The following story is a crossover between “EMERGENCY!” and “The Rockford Files”.

 

Disclaimer: I lay no claim to any of the main characters and I gain nothing financially by writing this…darn!

 

 

  

 

“TV Versus REALITY”

By Ross

 

Part One

 

In the hospital corridor outside Rampart General Hospital's ICU room 604, a uniformed maintenance worker knelt before an exposed electrical outlet. His partner had just gone off to fetch a pair of wire strippers and, until his return, work on the shorted out sockets was halted.

 

The waiting man exhaled a sigh of sheer boredom and glanced at his watch. A frown appeared on his previously impassive face as he realized he was about to miss his favorite TV program—and he never missed ‘The Rockford Files’.

 

The man cursed under his breath and sat back on his heels. Now he'd have to wait for the rerun. Suddenly something occurred to him, which caused his countenance to brighten—considerably. “Just 'cuz I can't watch it don't mean I can't listen to it,” he realized aloud and started getting stiffly to his feet.

 

The worker stretched and yawned and then disappeared into the nearest hospital room.

 

He reappeared—just moments later—and re-assumed his wait, leaving the door behind—and beside—him slightly ajar.

 

The now quite pleased looking workman stood there with his right hand tapping his holstered tools, and his right foot tapping the polished hall floor, to the rather catchy beat of the program's theme music.

 

There followed several messages from the show's sponsors, extolling the superior qualities of their brands of after-shave and aspirin.

 

The sounds of a noisy nightclub came drifting out of the room and then gradually faded, replaced by traffic noises. A car door opened and closed. It's engine came to life and its tires squealed off down some unseen street.

 

A minute later, the car's engine died. Planes could be heard, landing or taking off, in the distance. The car's door slammed again, along with its trunk. The sound of footsteps on pavement echoed out into the hallway.

 

“Harry?' a man called out.

 

“Ready whenever you are, Mr. Nardis!” Harry called back.

 

“Good. Then let's get out of here!”

 

The sound of a large door sliding on rails was heard, followed by more banging doors and finally the click of seat belts.

 

Harry radioed the control tower for permission to take off. He received clearance and started taxiing out to the runway. The sound of the plane's engine grew steadily louder and then was joined by the sound of two or more racing car engines—and gunfire!

 

The plane's engine noise faded and the cars screeched to a halt. Someone's hand slammed against one of their dashboards.

 

“Mister Gardino isn't going to like this,” a man said quietly, following someone else's muffled curse.

 

“Uh-oh,” Harry suddenly muttered over the plane's droning engines. “We're losing fuel—fast! We're going to have to land right now!”

 

“No!” Mr. Nardis screamed.

 

“We don't have any choice!” Harry shouted back. “We either land or we crash!”

 

“Okay,” Mr. Nardis relinquished. “Find a clearing.”

 

“That's dangerous enough with two tires!” a rather horrified Harry reminded him.

 

“Yeah? Well it's a whole lot safer than that airport back there!” Mr. Nardis reminded him right back.

 

“There are too many power lines!” Harry deduced. “We've got to go back!”

 

“No! Keep looking!” Mister Nardis insisted.

 

“We're running on fumes!” the pilot informed his stubborn passenger.

 

“There!” Nardis determined. “That field along that highway! That looks plenty big enough!”

 

The plane's droning engines began to sputter. “It had better be!” Harry declared. “Cuz' we're going down!”

 

The hospital maintenance man cringed at the sound of a crashing plane.

 

Inside ICU's room 604, the body in the bed stiffened and a grimace appeared on the un-bandaged portion of the patient's pale face.

 

The workman wasn't the only one listening.

 

LA County Firefighter /Paramedic John Gage tried—in vain—to make some sense out of the disturbing sounds, but the thoughts that were reeling through his foggy, groggy brain remained disjointed. The patient groaned and gradually slipped back into semi-consciousness.

 

The next thing John knew, he was seated at the dinner table in LA County's Fire Station 51 with the rest of A-shift, and Chet was asking Marco to please pass him the gravy bowl.

 

Marco reached for the requested object, but then stopped, as the alarm went off.

 

All six of the famished firemen tensed up and listened.

 

“Station 51…” the dispatcher began.

 

The firemen frowned, then got up—en masse—and started heading for the garage and their trucks.

 

“…Police report two men trapped in the wreckage of a light aircraft...six miles south of the Corona Freeway/La Brea Canyon Road Junction...Six miles South on La Brea Canyon Road...Ambulance responding...Time out…17:15.”

 

“Station 51...KMG—365,” Captain Stanley answered. He handed DeSoto a copy of the call slip and then headed across the garage toward the Engine.

 

Roy passed the address on to his partner.

 

“Hang a right!” John told him.

 

DeSoto did.

 

The Engine exited the Station, and followed the Squad off down the street—lights flashing and sirens blaring.

 

 

Ten minutes later, on the La Brea Canyon Road, two California Highway Patrolmen motioned for the fire trucks to pull over onto the highway's shoulder.

 

The rescue vehicles groaned to a halt and their drivers cut the sirens.

 

Seeing that they were still four or five hundred feet from the plane, Stanley leaned out and yelled, “Can't we get any closer?”

 

“It's too rough!” one of the officers called back with a shake of his helmeted head. “You'll either break an axle or get stuck!”

 

“Do we have a fuel spill?” Stanley further inquired.

 

Again the patrolman shook his head. “The fuel tanks were empty on impact.”

 

Seeing the Captain's somewhat astonished look, the patrolman's partner added, “Judging by all the bullet holes in the fuselage, somebody shot this bird clean out of the sky!”

 

Captain Stanley and his men glanced uncertainly at one another.

 

John and Roy packed their equipment into a Stokes and started off for the accident site on foot.

 

The Engine crew grabbed their rescue gear and followed after them.

 

 

The rescuers continued to traverse the incredibly rough terrain, toting the increasingly heavy tools of their trade.

 

At long last, the firemen reached the plane—or, at least what remained of it.

 

The emergency landing had obviously been as rough as the terrain. The aircraft had apparently flipped several times before coming to rest—upside down and practically wingless.

 

The firemen noted that there were indeed, several bullet holes clearly visible in the plane's crumpled fuselage, and its fuel tanks.

 

Gage and DeSoto tugged at the cockpit doors. They didn't budge.

 

Stanley motioned for Stoker and Lopez to give the paramedics a hand.

 

Mike stepped up to the pilot's door with the porta-power and a pry bar attachment. The metal gave like paper.

 

Roy shot the tool's operator a grateful glance and leaned inside to examine his victim.

 

At the same time, Marco pried open the passenger's door with their Ajax tool. Again the already strained metal yielded easily—this time, to hydraulic pressure.

 

“Thanks…” John mumbled and dropped to his knees to examine the plane's upside down passenger. He saw his partner kneeling directly across from him and shot him a questioning look.

 

Roy frowned and slowly shook his head.

 

Gage lifted his fingers from his victim's carotid artery. “Get Rampart!”

 

At least the plane's passenger still had a pulse.

 

His partner nodded and backed out to use the bio-phone.

 

“Better request a chopper!” John advised and continued his initial patient survey, expertly running his hands over the victim's body, checking for injur—he froze, feeling a hard lump under the man's coat jacket.

 

He reached in and pulled out a .45 caliber pistol? His jaw dropped and his eyebrows elevated. “Uhhh…somebody wanna get rid of this for me?” he requested.

 

One, of the patrolmen relieved him of the weapon.

 

He gave the guy a grateful glance and then relieved his gun-toting victim of his wallet as well. “Somebody wanna get a name and check for medical information?” he additionally inquired, passing the bill-fold back over his shoulder.

 

“His name is Victor Nardis,” the officer informed him moments later. “He's 47 and single. No medical information.”

 

“Mister Nardis, can you hear me?” John asked upon completing his initial exam. No response. “Cap, his legs are pinned between his seat and the instrument panel.”

 

“Chet! Marco!” his Captain called out.

 

 

Two minutes later, Gage had the upper half of his upside down victim immobilized and his friends had the poor man's pinned legs freed.

 

John released the seat belt and they carefully extricated the passenger's crumpled body from the plane's crumpled cockpit.

 

The paramedic dropped to one knee beside the Stokes and proceeded to procure his now horizontal patient's vital signs. He finished and passed the info on to his partner, who passed it on to Rampart via their phone.

 

Gage opened several cases and began removing various bits of medical paraphernalia he knew the doctor would be ordering them to use in their treatment of poor Mr. Nardis.

 

Their victim had fractured both legs, both arms, his neck, his back, and possibly some ribs as well…judging by the large bruise over his sternum.

 

John had also noted a rigid, distended abdomen and blunt-force trauma to the head.

 

“Roger Rampart,” DeSoto acknowledged. “We'll update the victim's vitals before we transport.” He glanced back over his shoulder to identify the source of the siren that had just pulled up. “Ambulance has just arrived.”

 

“10-4, 51,” Dr. Brackett acknowledged back. “Oh, and if we can free up a med-evac chopper in the next few minutes, we'll be sure to head it your way!”

 

“We'd appreciate that, Rampart,” Roy signed off and set the phone down to help 'all the king's horses and all the king's men' try to put 'Humpty Dumpty' back together again.

 

 

Several hectic minutes later, the two paramedics had their patient's IV's flowing, traction splints applied, M.A.S.T. trousers inflated, throat intubated, oxygen administered and safety straps in place.

 

The rescuers gathered their remaining gear, and the Stokes containing their secured victim, and began trudging back across the tricky, treacherous terrain, heading towards their trucks and the waiting ambulance…and a sizable crowd of spectators.

 

 

The stretcher-bearers had almost reached the highway, when their passenger regained consciousness and started choking on the tube down his throat.

 

They quickly and gently lowered the Stokes to the ground.

 

“Take it easy, Mr. Nardis!” John pleaded and expertly slid the endo-trache tube from the choking man's throat.

 

Mr. Nardis stopped choking and started groaning.

 

“Rampart…” Roy spoke into their bio-phone, “Squad 51.”

 

“Go ahead, 51...”

 

“Rampart, victim has regained consciousness and is in a great deal of pain. Stand-by for an update on vitals...”

 

“51, administer 100 milligrams Demerol, IV...”

 

“Roger, Rampart,” DeSoto gratefully acknowledged. “100 milligrams Demerol, IV.” He glanced in Gage's direction.

 

John nodded and, after passing his partner the updated vitals, he proceeded to administer the prescribed painkiller. “Hang on, Mr. Nardis,” the paramedic gently urged. “We've given you something for the pain.” He saw the man's mouth moving through the clear plastic of his oxygen mask and raised the thing just enough to make out what he was trying to say. The victim's volume was still too low, so John lowered an ear so he could hear.

 

“I...I...can't see!” Mr. Nardis told him through tightly clenched teeth.

 

'Mister, that is the least of your problems,' the paramedic morbidly, and silently, informed the poor man.

 

Someone suddenly snapped a picture of him, leaning over his whispering patient.

 

The light from the unbelievably bright flash temporarily blinded the paramedic. “Will somebody get him out of here?” John requested, sounding extremely annoyed.

 

The same patrolman who had relieved him of the gun and the wallet relieved him of the extreme annoyance as well, ushering the protesting reporter out of close-up range.

 

John stared down at the bright blob, which moments before had been his patient's face. “How's the pain?” he asked and once again lowered an ear so he could hear.

 

“Better. Am I...gonna die?”

 

The paramedic winced and hesitated a moment or two before answering. “We're going to take you to Rampart General, Mr. Nardis. Rampart has some of the finest emergency physicians in the country,” was all he'd say. After all, he didn't wanna lie.

 

“Okay, Johnny…” Roy interrupted. “He's stabilized. We can go ahead and transport.”

 

Johnny looked visibly relieved and climbed up into the ambulance with their victim.

 

 

Several more busy minutes—and miles—later, in the back of the speeding ambulance…

 

John finished taking and relaying his now barely conscious victim's latest set of vital signs. “Mr. Nardis? Is there anyone you want us to notify?” he forced himself to ask. “A relative?...Friend?”

 

“No...relatives,” Mr. Nardis quietly informed his concerned questioner. “No...friends. Except...for you,” he added.

 

The paramedic pulled back a bit and saw a slight, somewhat sarcastic, smile forming on his no longer pained patient's pursed lips. 'I wish there was more I could do for you...' he sadly and silently confessed and placed his left hand over his dying victim's.

 

“Since you've been...so...nice...to me,” Nardis quietly continued, over the ambulance's annoyingly loud siren sound, “I'm gonna do...something nice...for you.”

 

Seeing the tremendous effort it now took for his new friend to talk, the fireman felt obligated to speak as well. “That's not necessary, Mr. Nar—”

 

“—Victor!” Mr. Nardis quietly corrected.

 

“You just take it easy...Victor. Don’t try to talk,” John gently urged. He reluctantly released his hold on his victim’s hand and stuck his stethoscope back in his ears, to satisfy Rampart's sudden request for yet another, newer, set of vital signs.

 

Victor ignored his compassionate caretaker’s suggestion and kept right on chatting, completely oblivious of the fact that he was now talking to himself.

 

Again John noted the energy draining from his critical patient and again he felt obligated to dispense with some advice. He pulled the tips of his stethoscope from his ears and took the dying man's hand back into his. “Save your stre—” the paramedic saved his breath, seeing as how his victim—er, Victor, had just lapsed back into unconsciousness.

 

John stood in front of the entrance to Rampart General Hospital’s Emergency Receiving and watched as Roy backed their rescue Squad right in beside the ambulance and parked.

 

DeSoto stepped out and shot him a questioning look.

 

Gage frowned and shook his head. “I lost him...somewhere between the Corona Freeway and Highway 71...” his words trailed off.

 

“I'm surprised he made it that far,” Roy quietly confided and placed a hand on his partner's slumped shoulder. “He wouldn't have made it in the chopper either, Johnny.”

 

John lifted his hanging head and shot his mind-reading friend a grateful glance. Speaking of friends... “He said that I was the only friend he had in the world,” he sadly announced.

 

“Yeah, well…” Roy paused, looking rather philosophical. “What he lacked in friends he more than made up for in enemies. C'mon! If we hurry up and restock maybe we can still salvage some of our supper!”

 

DeSoto's carefully chosen comments hit home.

 

Gage snapped out of his glum mood and hurried to catch up to the hungry philosopher.

 

 

Back at Station 51, in the day room, the engine crew was engaged in a very lively after-dinner discussion. Gage and DeSoto stepped in from the garage and they stopped talking to shoot the pair questioning glances.

 

“He didn't make it,” John informed them and felt that glum mood beginning to descend upon him…again.

 

“We heard,” Stanley said and pointed to the oven door. “We've been keeping your food warm for you. It's been on the radio. We've been trying to figure out why someone would want to shoot that plane out of the sky.”

 

Roy placed he and his partner's plates down in their respective places. “So…” he said, tossing a pair of hot pads over his shoulder and assuming his seat, “what did you guys come up with?”

 

Marco's eyes narrowed. “I think they were drug smugglers. They were headed for the border.”

 

“Maybe Victor Nardis was some sort of spy…a double agent…trying to get out of the country,” Mike theorized.

 

“I bet he's a cat burglar,” Chet declared. “I bet those suitcases were full of hot merchandise and he was taking the stuff to a fence in Mexico.”

 

DeSoto shot the imaginative shift-mates some deeply skeptical glances and then turned to his Commander. “What do you think, Cap?”

 

“I think these guys have been watching too much television and seeing too many movies!” Stanley stated with a grin.

 

His men grinned and then turned to Gage, who was still just standing there, looking and feeling rather glum.

 

“What about you, Johnny?” Mike Stoker inquired aloud, as their questioning glances failed to elicit a response. “Why do you figure it was shot down?”

 

Johnny saw all five of his fellow firefighters sitting there, waiting patiently for his reply. Finally, he drew in a deep breath and opened his mouth to give them one.

 

The Station’s tones sounded.

 

The troops tensed up and listened.

 

“Squad 51...Burn victim...480 West Collins Drive...Cross-street Birmingham Avenue...Four-eight-zero West Collins Drive...Ambulance responding...Time out…18:47.”

 

“We got it, Cap!” Roy volunteered, and started heading for the call station, his partner on his heels.

 

“Thanks!” Stanley stared down at the two still untouched, rapidly re-cooling plates full of food and promised the paramedics, “We'll, uh, keep it warm for you!”

 

 

One rather hectic run later…

 

John Gage stood in the corridor just outside of Treatment 3, jiggling a very fussy baby in his arms.

 

Nurse Dixie McCall stepped out of said room and spotted the infant. Her eyebrows arched. “Yours?”

 

“I'm a bachelor,” the paramedic reminded her.

 

Dixie's curiosity remained unappeased. “Yours?” she repeated. “There are bachelor fathers, you know.”

 

“Yeah. Well, I'm a ‘bachelor’ bachelor,” John assured her and paused in his jiggling to shoot the nurse a look of complete desperation.

 

Dixie saw the look and came to his rescue.

 

“Thanks, Dix!” Gage sighed, as he was relieved of his bawling burden.

 

The infant immediately stopped fussing.

 

“Being a bachelor, you probably didn't think to bring diapers and a bottle...” Nurse McCall teased.

 

The freed fireman appeared somewhat insulted by her accusation. He pointed to a bag full of baby supplies resting on the counter in front of the nurses' Station. “I'm a bachelor not a complete bozo!”

 

“No comment,” Dixie muttered, looking more than a little amused.

 

John was just about to comment on her no comment, when Roy exited the room. “Has anyone figured out what to do with her yet?”

 

Dixie nodded. “Bonnie Freeman just went off duty. She's volunteered to baby-sit until her father gets here.”

 

“Great!” DeSoto determined. “Then we can go!”

 

“Wai-ait!” Gage latched onto his departing partner and pulled him to a stop. “How's Mrs. Weston?”

 

“She's gonna need some skin grafts and cosmetic surgery, but Morton says Candy's mommy is going to be just fine!” Roy replied.

 

“How'd it happen?” Candy's caretaker inquired.

 

“She was standing in front of a gas range, cooking dinner,” John explained. “She reached for something in the cupboard above the stove and her shirt caught fire.”

 

Seeing as how everyone's curiosity now seemed to be satisfied, Roy turned again to leave, taking his still stalled partner in tow.

 

“Johnny?” the head of Rampart's Emergency Receiving suddenly called down the hall.

 

The two paramedics halted and turned to stare off in the voice's direction, at the tall, dark-haired doctor, standing in the doorway to his office.

 

“Can you step in here a minute?” Dr. Kelly Brackett requested.

 

Roy passed his partner their HT. “I'll, uh, wait in the Squad,” he announced and started heading for the exit. “Oh, and you probably should clear us!” DeSoto called back over his shoulder.

 

John raised the radio and thumbed its transmit button. “LA, Squad 51...Available at Rampart General.”

 

“10-4, 51…” LA acknowledged him.

 

He acknowledged the good doctor by complying with the physician's request for the presence of his personage in his office. 'Great! Now what have I done?'

 

 

Gage reached the MD’s office.

 

Brackett ushered him inside and then closed the door.

 

Two strange men in sinister black suits started getting stiffly to their feet. One had blond hair—the other, brown.

 

The blond-haired guy stepped forwards.

 

“Johnny, this is Steven Nardis,” the doctor stated, introducing the stranger of the two. “He’d like to speak with you.”

 

“My brother, Victor, was in a plane wreck earlier this evening,” Steven Nardis announced and extended his hand.

 

The paramedic looked extremely skeptical and rather reluctantly proffered his right palm as well. Their hands met for a moment. The paramedic shuddered, visibly, and then quickly released the liar's cold and clammy appendage.

 

“Doctor Brackett tells me that you were with my brother at the end,” Steven Nardis continued. “I was wondering if he said anything to you before he died?”

 

'Hardly grief-stricken...and absolutely no family resemblance,' John mentally noted. He also noticed that both men's bulging suit jackets were buttoned shut. 'To hide their guns no doubt...' he silently figured out. Gage gave Victor's so-called brother a stare as cold as his handshake and a slight nod. “He told me he didn't have any relati—” he stopped talking as something suddenly occurred to him. 'What if Victor was the one who was lying? What if this guy really is his brother?' One of them was lying...but which one? The completely confused looking fireman figured there was one quick way to find out. “Can I see some identification?” he calmly requested.

 

Steven Nardis stiffened suddenly and exchanged a nervous glance with his equally stiff companion.

 

'That's what I thought...' Gage silently gloated, and then he, too stiffened as the radio in his left hand began beeping. “Sorry, Doc! But I got a run!” the on-duty paramedic apologized and went racing out of the room.

 

“Station 51...Station 16...Station 23...Battalion 14...Structure fire…”

 

 

Back at Station 51, later that same evening, the fatigued firemen returned from battling a four-alarm blaze.

 

DeSoto backed the Squad into the garage, shut the ignition off and shot his silent, sooty partner a worried stare. “What's with you, Johnny? You haven't said one word since we left Rampart. Is it something Dr. Brackett said?”

 

John shook his head. “It's somethin' I said...that I wish I hadn't a’. I should've never asked them to show me some identification. Cap's right. I've watched way too much TV and I've seen way too many movies. You see, I saw this movie once where they did that and I thought it would be a good thing to do when you didn't think someone really was who they said they were,” he quietly and quickly explained—in one long breath. Perhaps too quickly, he realized, seeing as how his partner now appeared completely perplexed. “There were these two guys in Brackett's office,” Gage began again. “One of 'em wanted to know what his brother's dying words were. Only, Victor said he didn't have a brother. So I knew someone was lying…and I wanted to find out who—”

 

“—So you asked to see some identification,” Roy finished, finally comprehending his colleague's confusing comments.

 

“Considering the circumstances,” Captain Hank Stanley suddenly piped up, “that was a pretty smart thing to do.”

 

The Squad's startled passenger recovered and turned to stare out the vehicle's open window at Engine 51's entire crew, who had—judging by the Cap's comment—apparently been eavesdropping the entire time.

 

“So, who was lying?” Stoker wondered.

 

“Yeah!” Chet chimed in. “Did they show you some identification?”

 

Their questions caused John's highly annoyed look to return to one of gloom—and doom. “They couldn't...because they weren't really who they said they were.”

 

“Who were they—really?” Marco wanted to know.

 

“I don't know who they were,” Gage glumly confessed, “but I know who they weren't! They weren't anyone that I ever wanna meet up with again, that's for sure!” he emphatically, and quite dramatically, stated. Then he looked up at his Captain and solemnly added, “Sometimes a person can be too smart for his own good.”

 

Stanley was about to ask what the apparently deeply troubled paramedic meant by that, when the Station's claxons sounded.

 

“Squad 51…”

 

Roy climbed out to take the call.

 

“The two of you should probably hit one of those fast food joints next chance you get,” Stanley suggested. “In fact, you can consider that an order!”

 

The two men nodded.

 

DeSoto piled back in and the paramedics pulled out of the Station with their Squad’s sirens blaring and their empty stomachs growling.

 

 

Gage and DeSoto were kept busy all night. They—and their still empty stomachs—returned from their umpteenth call, forty-five minutes after the shift change.

 

The alarm went off.

 

“Squad 51...assist Engine 51 at their vehicle fire...1220 West Raymond Street...Repeat...Twelve-twenty West Raymond...Cross-street North Philips...time out…8:45...”

 

The two exhausted paramedics piled out of the Squad and their counterparts piled in.

 

The pair watched the truck pull out into the street and then started shuffling off across the big, empty garage in search of their street clothes.

 

 

A few minutes later, Roy was standing in front of his locker, tucking in his shirttails, and listening to the loud rumbling of his empty tummy. “I sure hope Joanne has breakfast waiting for me when I get home,” he told his uncharacteristically quiet companion. “You still worrying about those guys in Brackett's office?”

 

“To tell you the truth, we've been so busy I haven't even thought about them,” Gage confessed, but then annoyedly added, “Until no-ow...”

 

DeSoto looked appropriately apologetic and then slightly worried himself. “You're welcome to come home with me.”

 

John glanced up from the shoelace he was tying and gave his friend, with the very generous—and touching—offer, a grateful glance and a warm smile. “You're worried about me?”

 

“Only if you're still worried about them,” his friend informed him. There followed a long silence. Which DeSoto finally broke. “So...Are you?”

 

“Yes...and no,” his partner replied and then proceeded to elaborate just a bit on his answer. “If what I imagine is really real, then yes. But, if what I imagine is only imaginary, then no. Problem is...I don't know for sure.”

 

“Maybe you should talk to Vince,” Roy solemnly suggested.

 

Vince Howard was a mutual friend of theirs. He was also a very fine police officer.

 

John contemplated his helpful associate's seemingly sound advice over for a few moments and then flashed him a grateful grin. “I just might swing by and pay him a visit this morning,” he announced. “Thanks, Roy!” Gage grabbed his jacket from his locker and turned to go.

 

“See yah, Johnny!” DeSoto called after him.

 

“See yah, partner!” Johnny called back. ‘I hope…’

 

At a sunlit intersection several blocks from Fire Station 51, John pulled up to a red light and stopped. He noticed his rear-view mirror was slightly askew and reached up to adjust it.

 

A rather sinister looking black sedan appeared—right on his back bumper.

 

The fireman's heart skipped a beat or two and his raised right arm froze.

 

The vehicle's two visible passengers were bedecked in buttoned up suit coats and very dark glasses.

 

He didn't recognize either of the car's occupants, however. So he just figured his movie imagination must be getting the better of him…again. He exhaled a welcome sigh of relief and allowed his arm to drop back onto the steering wheel.

 

The light went green. John hit his turn signal and then changed lanes. His blood ran cold, seeing as how the black sedan remained on his back bumper.

 

In fact, it followed him clear over to the Charter Oak Police Station.

 

The paramedic pulled up and parked…just as close to the building's front door as he could possibly get!

 

He gave the shady guys who had been shadowing him a couple of icy glares, then went dashing inside and up to the desk sergeant.

 

“What can we do for you, today?” the sergeant asked the concerned-looking citizen that had just skidded to a halt in front of his desk.

 

“I'm, uh, looking for Officer Vince Howard” Gage gasped. “Is he here?”

 

“You just missed him. He just left for home about twenty minutes ago, and he doesn't come back on duty 'til tomorrow afternoon sometime. Is there something I can help you with?” the sergeant asked, upon noticing that their gasping visitor now appeared completely devastated.

 

Gage gasped again, this time in exasperation. “Uhhh...yeah! I'm a paramedic with LA County. I pulled someone out of a plane wreck yesterday who was carrying a gun. The guy didn't make it. Then these two other guys wanted to know what the dead guy told me before he died. Only I had to leave on a run before I could tell them. And now, I'm being followed!”

 

The sergeant just sat there, staring at their long-winded guest, looking both dazed and amazed. “You mean that plane that was shot down?”

 

Their understandably nervous visitor gave him a glum nod.

 

“Has anyone threatened you?” the sergeant wondered, sounding somewhat nervous himself.

 

“No,” John told him. “At least, not yet!”

 

“I'm sorry, but unless they've threatened you—or broken the law somehow—there’s really nothing we can do. It's not a crime to follow someone,” the officer added, seeing someone's look of absolute disbelief…and horror. “I'm sorry,” he apologized once again, “but we just don't have the time, or the manpower, to cover non-criminal investigations.”

 

Gage exhaled another gasp of total disbelief. “But, by the time a crime has been committed—” he stopped suddenly. He couldn't bring himself to say it. Heck! He didn't even want to think about it. Because by that time, it just might be too late! “Thanks. I won't take up any more of your valuable time,” the fireman muttered, his hushed voice an equal mixture of insincerity and sarcasm.

 

“When I see Vince tomorrow, who should I say was looking for him?” his unhelpful host inquired.

 

The paramedic paused on his way to the door. “John Gage…” he called back over his shoulder. “Station 51.”

 

“Good luck, John!” the officer called after him.

 

 

John Gage pulled up and parked in the lot behind Station 51.

 

He left his car and locked all its doors.

 

Then he hurried up to the brick building and unlocked the back door of the garage just long enough for him to pass quickly through it.

 

“Hold it!” B-Shift's Captain advised, stepping from his office. “Oh, John, it's you...” he added rather relievedly, as the intruder turned his familiar face toward him. “What on earth are you still doing here?”

 

The paramedic's only reply was a quick question of his own. “Can I stay here tonight, Cap?”

 

“Why? They fumigating your apartment or something?”

 

“Or something…” Gage glumly acknowledged, but then looked hopeful. “Can I?”

 

B-Shift's Captain thought the paramedic's request over for a few moments and then inquired, “Do you snore?”

 

“No.”

 

“Then, you can stay!” the Station’s proprietor permitted with a grin. “And…” he added, “you can thank me by rounding me up this morning's paper!” Then Donnelly, and his grin, disappeared into the day room.

 

John stood there for a few moments, safely locked inside the Station, trying to muster up the nerve to leave and retrieve the newspaper. “This is ridiculous!” he realized aloud, as anger replaced fear. He faced flames, cave-ins, dizzying heights, near drownings, car crashes, mudslides, and generally explosive situations, on a regular basis!

 

'What are two men in dark glasses compared to that?' he reasoned further, and decided he was just going to forget all about this following business. If he ignored them long enough, his shadows would—hopefully—just go away.

 

He took a deep breath and headed for the front door, looking very...determined.

 

 

Gage reached the fire station’s front entrance, unlocked the portal and pulled it open.

 

The sinister-looking black sedan appeared in the parking lot of the furniture mart directly across the street from him.

 

True to his resolve, John completely ignored it—and its occupants—and headed off across the porch in search of his quest. He saw the paper protruding from one of the shrubs on the Station’s front lawn, and bent down to retrieve it.

 

The paramedic stopped—right in mid stoop—and stared down at the front page of the LA Times...and the picture of him, leaning over Victor Nardis!

 

'PARAMEDIC COMFORTS CRASH VICTIM' the photo's caption read.

 

However, it was the paper's headline that really got Gage's attention: 'MOB COURIER KILLED'.

 

The paramedic cringed and his resolve began to dissolve. His whole body went sort a' numb, except for his stomach…which felt like it was tying itself into one big, giant knot again. “Ahh-uhh, ma-an!” the paramedic pouted. “This just keeps gettin' better an' better!”

 

 

John entered the day room and ‘appreciatively’ passed the paper in his numb right hand on to the Station’s Captain...as per his request.

 

“Humph! I figured there'd be something in here about that plane wreck,” Donnelly announced, “but I didn't expect to find it on the front page!”

 

The rest of B-Shift's curious crew gathered around their Captain. The men stared down at the paper and then up at the off-duty paramedic, looking as astonished as their leader sounded.

 

“This, uh, wouldn't by any chance have anything to do with you wanting to stay here tonight, would it?” Donnelly asked, his voice filled with sarcasm.

 

“No-o!” Gage stated, equally sarcastically. “It has everything to do with it!”

 

“What?” B-Shift's Engineer's eyes sparkled with amusement. “Are you hiding out in here cuz' you figure the Mob is after you?”

 

The paramedic's already slumped shoulders sagged even further. “I really don't know who they work for,” he glumly admitted.

 

“They?” paramedic Bob Curen repeated with arched eyebrows.

 

“The guys who are following me,” John elaborated, sounding even glummer.

 

The B-Shift firefighters exchanged deeply skeptical glances.

 

“What makes you think someone's following you?” Curen's partner wanted to know.

 

“Yeah,” B-Shift's Engineer came back. “You sure it's not just your imagination?”

 

“See for yourselves,” Gage glumly invited. “My, ahh, imagination is parked just across the street.”

 

The firemen looked even more skeptical, but began filing out of the room.

 

Donnelly glanced back over his shoulder. “Aren't you coming?”

 

John frowned. “I'm sick a' lookin' at 'em!” he replied, but then reluctantly followed along.

 

 

In the parking bay, the seven LA County firefighters lined up on the pavement in front of the apparatus, and then stood there, gazing out the garage door's windows at the sinister black sedan and as its shady occupants.

 

Gage watched as his six associates' jaws dropped.

 

Their eyes widened, their brows shot up, and then their heads turned in his direction…all in perfect unison. Under lighter circumstances, the amazing sight might have even been amusing.

 

“C'mon!” Captain Donnelly suddenly ordered, and pressed the OPEN button. The garage's heavy door began grinding its way up. “Let's go see what they want!”

 

The firemen glanced uncertainly at each other but then obediently fell in behind their boss.

 

“C'mon, John!” Donnelly re-invited and motioned for the lone straggler to join their brave band. “THEY say there's safety in numbers! So, c'mon! We'll either get you some answers…or we'll scare 'em off!”

 

Gage gave his fellow firefighters grateful glances, and then left the garage to join their little group.

 

 

The firemen lined up across the end of the driveway and then stood there, waiting patiently for a safe moment to cross the street.

 

“This reminds me of a movie I once saw,” paramedic Sonny Patterson suddenly realized.

 

“The Godfather?” his partner pondered.

 

“The Magnificent Seven!” Patterson proudly declared as they stepped into the street.

 

The ‘Magnificent Seven’ exchanged smiles and started striding towards the sinister-looking black sedan.

 

The sedan's passenger saw the firemen approaching, en masse, and elbowed its driver into action. The car's engine came to life and it pulled out of the parking lot, gears grinding and tires squealing.

 

Donnelly stared after the rapidly vanishing vehicle for a few moments and then turned to the one member of their group who was in street clothes. “Get changed!” he ordered. “If we get a call, I want you with us!” Then, since John was slow to respond, B-Shift's concerned Captain quickly added, “Step on it, Gage! I don't know who those jokers work for, either. But, it's a safe bet it ain't the good guys!”

 

Gage grimaced and then started heading back towards the garage at a much brisker pace than he'd left it.

 

“The Godfather...” Bob Curen glumly concluded, feeling less magnificent by the moment.

 

 

Later that same morning, Engine 51 returned from battling another blaze.

 

B-Shift's Engineer backed the truck into its stall and then flicked off the ignition.

 

However, instead of climbing down and heading for the day room, he and the rest of the firemen just sat there, staring off across the street.

 

“They're ba-ack...” Carl Jansen glumly declared for the third time in as many hours.

 

The truck's Engineer turned to his front-seat passenger, looking curious. “So, Cap…we gonna scare 'em off again...or what?”

 

Donnelly turned his troubled gaze from the unmoving car to his unmoving men. “Let's face it, firemen just aren't a very scary lot. Present company excepted,” he quickly corrected. “But, policemen? Now, I bet those two would find policemen truly terrifying!”

 

“Been there,” the truck's spare passenger glumly piped up. “Done that.”

 

“You've already called the cops?” Allen Briggs incredulously inquired.

 

“Even better,” the on-duty off-duty fireman informed him. “I drove over to the Stationhouse this morning and spoke to the desk sergeant in person.”

 

“So,” Carl Jansen urged, “what'd he say?”

 

“He said that following someone is not a crime. And, that the police can't step in until a crime has been...committed,” John glumly replied and suddenly realized the Captain was right. Policemen could be truly terrifying, indeed!

 

“That's it?” Briggs demanded, sounding even more incredulous.

 

“No-o,” their truly terrified colleague continued. “He, uh, also wished me good luck.”

 

Donnelly overcame his absolute amazement, and complete disgust, and started climbing down out of the truck. “C'mon! First, we'll run 'em off…and then we'll eat! And, if we have to, we'll run 'em off again after lunch!”

 

“Angry firemen can be pretty frightening,” Carl quietly concluded when their Captain finally finished his order shouting.

 

He and his sparked into action associates exchanged forced smiles and followed their frightening commander out of the garage, matching the mad man's gait—angry stride for angry stride.

 

“Hey!” Allen Briggs suddenly said, “I got a riddle for you. Why did the firemen cross the roa—?” his voice trailed off, drowned out by the loud groans of his companions.

 

Eighteen extremely fatiguing hours later, B-Shift's crew—plus one—made it back from a particularly strenuous call, the culmination of a particularly action-packed shift.

 

Captain Donnelly hauled his half-dead carcass down out of the engine and then he and the others watched as the descending door swallowed up their view of the now silhouetted, and even more sinister-looking, black sedan parked in the little lot across the street. “What's it gonna take to get rid of those guys?” he wondered rather wearily.

 

No one commented on the Captain's question. They were all too tired to talk. Besides, none of them knew the answer.

 

Well, actually, one of them had a pretty good idea of what it was gonna take, but he was not about to share it with anyone.

 

“Lights out in ten minutes!” Donnelly warned and started heading for the washroom.

 

The rest of B-Shift shuffled out of the garage as well, stifling yawns and sliding suspenders from of their aching, slumped shoulders.

 

John lingered there in the apparatus bay for awhile and then crossed over to the day room.

 

 

Just before dawn, Gage, who was still seated on the brown, leather-covered sofa in the day room staring blankly off into space, exhaled a weary sigh and glanced down at his watch. No wonder he was so tired! He'd been up for over 48 hours!

 

“C'mon!” he told the heavy, happy-looking Basset hound lying in his lap. “We might as well get it over with.”

 

Henry grumbled disgustedly as he was brushed off of the fireman and then shoved down onto the floor. The dog watched disinterestedly as the couch hog shoved himself up and off of the sofa's comfortable cushions and then started heading for the door. However, when the man's hand started reaching for the hook that held its leash, the normally comatose canine actually came to life!

 

When Henry was happy, he wagged his tail.

 

When Henry was really happy, his entire body wagged...and it was wagging now.

 

“Hold still, will yah!” John quietly requested. The dog did and he was finally able to get the leash clipped to its collar. The completely pooped, stooped fireman exhaled a gasp of relief and then slowly started straightening up. 'Apparently too slowly...' Gage realized as the impatient pooch started dragging him off across the garage.

 

 

The pair reached Charter Oak's municipal park fifteen minutes, five blocks, twelve bushes and twenty-seven light poles later.

 

The paramedic—and the formula one beast that had been pulling him—passed through an open gate.

 

It was beginning to get light enough to see by now, so the fireman found what his squinting eyes had been searching for.

 

Gage ground to a halt, dragged the dog over to the nearest bench and then collapsed exhaustedly down onto it. “You make...way too many...pit stops!” the breathless paramedic complained to his wagging, dragging, walking companion.

 

The Basset hound completely ignored the complainer. The dog's snout, and all of its attention, remained riveted on the ground.

 

Seeing as how the canine seemed to be caught up in a bit of a fit of a sniffing frenzy, the paramedic felt obligated to issue it a health warning. “You better watch it, kid...or you're gonna get a nose blister…” his words trailed off as Henry's head suddenly snapped up and he started growling...a low, deep-throated, menacing growl. “Mr. Nardis?” John inquired, loudly enough to be heard over the sound of Henry's snarls.

 

“You were expecting me?” the blond-haired liar from Brackett's office inquired back and stepped out from behind the bench, being careful to stay just beyond reach of the leash.

 

“I'd like to finish that conversation we started back at the hospital,” the paramedic calmly continued. “Your...brother didn't tell me anything.”

 

“The reporter who took that picture said he saw Victor talking to you,” the blond-haired guy announced and gave the still seated fireman a sickeningly smug smile.

 

“I meant anything important! ” the paramedic clarified.

 

Mr. Nardis' smile faded fast and his eyes narrowed, evilly. “Why don't you just tell me everything that Victor said...and let me be the judge of what's important and what's not!”

 

John heaved an exasperated sigh and then started searching through his groggy mind's memory banks. “He, uh...said he couldn't see. He asked if he was going to die. He said he didn't have any relatives or friends…except for me. He wanted me to call him Victor. Oh yeah, and he said he wanted to do something nice for me.”

 

“Like what?” the self-appointed judge pondered, apparently finding the fireman's last comment important.

 

“I don't know. If he said what, I ain't aware of it. I was kind 'a busy at the time,” John added, by way of a reminder.

 

The judge looked deeply skeptical. “Too busy to hear to a dying man's last words?”

 

“My job is to try to keep people from having last words!” the paramedic angrily announced. “Look,” John continued, lowering both his raised voice and his rising temper, “I've told you everything Victor Nardis said…that I'm aware of. If I could help you, I would! I swear!”

 

“If that's true,” the judge told him, looking and sounding smugger than ever, “then why were you so unwilling to talk back at the hospital? And why were you keeping yourself holed up in that Fire Station?

 

The fireman flashed the flunky an 'Are you for rea-eal?' look. “Your…brother was carrying a gun! His plane was shot down! You were lying to me! Your...unfriendly friends were following me! And the paper called Victor Nardis a MOB courier! How else was I supposed to act? I was scared half to death! The only reason I'm sitting here talking to you right now is because I haven't slept in three days and I'm just too tired to be terrified anymore. Now, you'll have to excuse me,” the too pooped to be petrified paramedic informed the flunky and started rising, slowly and stiffly, to his feet. “Cuz' I got a lot of sleep to catch up on. Goodbye…Mr. Nardis,” Gage further stated, looking very determined and sounding very final. “C'mon, boy,” he added, giving the leash a tug.

 

Henry gave the blond guy one last menacing growl and went trotting off with his leash's handler.

 

“I'll be in touch!” the blond guy called after them. “Just in case you should happen to remember anything else!”

 

“There isn't anything else to remember!” the fireman shouted back over his shoulder and just kept right on walking.

 

 

At a phone booth just outside the municipal park in Charter Oak, a few minutes later…

 

The blond-haired guy grimaced and pulled the receiver away from his ear as the person he'd been speaking to suddenly let go with a long, LOUD string of curses.

 

“That fireman was the last link between Nardis and my money!” the cursor finished screaming.

 

The man in the booth pulled the phone back up to his mouth. “I think he still is a link, Uncle Nick! I think he knows more than he's telling! I think we should lean on him a little and see if his memory impro—”

 

“—I don't pay you to think, Phillip!” the angry guy on the other end of the line interrupted. “I pay you to do what I tell you to do! And I'm telling you to back off! If you're right, and Nardis did tell him where it is, sooner or later he'll go for it. And when he does, I'll take it ba—”

 

“—But, you don't know this guy!” Phillip, alias Steven Nardis, interrupted right back. “You wouldn't believe what he does for a living! The kind of work he does? He could get killed before he goes for it!”

 

“That's all the more reason to leave him be! The quicker you back off, the quicker he'll go for it!” his uncle, and boss, repeated. “Phillip, I know you've seen too many movies! I know you sometimes forget how things are done in the real world! So, don't do anything stupid! I don't care if you are my wife's nephew, you botch this and I-I'll...” the man on the other end of the line suddenly went silent, letting his threat just hang there in the air. “Now, go do as you're told!”

 

“Yes, Uncle!” Phillip acknowledged and then winced as he got a phone slammed down in his ear. He stood there for a few moments, raging silently over having been scolded once again by his arrogant relative. For the last time, judging by totally fed up look on his face. “No-o, Uncle!” Phillip angrily restated, and slammed his phone rather forcefully down as well. He left the booth and casually climbed back into the black car that was parked, with its engine running, just outside it.

 

The brown-haired stranger from Brackett's office was seated on the driver's side. He sat there, impatiently drumming the wheel with his fingers. “Well?” he wondered finally.“What'd he say?”

 

“The next chance we get,” Phillip reported back, “we grab him!”

 

The driver turned and stared disbelievingly across the front seat. “We what?” he exclaimed, putting the astonishment he felt into words. “You sure about that? Mr. Gardino wants us to grab him?” He got an affirmative nod. “Then Gardino doesn't believe this guy's story, either?”

 

“He didn't say that. He just wants us to lean on him a little and see if his story changes any. C'mon, Lenny!” Phillip encouraged, failing miserably to hide his growing excitement. “Let's go get the rest of the boys!”

 

Lenny obligingly slipped the car into gear and they headed off for the…round up.

 

Speaking of roundups...

 

A-Shift had been asked to switch places with C-Shift.

 

As each member of Captain Hank Stanley's crew came straggling into the garage, Captain Donnelly directed him into the day room.

 

When A-Shift asked what was going on, and why they'd been asked to switch shifts—all B-Shift's Commander would say was that they'd find out once everybody got there.

 

 

Roy was relieved to see his partner's vehicle in the parking lot when he pulled up. He was even more relieved to find him collapsed—all in one piece—on the rec’ room couch. He sank into the armchair directly across from his somewhat dazed associate and felt obliged to comment on his nearly comatose comrade's confusing wardrobe. “Either you were really early...or I am really late,” he teased and succeeded in coaxing a slight smile from his extremely fatigued looking friend.

 

Craig Brice stepped into the room, spotted the paramedic he was supposed to be replacing and annoyedly inquired, “If you're here, then why am I here?”

 

“You'll find out soon enough,” the Captain who had requested his presence promised, and then popped his head back out of the room. “Hey, Hank!” Donnelly called out the door as his counterpart entered the garage. “Can you step in here for a minute?”

 

“Sure, Pat!” Stanley called back and changed his course. “What's up?” he wondered, following his fellow Captain, and close friend, into the day room. He stopped in the open doorway and stared for a few amazed moments at the dozen or so firemen seated around the room. The only member of his crew in uniform was Gage...and it wasn't even the right one!

 

“Don't worry, Hank,” Donnelly remarked, as if reading his mind. “You and your boys'll have plenty of time to change. I've declared an in-house emergency. This Station is Code 8 for the next hour or so.”

 

The dozen or so members of the Captain's captive audience exchanged amazed glances themselves...and then gave Donnelly their undivided attention.

 

 

As promised, Brice, and the rest of  Station 51’s A-shift, had the whole saga of the sinister-looking black sedan explained to them.

 

Well, most all of it, anyways.

 

For the longest time, nobody said a word. The flabbergasted firemen just kept glancing from Gage, to Donnelly, and then back to Gage again.

 

John grimaced and then sank even lower into the sofa's seat cushion.

 

Chet Kelly was the first to overcome his amazement. He cleared his throat and then quietly commented, “Will somebody pinch me? I gotta be dreamin' all this! ‘Cuz things like this just don't happen in the real world!”

 

“Gee,” John turned to the mustached gentleman occupying the cushion next to his and gave him a grateful look. “Thanks, Chet! I feel a whole lot better now that I know this is all just a dream!” he sarcastically stated. Then his barely open eyes narrowed even further and his mock gratitude turned to annoyance. “Next time you come up with a dream like this, I'd appreciate it if you would leave me out of it!”

 

“Never mind him,” DeSoto advised, finally finding his voice as well. “What are you going to do about...them?”

 

Gage glanced around the room, saw the expressions of gloom and doom on his friends' and fellow workers' faces and quickly dispensed with a little advice of his own. “Hey, cheer up, you guys! I think I got rid of them,” he announced. “At least, I hope I did...” he added, looking and sounding a lot less certain.

 

“How?” Captain Stanley nervously inquired.

 

“I explained that they were wasting their time,” the sleepy paramedic replied. “Because Victor Nardis didn't tell me anything that might even be remotely interesting to them.”

 

Captain Donnelly and Captain Stanley stepped up to the couch and stared down at the drowsy fireman, looking absolutely furious—and completely dumbstruck.

 

“You spoke with them?” A-shift's Commander inquired, being the first to recover.

 

John cringed and nodded.

 

“When?” Donnelly angrily demanded. “And where?”

 

“This morning,” the terribly tired paramedic timidly told them, “in the park.”

 

“You went down to the park this morning?” B-Shift's Captain fumed, recovering first this time.

 

Again, Gage cringed and nodded.

 

“Alone?” Donnelly further fumed.

 

“Of course not,” John said and saw they seemed somewhat relieved. “Henry was with me,” he explained, accurately anticipating their next question.

 

The firemen stared at the motionless mutt sprawled across Gage and Kelly's laps for a few moments.

 

“You went down to the park alone?” Donnelly restated. “After what I told you about there being safety in numbers? They could’ve—”

 

“—That’s just it, Cap!” John interrupted. “They could've...but they didn’t—”

 

“—But they could've!” Donnelly interrupted right back and remained extremely annoyed with him, perhaps even downright angry.

 

“That was a dumb move, John!” Stanley joined in. “A person can be too stupid for his own good, too, you know!”

 

“Sorry,” Gage groggily acknowledged. “I told them I was too tired to be terrified anymore. Guess I'm also too tired to think straight anymore,” he realized.

 

Stanley flashed the remorseful, overly fatigued fireman a forgiving smile and then shot his fellow Captain a somber glance. “What did headquarters have to say about all of this?”

 

“Internal Affairs said they'd be sending someone over this afternoon,” Donnelly announced, and then suddenly looked curious. “What are you going to do with him in the meantime? He's obviously in no condition now to ride along.”

 

“Yeah,” Hank Stanley conceded. “But until I know for sure what's going on out there, I'm not leaving him alone in here! Kelly, your job—until further notice—is to keep Gage company!”

 

“Aye, aye, Cap!” Chet acknowledged.

 

“Unh-uh!” Gage began to protest. “There's no way I'm getting you guys involved in thi—”

 

“—Stow it, Mister!” Stanley advised. “We're already involved in this. This isn't just your problem. It's the Station’s problem, too.”

 

Gage saw the rest of the guys nodding in agreement and shot them all a look of gratitude mixed with equal parts of admiration. “If anything ever happened to any of yous, I'd never forgive myself,” he sadly surmised.

 

“We'll, uh, keep that in mind, pal,” his Captain promised, with another warm smile.

 

“Cap,” John's partner suddenly interjected, “how are you ever going to know what's going on out there, if the cops won't investigate this?”

 

Stanley's smile vanished and he stood there, looking completely stumped.

 

Kelly looked thoughtful. “We could hire a private cop,” he helpfully, and hopefully, suggested.

 

Noting that the men were nodding again, and that Chet had used the word we, John felt obliged to inform them that, “Private investigators are awfully expensi—”

 

“—We get a really good one,” Kelly interrupted, “he should be able to get us all the information we need in one day. It's worth a couple a' hundred bucks, ain't it?”

 

Once more, the men nodded—unanimously.

 

Captain Stanley crossed over to the phone book, picked it up and began thumbing through the Yellow Pages. “So-o, Chester B.,” he said, upon seeing the dozens and dozens of possible employees, “how do we go about picking a really good one? They're not exactly listed here under really good, mediocre and waste of money.”

 

The guys grinned.

 

Chester B. shot his commander an 'oh, brother' look. “You don't find really good ones in the phone book, Cap. You gotta ask around. You know, get a couple a' references.”

 

“Okay,” Stanley closed the book in his hands and looked around the room. “Anybody know any really good private investigators?”

 

Silence.

 

“Anybody know of any private investigators?”

 

Again, nobody spoke.

 

“Anybody know of anybody else who might know a private investigator?” Stanley tried one last time.

 

“My friend, Angela, is a lawyer,” Craig Brice confessed. “Lawyers sometimes use private investigators. Shall I call her?”

 

“Go ahead!” Stanley invited and stepped out of the way.

 

Brice picked up the phone and started dialing.

 

Gage redirected his glazed gaze and suddenly noticed that his normally somber partner looked even more somber than usual...maybe even downright horrified. John's sleepy eyes widened and he leaned forwards in his seat. “What's wrong, Roy?”

 

“Nothin',” DeSoto assured his concerned friend, but then quietly confided, “I, uh...just realized that I almost stepped up to the passenger's door of that plane.”

 

“Any one of us could have been with Victor Nardis when he died,” Captain Donnelly clarified, waving his arm around the room.

 

Captain Stanley nodded solemnly in agreement and gave the fireman sitting in the hot seat another warm smile. “And that is another reason why this isn't just your problem, pal!”

 

Gage gave the group of guys gathered around him—and with him—another look of admiration and gratitude.

 

Which they pretended not to notice.

 

Brice hung the phone up and handed Stanley a slip of paper with a list of names and numbers. “Angela said they might be too busy to handle our case. She said the best investigators are always busy.”

 

“Thanks, Brice!” Stanley acknowledged looking somewhat amazed, and amused, that Craig had called the case ours. He picked the phone back up and started dialing.

 

 

Five minutes and seven phone calls later...

 

“Alright...I see...Thanks, anyway...Yes...Goodbye!” Hank Stanley hung up the phone and crossed the last name off the list. “Well, that does it! They must be the best investigators. They're all too busy to help us.”

 

“In that case,” Craig told his glum Captain, “Angela says we should try James Rockford.”

 

Stanley looked skeptical, but started flipping through the Yellow Pages of the phone book. “Here he is.” Hank glanced up at his fellow firefighters. “Shall we call him?”

 

“Sure, Cap!” Kelly urged. “The guy's bound to be good!” Then, seeing his colleagues staring questioningly at him, he added, “THEY say, when you're second best you try harder.”

 

The guys groaned.

 

Stanley stood there for a few moments, smiling. Then he picked the phone back up and started dialing.

 

It rang a long time.

 

“Hello?” a sleepy voice answered at last.

 

“Hello. James Rockford?” the Captain inquired.

 

“Yeah...”

 

“Mr. Rockford, this is Captain Hank Stanley. I'm with the LA County Fire Department. We, uh, have this…problem over here at Station 51—”

 

“—Captain,” Mr. Rockford interrupted, “I'm sorry, but, even if it wasn't only eight o’clock in the morning, I'm not taking any new cases right now.”

 

“Let me guess,” Stanley requested with a frown, “you're too busy, right?”

 

“No. I'm too tired. I've been out of town, working on a case, and I just got in about an hour ago. I'm taking some time off. But if you still need me in a few days, I'll be glad to help then.”

 

“Thanks, but we need someone right away. And we've run out of names,” Stanley realized, but then brightened. “Say, you wouldn't happen to know any good unemployed private investigators, would you?”

 

“That's a contradiction, Captain,” Rockford reminded the fireman, but then came up with one potential candidate. “Mike Fedrizzi might be available. Would you like his number?”

 

“He's not in the Yellow Pages?”

 

“No,” Rockford replied. “He lost his license for awhile. But I heard he got it back last week. It's Garden 499-7387. You got that?”

 

“Yes. Thank you, Mr. Rockford. Enjoy your vacation!”

 

“Thanks, Captain. I hope everything works out over there. Good-bye—er, good morning.”

 

There was a click.

 

Stanley sighed and replaced the receiver. “I wonder if third best tries at all,” he mumbled to himself and then turned to face his men.

 

“We may as well wait for the Internal Affairs guys, now,” B-Shift's Captain glumly surmised. “They'll probably do just as good a job sorting through this...mess.”

 

Seeing the others nodding thoughtfully, Stanley drew his slumped shoulders back and informed everyone, “Alright, then I'm putting the Station back in service. Pat, thanks for calling us in, and thank you, and your crew, for all your help. We promise we'll keep you posted. Kelly, see to it that our tired friend here makes it to his bunk! And then, I want you to stay with him! In fact, I want you sticking to him like stink on bologna! Is that understood, gentlemen?” the Captain inquired of both parties involved.

 

“Yes, Cap!” the now cowering couch potatoes answered in unison.

 

Kelly was more than okay with the order. He just wasn't so sure he liked their Captain's little comparison.

 

Gage shoved his half of their lap dog off of him and started climbing slowly and stiffly to his feet. “C'mon...Stinky,” he teased and turned to extend his frowning friend a hand.

 

The firemen were filing from the room.

 

Kelly saw the guys within earshot exchanging grins. “Right behind yah, Baloney!” he quickly came back, and those within hearing range snickered. Chet disposed of his end of Henry. Then he latched onto the grinning, groaning paramedic's proffered appendage and got pulled triumphantly to his feet.

 

 

 

Part 2