"An Equitable Trade"

Chapter Seven

Refusing to allow his celebratory mood to be dampened by DeSoto's dire predictions, Chet Kelly sprang up out of his seat. "I'm gonna give Edward a call an' see if he's heard the good news," he determined with a grin and started striding toward the payphone in the corner of the room.

The news was just too good NOT to share!

"Who's Edward?" Marco wondered, following along on his friend's heels.

"The guy who took Mister Munson," Kelly cryptically responded and began paging through the Charter Oak phone directory. "I wonder if it's spelt Greenbow, as in 'take a bow', or Greenbough, as in 'when the bough breaks'?

Marco's only comment on the subject was another quick question of his own. "Who's Mr. Munsen?"

"Eleanor's Siamese," Kelly replied and kept right on flipping pages.

His curiosity piqued, Hank promptly posed a question of his own. "Who's Eleanor?"

Kelly raised his gaze to his Captain's level. "Edward's girlfriend…The woman with the broken ankle…The old lady the Chief sent Gage an' me in to get 'down and out'," he additionally supplied and finally succeeded in removing the bewildered look from his boss' face.

'That would explain how Johnny ended up in the building,' Roy silently realized.

Mike's thoughtful expression suddenly turned to one of amazement and he headed over to the corner of the room, too. "Edward Greenbough? As in Greenbough Industries 'Edward Greenbough'?"

"Could be," Kelly finally came back, following a few moments of careful contemplation. "I mean, a guy's gotta be pretty rich, to have six different homes. Right?"

Stoker was momentarily too stunned to speak. "Pretty rich? Chet, the guy is a billionaire—several times over! What would one of the wealthiest men on the planet be doing at that apartment complex?"

Chet gave their dense engineer a 'Du-uh' look. "Did I mention Eleanor is Edward's girlfriend? His seventh home was the apartment right across the hall from hers."

Stoker was even more astonished. "It's bough, as in 'when the bough breaks', but it's a safe bet his number's unlisted."

"I'll just phone his company, then—"

"—You won't find Greenbough Industries listed in that directory. Its corporate headquarters are based in New York, with subsidiary companies all over the world. As a matter of fact, there should be some right here, in L.A. I'll call my stock broker. He'll know."

Chet readily relinquished his phone spot. "Hear that?" he whispered to Marco. "Mikey has his very own stock broker."

"Guess that explains why his face is always buried in the Financial Section," Lopez realized right back, also speaking in a whisper.

Mike gave them both an eye roll before dropping his dime into the phone's coin slot and dialing a number from memory. "Hi, Phil. Mike Stoker, here. Say, you wouldn't happen to know if Greenbough Industries has any subsidiary companies here in L.A., would you?...They do?" He placed the palm of his left hand over the phone's mouthpiece. "There's an import/export company and a chain of 5-star hotels." He uncovered the phone. "No. I wasn't thinking of investing. We're trying to reach Edward Greenbough…He does? …Thanks, Phil…Right!...Yeah…Okay. Bye." He returned the phone to its cradle, snatched up the much larger L.A. directory, and began flipping through its Yellow Pages. "Phil says, word from the world of finance has it, that Mr. Greenbough likes to stay at one of his hotels whenever he's in town. 'The Chamberlain Suites'."

Their Captain whistled for the second time that shift. "From what I've heard, that is the ritziest hotel in L.A."

Stoker finally found the number he'd been searching for, under 'Hotels', and kept his right index finger pressed beside it. The phone's receiver was raised, left-handedly, from its cradle and passed on to Kelly.

Chet dug through the change in his pants' pockets, deposited the correct coinage, and then dialed, as Mike relayed the numbers.

"Three-zero-one…eight-five-five…one-two-one-two."

At a hotel desk in downtown L.A., a gaudy phone began to ring.

An impeccably dressed clerk silenced the noisy, ornate instrument by picking up. "Good evening," the young fellow formally greeted, "Chamberlain Suites. How may I assist you?...One moment, please." He placed the caller on hold and waved his equally impeccably dressed boss over.

"Yes?" the older fellow formally inquired, upon approaching the desk.

"There is a fireman on the line, sir. Says he wishes to speak with the hotel's manager." That said, he handed the phone over and gave its 'Hold' button a second pressing.

"Good evening. This is Roger Logan, manager of The Chamberlain Suites. How may I be of assistance?...Yes…I see, Mister Kelly, but I am afraid Mister Greenbough is currently not in residence."

The desk clerk's eyes widened as the party in question suddenly appeared, holding—what appeared to be—a fistful of bed linen—a howling, fistful of bed linen. He tapped his boss politely on the shoulder and pointed toward the hotel's main entrance.

Mister Logan followed his employee's pointing finger and his staunch face lit up with a formal smile. "Wait, Mister Kelly! You're in luck. It seems that Mister Greenbough has just stepped into the lobby. One moment please." The manager placed the caller back on hold and headed off to greet his employer.

"Mister Greenbough! I cannot begin to tell you how good it is to see you again, sir."

"Thank you, Logan."

"Shall I have Anders fetch your luggage?"

"I don't have any luggage."

The manager's cheery demeanor instantly evaporated. "Does this mean you won't be staying with us, sir?" he wondered, and followed his boss off across the lobby.

"Mister Munson and I will be staying. I just don't have any luggage."

"Very well, sir. We will have a suite ready for Mister Munson when he arrives."

They reached the desk.

"He already has," his boss announced and raised the noisy, tied up sack he was toting. "Cats don't have any luggage, either. Do they, M. Which reminds me…could you see to it that a catbox, some kitty litter and a large can of tuna are delivered to my quarters?"

Logan bowed both his head and his upper torso—twice—in a sort of full-body nod. "I almost forgot," he realized, upon straightening. "There is a phone call for you, sir. A Mister Kelly is on the line."

"Take a message for me, will you, Logan," Edward wearily requested. Even if he had recognized the name, he wasn't in a talkative mood. He and M needed some alone time…some time to grieve.

"Of course, sir," Mister Logan dutifully acknowledged and turned to his desk clerk. "Calvin, Mister Greenbough will be needing the keys to his quarters. Oh, and, ask that fireman fellow to please leave a message."

"Yes, sir."

'That fireman fellow!' Edward suddenly—and silently—realized. 'Mister Kelly!' He passed the bunched up sheet off to Mister Logan and snatched up the desk phone so fast it made his astonished employees' heads spin. "Chet?! Chet?!" he anxiously re-exclaimed. He spotted the flashing red light on the ornate instrument's base and hit the damn 'Hold' button. "Chet?! Chet, it's Edward!..." the elderly gentleman's weary eyes welled up and his jaw quivered. "No. No. I hadn't heard…Tell your Captain that I am placing the entire resources of Greenbough Industries at your Department's disposal. Is there anything your men require—right this moment?...Building jacks? I'll have my people contact your people for the specs. You should have them within the hour…Sometime tomorrow morning? My, that—that is a lo-ong ways off, isn't it. Would it be possible for me to wait with you and your friends?...Splendid! Then, I'll see you shortly. Thank you, Chet…Thank you for taking the time to share this wonderful news with me," he repeated, his voice faltering. The fancy phone was slowly lowered back into its cradle. Following a fervently whispered prayer of gratitude, Edward rested his wrinkled forehead upon his folded arms and wept—openly—and, unashamedly.

His private tears of grief had just been transformed into public tears of joy. The woman he loved—so desperately—was still alive…for now. It wasn't everyday that someone was given a second chance at love. "Mister Logan…could you please have the car brought around? I am obviously in no condition to be driving."

"Right away, sir!" The manager handed the heavy, still-howling satchel back to his boss and promptly headed off to procure the promised car and driver.

Edward's still a bit blurry gaze shifted, from the make-shift pet carrier in his right hand, to his remaining employee. "You're not allergic to cats, are you, Calvin?"

"N-No, sir," the young clerk stammered back. "I-I'm actually quite fond of them…sir."

"Excellent! Then…how does the idea of spending a couple of days cooped up in a penthouse, with a traumatized Siamese, and unlimited Room Service, strike you?"

Calvin gave the keys in his right hand a slight toss into the air. As they landed back into his open palm, he grinned up at his boss' boss and declared, "I shall do my very best to keep 'M' company…sir."

Edward passed him the cat and picked up the phone.

Speaking of being cooped up and traumatized…

E.J.'s eyes narrowed in the flashlight's dim, yellow glow. "You mean, after all the two of you went through to rescue that man, he was arrested?"

J.R. nodded. "We barely had the guy out of the building when the cops slapped the cuffs on him. Turns out, he was wanted for murder—in three states!"

"So, the two of you could have been killed…saving a cold-blooded killer. There's a terrible irony in that."

"The main goal of the Fire Service is to save peoples' lives and property. That duty is performed with due diligence and, occasionally, at great cost."

"Far too great of an expense, in that maniac's case."

"It won't always be an 'equitable' trade. Every firefighter has to come to terms with that fact before they pin on the badge. If a guy never calls his mother, or if he goes around kicking puppy dogs, or murdering people, we don't want—or need—to know. Judging people is not a part of the job description. So, we just stick to the rescuing and leave the judging to the 'Big Guy in the sky'."

"Then, you believe in God?"

"I believe that creation requires a Creator…and that intelligent design requires an Intelligent Designer—" J.R. sucked in a breath and his face filled with a grimace.

E.J. was looking forward to what else her companion had to say on the subject, but one—or more—of her young rescuer's leg muscles chose that moment to 'lock up' on him again.

Five minutes of 'nerve bundle compression' and 'helmet breathing' later…

"I can't bear any weight on my right leg," J.R. regrettably announced, once his respiration rate had slowed enough to allow him to speak.

"That's perfectly understandable," E.J. assured him, her voice sounding somewhat shaky.

"I can't unclip this belt. That means, if this slab," he paused to tap the steeply-slanting section of terrazzo flooring beneath the sole of his left boot, "slips any further, and the rope doesn't snap, that rod's either gonna be ripped out the side of my thigh, or my right leg's gonna be ripped off at the knee. I'm not likely to survive either scenario. I just wanted to make you aware of the possibility. I don't believe there's a situation you couldn't handle, if you were just given the chance to prepare for it. Right now, I need to straighten my left leg for a bit, because it's really beginning to kill me. I'm either gonna pass out…or I'm gonna be screamin' like a little girl. I hope, for both our sakes, that I pass out."

"Don't be afraid to scream."

"I'm not afraid to scream. I'm afraid that, once I start, I won't be able to stop." That said, J.R. started to straighten out his incredibly cramped left leg—and to scream…like a little girl.

TBC