"Hardy-Har Harlin"
Chapter Six
Nearly five hours of back-to-back runs later…
Roy tossed Franklin and Potter's log book onto the table in Station 8's kitchen and then collapsed into a chair.
His partner carried two cups of freshly-poured, but not freshly-brewed, coffee over to the table and dropped onto the chair beside him.
Two untouched cold dinner plates were setting there before them.
It would have been nice to come 'home' to a hot meal and some of that 'genuine firehouse hospitality' B.J. had been boasting about. But the engine crew had been kept almost as busy as them.
John popped a piece of the mystery casserole dish into his mouth. "It's edible," he determined. "But, a little on the dry side." They were gonna need some milk to wash it down. So he hauled himself up out of his chair and crossed over to the closest cupboard.
Roy pulled a pen from his left shirt pocket and reluctantly opened the log book. He located the last entry and then looked up. "You got the slips?"
John set two glasses, brimming with ice cold milk, down on the table and quickly reassumed his seat. He pulled a wad of call slips from his right shirt pocket and passed them on to his partner. "They're already in the right order, time-wise. We just gotta sync' 'em with my notes." That said, the paramedic removed the little spiral notebook from his left shirt pocket and located his first entry. Recalling that first run caused the fireman's empty tummy to feel a might…queasy.
Making log entries did not mix well with eating.
"We definitely broke our 'last name also a first name' streak," John said, in an attempt to get the 'face in the helmet' image out of his head. "Charles Mason —"
"—Mason Williams," Roy interrupted. "Famous musician and composer. Wrote 'Classical Gas'," he added, upon noting his partner's look of extreme skepticism.
"Connie Truman?"
"Truman Capote. Famous author."
"Patricia Hamilton?"
"Hamilton Burger. The prosecuting attorney on 'Perry Mason'. Which, by the way, is another 'last name first name'."
DeSoto's amazed amigo flipped another page. Donald Gordon, Daniel Martin, Ted Mitchell and David Shelly all fit the bill. Leaving just the little old lady they'd encountered on their last call. There was no way she was gonna make it. "Edith Cameron."
"Cameron Mitchell," his knowledgeable buddy quickly came back. "Famous actor. Played Buck Cannon on 'The High Chaparral'."
John just sat there for a few moments, in stunned silence. "As unbelievable as it may be," he finally managed to mutter, mostly to himself, "it seems our 'last name also a first name' streak still holds."
"Actually, 'last name first names' aren't all that uncommon. Heck, we've got two right in our own station: Chet Kelly and Hank Stanley."
"Two out of six is one thing. But, nineteen out of nineteen? Man, that's…that's incredible!"
"The Department's mechanic, Charley Mitchell," Roy calmly continued.
"What about Charley?" Captain Stoner queried, as he came strolling into the kitchen, closely followed by his engine crew.
Harlin immediately headed for the coffee pot. "You guys left us the dregs again."
"What channel is the game gonna be on?" Rick wondered, making his way over to the station's TV. He flicked the set on and began clicking its dial, in search of the Dodgers.
Judging by the surprised looks on their faces, their paramedics' replacements had been so absorbed in their conversation they'd failed to notice the Engine's return to quarters.
John jumped at the chance to explain the incredible—and downright quirky—streak they were on. "His last name is also a first name."
"So…?" Stoner prompted.
"So are the last names of everybody we've come across on our calls so far this shift, Cap."
It was now the engine crew's turn to look surprised.
John handed their skeptical Commander his notes.
Stoner stared down at the names on the little notebook's pages in disbelief.
B.J., who'd been reading over his Captain's shoulder, suddenly looked up. "Nelson? Nelson's not a first name. Is it?"
"Nelson Eddy and Jeanette MacDonald," John's partner replied. "'America's Singing Sweethearts'."
Stoner passed the notepad back to Gage. "Towing skateboarders behind a truck?"
John winced as he recalled the carnage. "Should've at least been using a solid tow bar."
"Tow bar, tow line," Roy ruefully joined in, "either way, the kid was playing 'crack-the-whip' with his buddies. Can you believe it? I tell yah, teenagers just don't think these things through." He snatched the notebook from his partner and flipped the page. "And this guy—can't afford to hire a professional house painter or rent the proper scaffolding. But he can afford a painful E.R. visit and a huge hospital bill? Not to mention missing a couple a' months a' work."
John tugged the notebook back from his frustrated friend. "Look, why don't you let me do this, and you can go call Joanne and see what she and the kids have been up—"
Roy rolled his eyes, as his partner's appeasing suggestion was cut short by the klaxons. "Or, we could both take this call," he quickly countered and began heading for the garage.
John pocketed his notebook and started following his friend, and their Captain, from the room. The paramedic paused at the door and pointed to the station's call slip strewn table. "Pa-leeeze, don't touch anything," he pleaded, and then disappeared.
Stoner's guys glanced at one another and grinned.
Four minutes later…
DeSoto braked Squad 8 to halt. He killed the siren, but left the truck's engine, headlights and overheads on.
The firemen piled out and were greeted by a frowning, middle-aged female wielding a flashlight. "He's out back."
"What happened?" Roy asked, as the pair grabbed their gear and began heading 'out back'.
"My husband and his buddies were playing lawn darts, and the back of his right wrist got burned. I put a wet towel on it. Idiotic, if you ask me. Got just what he deserved."
"How does somebody get burned…playing lawn darts?" John wondered in a hushed tone, as he and his partner were herded into the sprawling, nearly black back yard of 418 West Amberlee Lane. "Isn't it a little dark to be playing lawn darts?"
The pair reached the charcoal grill lit scene of the…er…mishap, and stared disbelievingly down at the probable cause.
The grimacing homeowner, and his four glassy-eyed guests, had fastened charcoal lighter soaked rags to the lawn darts and had been lighting them on fire before flinging them.
The probable cause for this ill-advised behavior was also clearly evident.
The patio table their wincing victim was seated at was buried beneath about three dozen, or so, empty brown beer bottles.
"Not if you down too many brew-skees and light them on fire," Roy sardonically responded, in an equally hushed tone.
His quiet comment caused his partner to purse his lips and grit his teeth.
Roy dropped his equipment cases, and one knee, to the damp grass on the ground before the flaming lawn dart tosser. "Hi. I'm Roy. He's Johnny. What's your name?"
"Ron…Ron Vincent."
Ron Vincent's rescuers exchanged a couple of 'of course it is' glances. "Okay if I have a look, Mr. Vincent?"
Ron nodded.
His wife obligingly riveted her flashlight's beam on her husband's boo-boo.
Roy carefully un-wrapped the wet towel from their victim's forearm. "Well…that's not so bad," he determined, upon inspecting the second degree, fifty-cent-piece-sized burn.
They'd phone it in, but it was a sure bet the doctors would be advising their victim to seek his own treatment.
'As long as he doesn't drive himself to the ER,' DeSoto morbidly mused.
Five minutes, a half a bottle of normal saline, some antibiotic ointment and gauze-bandage-wrapping later…
The ambulance was cancelled and Squad 8 was cleared.
They'd no sooner got their equipment cases back into their respective compartments, when another call came in, this one dispatching the entire station to a "Possible gas leak at 1127 East Broderick Blvd."
"Broderick? That's just two blocks from here," John informed his friend as they packed themselves back into their compartment. "A bunch a' condominiums," he added, reaching for their dash-mounted radio's mic'. "Roger that, L.A. Squad 8 responding with Engine 8. ETA two minutes."
"10-4, Squad 8," L.A. acknowledged.
Barring a mechanical breakdown, they were going to be 'first in'.
TBC