Chapter 21: Flattened

Captain John Gage sat at his desk at Station 93, filling out his last piece of paperwork from the just-completed shift. Johnny and his C-shift crew had had a reasonably easy shift—a couple of false alarms, one small trash fire, several rescue calls—until the multi-car MVA they'd been called to late the previous evening. There had only been three cars involved, but two of them were packed full of teenagers on their way home from a high-school football game, and there had been a lot of injuries. So many, in fact, that Johnny had turned incident command over to his engineer, and worked the accident as a third paramedic from their station. But the night-time portion of the 24-hour shift had been easy—just one minor call each for the engine and the squad.

After Mike's disturbing call first thing in the morning at the start of the C-shift, Johnny been worried about him the whole previous day. He wanted to get home, since it was Saturday and Mike would be waiting for him, but he knew he'd regret leaving the paperwork from the MVA until his next shift, which wasn't until Monday. So he bit the bullet, and completed and filed the necessary forms, and was done by 0820. He chatted with the arriving A-shift, who were having coffee in the kitchen, said his farewells, and headed to the parking lot behind the station.

He whistled as he walked through the morning sunshine, keys swinging on his finger. But when he reached his truck, he stopped short. All four tires were flat. He circled the truck, looking carefully at the tires, and found the expected knife marks in each one.

Johnny suddenly felt terribly cold. He looked at the other cars in the lot—they were all fine. Of course, they all belonged to A-shift men. Everyone else from Johnny's C-shift had already left, meaning their cars were fine. He looked around the parking lot, and didn't see anything else that looked unusual. Without touching his vehicle, he walked back to the station, set his keys on the table, and sat down silently.

"What's up, Johnny?" asked Henry Yang, one of the A-shift paramedics. Johnny was well-acquainted with 93's A-shift, as Mike had worked that shift for over a year, until the accident that knocked him out of active firefighting. Johnny hadn't gotten to know the men while Mike was working with them, but got to know them all well during Mike's recovery and afterward.

"All four of my tires got slashed," he said curtly.

Cups clattered to the table.

"Shit," said Washington, one of the firefighters. "And it's not like we're in a bad neighborhood here, either."

"John, you need to call the sheriff, you know," said Captain Sterling.

"Yeah," he said glumly.

"Shit, who'd do something like that?" asked Yang. "Everybody likes you, man. Must be some random crank."

Johnny frowned. "No," he said slowly. "I think it's personal." He looked up at the men around the table. "Mike's office door got trashed yesterday morning. Probably by someone who works at HQ. So I don't think these four tires are a coincidence."

"That's a hell of a thing," said Washington. "You definitely gotta call the sheriff, man."

"Yep." Johnny tried to shake off the dirty feeling he had. "Mind if I use the office for a minute, Len?"

"All yours," said Captain Sterling.

Johnny retreated to the office he'd just left, and picked up the phone. He'd make the harder call first, he decided.

Mike picked up on the third ring.

"Hello?"

"Hey, it's me."

"Uh-oh." Mike had immediately recognized Johnny's really-upset-and-not-sure-what-to-do tone. "What's wrong?"

Johnny cut right to the chase. "My tires got slashed. All four of 'em."

There was silence on the end of the line. "Probably not a coincidence, timing-wise."

"No."

"You calling the sheriff?"

"Yeah. At least for this crap I can file a report with law enforcement. I'm gonna leave it at that, though."

More silence. "I don't like this, Johnny. Somebody's getting to both of us, at the same time. I just have a bad feeling this is gonna get ugly."

"Well, Mike, in my book it's already ugly. But who knows—maybe the jerk was stupid enough to leave prints—everyone in the department has their prints on file, so maybe this'll be it."

"Maybe," Mike said skeptically.

"Listen, I should go. I'll call the sheriff, then I guess I'll get the Rover towed into town. I'll give you a call to pick me up when I'm ready, all right?"

"Actually, I'll just get in the car now, and come pick you up at 93s."

"Hey, good idea! A-shift's on—sure they'll be glad to see you."

"Okay—I'll see you in, oh, forty-three minutes or so. Bye."

Johnny held the phone receiver between his ear and his shoulder, depressed the hang-up buttons on the cradle briefly, and dialed another number.

"L.A. County Sheriff's office, Deputy White speaking."

"Hey, Fred. It's John Gage from Station 93."

"Johnny! How's it goin'?"

"Uh, actually, not so great. I kinda need you to send a car out to the station."

Deputy White immediately reset his tone from flippant to professional. "Okay. What happened?"

"Some bastard slashed my tires."

White let out a low whistle. "That's no good. I'll be out in a few."

"Thanks, Fred."

Johnny replaced the receiver, and got out the phone book. He quickly called Ryan's Towing Service—Jim Ryan usually picked up the wrecks from MVAs, so the fire department knew him well—and arranged for a flatbed to take the Rover into Santa Clarita.

Johnny hung up the phone, and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyelids. The weekend was not shaping up the way he'd hoped. He and Mike didn't get many weekends where Johnny didn't have to work one of the days, and today, at least, would be half taken up by the logistics of getting new tires on the Rover. Plus, they now had something unpleasant hanging over their heads—the fact that it was almost certainly someone from the department who had vandalized Mike's door and Johnny's car. Or, Johnny realized, more than one someone.

Johnny had been aware, when he took his Captain's exam, that there were probably people in the department who would want to get rid of him. His initial fear would be that he would be given such an undesirable assignment that it would be an invitation to refuse the promotion—a career-killing move at that point. Indeed, many men would have considered the Station 93 placement a kind of punishment, as the station was way off the beaten path in a corner of L.A. county. The station, like others in far corners of the county, had trouble retaining staff, with many men requesting transfers so they could be closer to the city. But, Johnny hadn't minded—he preferred being away from the pollution and noise of the city, and the commute from the house he shared with Mike was easier than the one to Station 51. Plus, there was the added bonus of already knowing and trusting the men on one of the other shifts.

But still, Johnny knew that within the department, when his name was mentioned, it was often followed by phrases like "Oh, you mean the one who..." or "Isn't he, uh, you know?" or other unpleasantries. Mike and Johnny made sure they were never, ever seen at HQ together, even though Mike's office was there, and Johnny's position as Captain took him there on a regular basis—and even though plenty of people there probably knew they were together, both Mike and Johnny were uncomfortable advertising the fact in their highly conservative workplace. No point in taking a teensy, smoldering fire—maybe a cigarette in a damp garbage can—and throwing gasoline on it. He sighed, and headed to the kitchen table again.

"Okay?" asked Len Sterling.

"Not really," Johnny admitted. "I guess Mike and I had figured we'd have trouble sometime, but when it comes, you're not really ready for it."

Captain Sterling frowned at Johnny's defeated-looking expression. "Look, John. The sheriff's coming, right?"

Johnny nodded. "Yeah; Fred White's on his way down."

"You don't need to tell him anything other than the facts—someone slashed all four of your tires. That's a crime."

"Yeah."

"You don't need to speculate with Fred about why you think this happened, unless you feel like it. No matter why it was done, it's still a crime. Mike's office door—now that's a different story, unfortunately. Can't really call the law in on that one without stirring up quite a fuss. Did you want to say anything else about that, by the way?"

Johnny sighed. "Bastard painted 'faggot' in red paint, still wet when he got there yesterday morning. Mike's keeping it quiet, but he took pictures before the maintenance guy replaced the door, just in case—well, just in case."

He slapped the table sharply, just once. "We knew this was gonna happen, Len—I mean, there was no way people didn't figure out about us when Mike was in the hospital all that time. But you know us—we don't flaunt it or anything. When I have to be at HQ for any captainy kinds of things, we make sure we avoid each other. I've never seen his office. We made sure never to work together once we got involved. But we knew it, Len—we knew that some people just wouldn't be able to leave it alone."

Captain Sterling sighed. "To be honest, John, I'm surprised it took this long. It's been what—eighteen months since Mike got hit?"

"Yeah, 'bout that," said Johnny. "I was real worried, when I went for the captaincy, that the rumors would hold me back. Or that they'd stick me someplace awful to try to get rid of me. I dunno."

"Well," Len said, "some people would consider this neck of the woods to be pretty awful. But it suits us just fine, doesn't it."

"About that," Johnny said. "Um, when I came up for a captaincy, did you have anything to do with my getting the C-shift posting here?"

Len's eyes sparkled. "Oh, I might've suggested you'd last longer than the last guy, is all. Hope you don't mind."

"Not at all—I guess with, uh, things bein' the way they are and all, I feel kinda lucky to have gotten anything, let alone Mike's old station. Though I'm glad it wasn't your shift—that woulda been too weird, with how much you all helped us out and all."

Sterling grinned through his thick mustache. "Well, for it to have been my shift, I would've had to be gone, and I ain't goin' anywhere any time soon. I like it just fine right here."

"Me too, Len. I just hope—" Johnny hesitated.

"What, John?"

"Well, I just hope this guy, whoever he is, doesn't take things so far that Mike and I have to—"

"Now hold your horses, Gage," Sterling said sternly. "First of all, despite any cowardly vandals who're lurking in the department, you just remember that you two boys have an awful lot of friends here, too, all right?"

Johnny nodded glumly.

"And second of all—you're not letting Mike's anxious tendencies rub off on you, are you? Let's not assume the worst, all right?"

"Okay. Yeah." Johnny's hunched shoulders lowered ever so slightly. "You're right. If I start getting nervous, Mike will positively explode with anxiety." He thought about what he'd said, and amended it. "Implode. That's more his style."

"Attaboy."

The two men looked up when they heard a car pull into the lot outside the kitchen door.

"Right," said Johnny. "Time to go talk to the law." He stood up and looked down at Sterling. "Thanks, man. Really."

"Any time, John. You know that."

"Yeah, I do."

Johnny trotted out to the parking lot just as Deputy Fred White was getting out of his vehicle. "White" was a name that suited him perfectly—his hair was so blond as to be practically white. His skin was pink and freckled under the constant beating of the southern sun, and he had to wear sunglasses on all but the cloudiest of days.

"Hey, Fred. Thanks for comin' out." The two shook hands.

"No problem. So show me the damage," said Fred.

Johnny pointed him to the Rover. "Right there—knife through all four tires."

Fred let out a low whistle. "Shoot, someone's wrecked your mornin' but good. Any idea who mighta done this?"

Johnny was prepared for this question. "Naw, nobody specific. But you know how it is—there's always someone who's got a bone to pick, and some people can't just come right out and pick it."

Fred nodded, and got his notebook out. "So, what was the shift like yesterday—any extended runs?"

"Just the one—the crash with all those kids."

Fred shook his head. "Man, that was quite a thing. How many did you end up shipping to Henry Mayo?"

"Five. Two pretty minor—just needed stitches and such. Two of the others had multiple fractures and other injuries, but the last one?" Johnny shook his head. "I rode in with him. It was touch and go the whole way. You hear anything?"

"No," said Fred, "and that's good news. We hear about it when it's bad news. Anyhow," he continued, "sounds like there was plenty of time when there was nobody at the station—plenty of time for this to get done without anyone noticing.

"And the truth of it is," Johnny added, "it could've happened while we were all here—at night—and we wouldn't have noticed then, either."

Fred walked around the Rover, and made a diagram of the knife mark in each tire. He flipped his notebook closed. "I'll be honest with you, Gage. There's no chance in hell we'll catch whoever did this, understand? All I can do, really, is take your statement, and give you a copy of the report just in case your insurance will cover the tires."

Johnny shook his head. "Don't bother—it won't. I just carry the minimum coverage on this heap."

Fred smiled. "Oh, I hear your mouth sayin' 'heap,' but I see your eyes sayin' 'baby.' You don't fool me, pal."

"Yeah, okay," Johnny said sheepishly. "I like my Rover. We've had a lot of fun times."

"That's the spirit," said Fred. "Jim Ryan comin' to get her?"

"Yep—he said he'd set me up with a good tire place in Santa Clarita."

"All right, Johnny. Well, I oughta go—got some follow-ups from the crash last night. And—if we can arrange it, we'll try to send an extra patrol up this way for the next couple nights."

Johnny almost told Fred not to bother unless C-shift was on duty, but then thought better of it. "Thanks," he said instead. "We all appreciate it. See ya," he said as Fred was closing the car door.

Johnny went back to the kitchen and finished another cup of coffee before Jim Ryan arrived with the flatbed. They got the Rover loaded up, and Ryan gave Johnny the number of the place he was taking the vehicle. "You'll get a good deal—guy's had a soft spot for firemen ever since his shop had a tiny fire that could've turned bad real fast."

After Ryan left, Johnny found himself in the odd position of being at his fire station with nothing in particular he needed to do. He went out to the apparatus bay, just to hang out. Yang and Velasquez were just finishing their inventory of the squad.

"Hey, Johnny," said Yang. "You get that car taken care of?"

"Yep, Ryan just hauled her off to some place in Santa Clarita where he says I'll get a good deal. Boy, I'll tell ya, that's a good thing about working out here off the beaten path—people know each other, know who to trust with stuff. Down near the city, man, it's a different story." He looked over the boxes of equipment the paramedics were putting away, and Yang noticed the path of his gaze.

"You ever miss it?" he asked.

"Yeah, sometimes," said Johnny. "I get in enough hours to keep up my certification, though. But I'll tell you, I don't mind not gettin' beat up all the time."

Yang laughed. "Gage, you were a legend in the department for how often you got messed up. I don't know how you managed it. I mean, we rescue men tend to take the hits fairly often, but you? Like I said—a legend."

"Yeah, and that's the part I don't miss so much. You get to a certain point, and you realize you're not immortal, ya know? Plus, well, I got someone who wouldn't appreciate being left behind."

"No, he sure wouldn't!"

The three paramedics turned to the day room doorway, to see Mike Stoker standing there in his Saturday civvies.

"Hey, Wrong-Way!" exclaimed Velasquez. "C'mon in!" Mike had picked up the unfortunate nickname when he first started at Station 93, because the layout of his new station was an exact mirror image of that of Station 51, and Mike was continually colliding with people by heading the wrong direction.

"Hey, guys. Hey, Johnny." Mike went over to Johnny and just stood near him—even though the others present were accepting of their relationship, Johnny and Mike were not in the habit of public displays of affection. "You got the Rover taken care of?"

"Yeah, Jim Ryan's taking her to a good place in Santa Clarita. I'll give them a call when we get home."

"Mind if I say hi to Len real quick? I caught Washington and Armstrong out back already, but I haven't seen Len in a while."

"Sure—I think he must be in the office with Holtz," said Johnny, "since I don't see either one of 'em out here."

"All right—I'll just be a minute," said Mike.

"What're you two up to this weekend?" asked Yang.

"Oh, a pal from 51s is coming by this afternoon, and this pal means beer. How 'bout you?"

"Not much—or at least, not much that's gonna be any fun. Baby's due in another month, and Mindy's been pretty nuts with getting the room ready and everything. I mean, it's a baby—they don't care what their room looks like, for crying out loud."

"Yeah," smiled Johnny, "but you gotta admit—that formerly spare room was pretty spectacular, with the golden eagles on the wallpaper." Johnny spent quite a lot of nights in the Yang's spare room during Mike's lengthy stay at Henry Mayo hospital. "Glad you'll be putting that room to good use."

They chatted for a few minutes, until Mike emerged from the Captains' office. Johnny grinned as Mike stopped to give the shining Seagrave engine a little pat.

"She's doin' fine, Mike. Don't worry—I keep an eye out."

"I know, I know. I just don't get my hands on real equipment any more, you know?"

Johnny raised an eyebrow at him, and Mike blushed furiously. Neither Yang nor Velasquez seemed to notice that little exchange.

"All right, guys—I've had enough of this joint for a couple days. Have a safe shift. See ya next time," said Johnny.

He and Mike headed through the day room out to the parking lot, where Mike had parked his pickup truck.

"Okay, Gage; say it," Mike said, grinning widely.

"Let's get home, so you can get your hands on some real equipment."

"Walked right into that one, didn't I."

TBC