. He doesn't know what he did with the diamonds."

Before they could continue the discussion an enraged shout rang out from the hallway, penetrating the thick wood of Brackett's door.

"He did what?!?"

Johnny, with Vince Howard close on his heels, made it outside just in time to see Joanne DeSoto disappear into treatment room three. She didn't bother to close the door completely behind her and they could hear her voice.

"Roy DeSoto! There is only so much that a head injury will excuse!"

An agonized "yeoooowww!" pierced the hospital quiet, followed by sudden silence. Joanne came back out slowly, looking down at her hand as if it belonged to someone else. She went over to Johnny and Vince and raised her eyes to them. She looked bewildered and Johnny could tell she was about to cry.

"Where's my husband? That man isn't my husband!" She shoved a handful of dark, curly hair at Johnny. "My husband's a blond!"

Johnny leaned back. Way back.

Joanne turned and shoved the hair at Vince. Vince leaned back. Way back. He nudged Johnny.

"Gage! Ask her . . . ."

"I'm not gonna ask her! You ask her!"

"Oh, for heaven's sake," she snapped. "It's chest hair, okay?"

The two men let out a huge, relieved sigh. Johnny put his hands on Joanne's shoulders. "Look, you're right. That isn't Roy. We're just starting to figure it out ourselves, but we think he's a petty criminal named Mickey Morgan. He was hiding in the Ranier Building and he must have met up with Roy in there and ambushed him. When he saw how much they looked alike he decided to switch places with him so he could escape from the law. Only, he hit his head and got amnesia before he could get away."

"But then Roy . . . ?"

"Somehow Roy's wound up with Morgan's accomplices," Vince told her. "He's apparently got amnesia too. They think that he's Morgan, just as we thought that Morgan was him."

"Do you understand?" Johnny asked.

"No." She thought about it for a minute. "You mean he hurt my Roy, and took his clothes, and left him in a burning building?"

"Yeah."

For the second time in ten minutes Joanne let out an enraged shriek and ran for treatment room three. Johnny caught up with her just inside the door, picking her up in one arm and clamping his hand over her mouth while she kicked and fought him. She tried to bite him and he pulled his hand away.

"Let me at him!" she yelled. "Let me go! First I'm gonna rip out the rest of his chest hair and then I'm going to work my way down!"

"Jo!" Johnny was trying hard to calm her down. "Jo! Stop it! Jo!"

Mickey still sat on the examining table, legs and eyes crossed and hands clasped to his chest. "Ow," he said. "Man, Johnny! Keep her away from me! What did I ever marry her for? All the broads around here are crazy!"

Johnny finally silenced Joanne by pushing up on her chin until the top of her head pressed against his shoulder, thus clamping her mouth shut without putting any of his fingers in peril. "Jo, calm down. I know you're upset, but it's going to be okay. I think he's going to regain his memory any minute now. In fact, I've only just realized that the very first question I asked him after he fell, he answered correctly. Didn't you, Mickey?"

"Did I?" Mickey asked, then froze as he realized what Johnny had called him. He looked up and found the dark-haired paramedic giving him the kind of smile that a crocodile gives a duck.

"You did. You do have the right to remain silent."

Mickey sat up slowly and gave Johnny a defiant glare. "You can't arrest me. You ain't no cop. You're nothing but a goddammed lousy fireman."

"You know what?" Johnny asked him, "You're right. But then, I wasn't planning to arrest you. You see, my partner was spotted today with your friends, the Bosc brothers. So what I'm thinking is, you can tell me where they're hiding out, so I can go get him, or else . . . ."

"Or else what?" Mickey sneered.

"Or else I let Joanne loose."

The door opened and Sharon Walters came in. "I heard he isn't really Roy! Is that true? He's not really Roy?"

"It's true," Johnny told her.

She crossed her arms, tipped her head and glared at him. "In that case, I think I'd like to kick him harder."

Johnny gave Mickey a tight smile, but Mickey just crossed his arms defiantly. "Oh, sure. You're a scary bunch around here. Let a couple of broads work me over. Pull out some chest hair. Kick me in the family jewels." He snorted. "That ain't nothing. See, I got something the Bosc boys want. If they think your partner's me, I guarantee he's gonna be hurting a whole lot more than I ever will!"

Meanwhile, across town . . . .

#-#-#-#-

"Ow! Ow! Oh, God! Don't hurt me!"

Roy lowered the tweezers in disgust. "J.T., I haven't even touched you yet. Now look, there are two things we can do here. You can let me take the splinter out and put a Band Aid on your finger, or we can leave it and let it get infected, and you can get gangrene and your hand'll fall off. What'll it be?"

He felt a bit guilty about using scare tactics, but he was tired and sore, it was getting hard to concentrate with the room wavering around uncertainly and, frankly, he was getting fed up with being hit in the head.

"J.T. don't do pain too well," Willie told him. "Not unless he's the one causing it, anyway."

"I noticed." Roy deftly pulled the splinter out. J.T. whimpered pathetically. "You know what?" Roy asked him, "You're worse than my kids. You know that?"

J.T. snatched his hand away, ready to be tough again now that the splinter was gone. "Whaddya talking about? You ain't got no kids!"

Roy froze and stared at him, stricken and suddenly close to tears. "What do you mean I ain't got kids? I got kids! What happened to my kids?" This whole 'putting thoughts into a logical order' thing was getting harder and harder by the minute.

"You ain't never had no kids!"

"I did have kids! Why don't I have any kids? I should have kids! I want kids!"

"Okay, fine," even J.T. was becoming alarmed by 'Mickey's' erratic behavior. "Talk to Gala about it."

"Gala?" Roy blinked in confusion. "No. Joanne. Jo! I gotta talk to Jo! Where's Jo?"

"I don't know no Jo," J.T. told him, then he tipped his head. "Hey! That sounds like a line from a song!"

"Jo!" Roy insisted. "Joanne! My wife."

"You ain't got no wife!"

"I gotta wife!" The paramedic was really upset now. "You shouldn't say I don't gotta wife! That isn't nice! What happened to my wife?"

"Okay, fine," J.T. said again. "So you got a wife. I just hope for your sake her husband don't find out. Hey! Wait a minute! Where you going? Don't go out there! What's the matter with you? Get in here before someone sees you!"

"I'm thinking," Roy said stubbornly. "Go 'way."

"They'll call the cops! We'll all get caught! Are you nuts? Get in here!"

"No."

A siren sounded in the distance and J.T. panicked. "Bibb, come on! We gotta get outta here!"

"But what about Mickey? We can't just leave him like this!"

'Fine. Give him a shove. Just come on!"

"J.T.! That ain't very nice!"

"Look, the cops is coming! Are you with me or are you not?"

Willie sighed and sat down. "I ain't gonna just leave him."

"Okay, suit yourself. Just don't expect me to come visit you in prison!"

J.T. grabbed the pillowcase that still held the money from their latest robbery and bolted from the apartment. He flew down the stairs in a headlong rush and plowed right into Deputy Vince Howard.

"Well, well," Vince said. "If it isn't J.T. Bosc. I was just coming to look for you. Where's your brother Willie?"

J.T. clamped his mouth shut as Vince put the cuffs on him. "Ain't I got the right to remain silent?"

Vince's mouth twisted in annoyance. "Yeah, you do. Come on then. Let's go outside and I'll inform you of your other rights."

Vince read J.T. the Miranda as he led him out to a waiting police car. A bright red fire department rescue squad was parked behind the police car and a slender black man in a fire department uniform was setting out equipment on the sidewalk. A lanky, dark-haired firefighter leaned against the side of the cop car. The deputy shoved J.T. into the back and he found himself sitting beside . . . .

"Mickey! How'd you get down here so fast? And where'd you get them clothes? That ain't what you was wearing a minute ago!"

"Mickey's been here all along," the fireman told him. John Gage was in a strange mood, caught between worry and anticipation. "He was trying to cut you out of your share of the diamonds and he almost pulled a fast one on all of us."

"But," J.T.'s forehead wrinkled in thought, "if he's down here . . . then who's that on the ledge up there?"

"Ledge?" Johnny asked in dismay. He tipped his head back and picked out a familiar figure sitting on a narrow ledge high overhead. As he watched, his partner swayed unsteadily. "Roy!" he breathed in horror and ran for the stairs.

#-#-#-#-

"Look," Willie was saying, "you think you got kids, then maybe you got kids. Heck, anything's possible! I'm just saying that that ledge there ain't really a good place to think about it, on account of you could fall and splatter your brains all over the sidewalk."

The door opened slowly and several armed policemen poured into the room, followed by two firemen carrying ropes and climbing gear. Willie looked up ruefully. "I guess I'm under arrest now, ain't I?"

"Yeah," Vince told him quietly. "I'm afraid so. Why didn't you run?"

"My buddy Mickey, here. He ain't hisself. I didn't want to leave him alone. Go easy on him, wouldja? He's a good guy. I mean, he wasn't. He used to be just horrible. But he got hit on the head a couple days ago and ever since he's been really nice."

Willie didn't fight them as they cuffed him and the cops handled him gently. "It's a long story, Willie," Vince told him. "The guy on the ledge isn't who you think he is. We'll explain everything."

The lead fireman put a hand on Willie's arm. "Hey! Thanks for not leaving him."

The cops led Willie away and John Gage eased himself out, sat in the windowsill and spoke quietly to the confused man on the ledge.

"Roy?"

"Mickey. They said my name's Mickey. Go 'way."

"Sorry. I'm not going to do that. And your name is Roy. Roy DeSoto. You're my friend."

"They said I'm Mickey. And you wouldn't want to be my friend." Misery poured off the gentle paramedic. "I'm not a nice person, Junior. I steal things and I kill people and . . . and . . . and I think I wear women's underwear, though for the life of me I don't know why. Or how. I mean, I'd think it'd hurt, wouldn't you?"

Johnny smiled wryly. Dressed in a dirty, cheap suit, his face half hidden by a two-day growth of beard, this man didn't really look like Roy. And with his thought processes clouded by a concussion, he didn't even sound that much like Roy. But he seemed like Roy, and that made all the difference.

"You are a nice person," Johnny told him firmly. "You don't steal things and you don't kill people. In fact, you save people's lives. And you'll have to talk to Joanne about the underwear, but I'm pretty sure you don't do that either."

Roy's head came up. "You know about Joanne?"

Carefully, Johnny reached back into his hip pocket and pulled out his wallet. He flipped it open to the photo pockets, chose a picture and offered it to his partner. Roy took it and his blue eyes flooded with tears.

"My wife," he said simply. "My kids."

"Yeah."

"They told me . . . those guys . . . they said I didn't have a wife or kids."

"And that's why you climbed out here on this ledge?"

"I was trying to think. I can't think in there. People won't stop hitting me in the head. And that lady keeps trying to take my pants off."

"A lady?" Johnny asked, eyebrows raised.

"Gala. That lady. The underwear lady. And she wanted me to spank her, but I got away."

"Oh, man." Johnny shook his head. "I can't wait to hear this story!"

Roy stopped talking and looked at him sideways. "I think . . . I think . . . for some reason I think you're the last person I want to tell something embarrassing to."

Johnny's eyes misted over and he dashed the back of his hand under his nose. "Aw, gosh," he snuffled sentimentally, "you remember!"

"I remember lots of stuff, but none of it seems to make any sense."

"Well, Pally, tell you what. Why don't you come back inside and we'll take you somewhere safe and see if we can help you make sense of it?"

"Nobody'll hit me? That woman'll leave my pants alone?"

"Nobody'll hit you. And that woman isn't even here. Come on, Roy. Come inside."

"I'd like to do that," Roy said, "but I don't think I can. Everything keeps spinning. If I move I'm gonna fall."

"Okay, that's not a problem. We can take care of that." Johnny looked down and saw their engine pulled up and waiting behind the squad. He reached back in the window for the HT and called down. "HT 51 to engine 51. Cap? You read me?"

"We're here, Johnny. Is Roy okay?"

"He's a bit beat up, but he's gonna be fine. He climbed out here to get away from the Bosc brothers and now he's too dizzy to make it back in. I'm gonna put a safety line on him. Any chance we could get a snorkel out here to lift him off?"

"I've already got one on the way. ETA is about three minutes."

"Okay, thanks, Cap! HT 51 out."

#-#-#-#-

The next afternoon Johnny pushed open the door and stuck his head into Roy's hospital room. "Hi! Remember me?"

Roy was sitting up, watching a rerun of The Patty Duke Show. Joanne perched on the bed beside him, holding his hand possessively. He smiled at Johnny, but there was a worried frown between his eyes. When Vince followed Johnny into the room Roy sat up straighter, took a deep breath and swallowed hard.

"Are you here to arrest me?"

"What for?" Vince asked him.

"Bank robbery. I helped rob two banks."

Johnny bit the inside of his cheek. It was tempting to string Roy along. He was his best friend, after all. Still, he could tell his partner was really worried, and besides, the rules changed when a guy got hurt. "No, you didn't," he told him. "You didn't do anything."

"But I did. I was there. I think I was there. And I remember . . . ."

"You stopped the first robbery," Vince told him, "by unloading the guns and by letting the victims know that the guns weren't loaded. And after the second robbery you tried your best to deliver the robbers to the police. This was in spite of the fact that you were in grave danger, and, in fact, you got hurt because of both actions. You're not a bank robber. No one's going to arrest you."

"Honest?"

"Honest."

Roy sighed deeply and finally relaxed. "I'm glad you caught those guys," he said. "Especially Mickey." He looked at his wife. "I'm glad he didn't spend any time around you. I mean, I'd have gone nuts if he'd . . . ."

"I know." She smiled at him and brushed the hair off his forehead. "I'm going to have something to say to this Gala person myself, if she ever shows up."

Roy blushed and changed the subject. "I do feel kinda sorry for Willie, though. I mean, I know he's a criminal and I probably shouldn't, but he wasn't that bad. He was always nice to me."

"Yeah," Vince said. "Willie's not a bad guy, especially once he gets away from his brother. He's going to be okay, though. The D.A. was impressed that he wouldn't leave you alone and escape, so he offered him a deal. He's going to get an easy sentence in exchange for turning state's evidence."

"Good. That's good. I'm glad about that."

"Well, I'm on duty," Vince said. "I just stopped in to see how you were doing."

"Thanks. I appreciate it."

The deputy left and Johnny had a seat in the visitor's chair. "So," he said, "did the doc say how long it'll be before you're back?"

"Couple of weeks before I'm cleared for active duty, though I can probably go back the first of next week. I'll just be chauffeuring the B.C. around or helping with paramedic training or something. You know, I still can't believe you all thought that guy was me!"

"His friends thought that you were him."

"You mean his accomplices. He doesn't have any friends."

"Well, you do. And we thought you had a head injury. That's why we put up with Mickey, even though he was way more annoying than you normally are."

Joanne caught the friendly insult buried in the sentence and narrowed her eyes at Johnny. Johnny didn't have a lot of body hair, but he crossed his arms over his chest just in case. Roy also caught the insult, but he grinned.

"I do try."

"Maybe, but man! You're an amateur compared to that guy!" Johnny shifted in his seat and got more comfortable. "You know, I have heard that everyone has a double. It's funny, though, your double being a criminal mastermind. Kinda makes me wonder what my double's like."

"I shudder to think," Roy told him. "As far as I'm concerned, one John Gage is plenty!"

Meanwhile, halfway around the world . . . .

(Or so . . . .)

#-#-#-#-

In the vast reaches of the Arabian Desert a young sheik, surrounded by his harem, lounged among silk and satin pillows on a platform at the front of his tent. His followers sat back against the tent walls, making a clear place in the middle of the floor that was now filled with gyrating bodies. Strange musical rhythms filled the air and Sheik Atta Khan found himself tapping his fingers against his knee in time to the beat. One of his aides leaned down.

"This dance, oh mighty Khan, is called 'the Shag'."

"It looks most enjoyable," Khan said. "Perhaps I shall join them."

Ulla Kalim, his elderly and most trusted advisor, caught his eye and shook his head slightly.

"No?" Khan asked.

Kalim leaned close. "It would not be seemly, my sheik."

Khan sat back among the pillows, rested his cheek on his fist and said, in the language of his people, "Aw, man!"

The End.

Author's note: If you're very knowledgable about produce, you may have noticed that a lot of the characters, streets and places in this story are named after varieties of fruits and vegetables. There's really no significance to that. I work as a produce stocker and I thought this story up while I was at work, so I just started naming things after the stuff on the sales floor. On the off chance that anyone cares, here is a list of the names I used and what they are:

Ranier (Building) -- is a variety of cherry.

Clementine and Tangelo (streets) -- are small citrus fruits related to the orange.

Braeburn (Ltd.) -- is a variety of apple.

Bosc (brothers) -- is a variety of pear.

Bibb (Willie's nickname) -- is a variety of lettuce.

Royal Gala (Gala Royal) -- is a variety of apple.

(Charlie) Romaine -- is a variety of lettuce.

Jonagold (hotel) -- is a variety of apple (a cross between a Jonathon and a golden delicious).

Pluot (strip mall) -- is a cross between a plum and an apricot.

Also, for those who don't know, the Star Trek episode "Mirror, Mirror" deals with the characters having evil doubles from an alternate universe and The Patty Duke Show was about identical cousins. Again, there was no real reason for any of this. It was just a bit of nonsense. J

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