"Godzilla and The Smog Monster"
Chapter Eighteen
"You're in early," Paul Kurtz told the doctor who had just tapped on his office's open door. He motioned for his friend to enter and have a seat.
"I'm just coming off," Kel Brackett corrected, and collapsed into a heavily padded chair.
"What's the point of being the head of your department, if you can't give yourself the night off?"
"I actually had the night off. But then my New Year's Eve dinner date ended up in bed, with a bad case of the flu, and I got the noble notion to swap shifts with Ben Tyler. How did John Gage's surgery go?"
"I sent someone over to Medical Records, to dig up a little background info on this patient. Look at this!" Kurtz waved an arm over the mound of folders and manila x-ray packets that were strewn across his desk. "And this is just from the past twelve months! They said they would've needed a wheelbarrow to haul it all over here!" The doctor gazed down at the mountain of clutter in amazement. "What is this guy's problem? I mean, is his line of work really that dangerous? Or is he just the most accident prone fireman in the entire country?"
Kel stared sadly down at the stacks of hospital records. "Let's just say his job has been extremely hazardous to his health…and leave it at that."
"Wait a minute…" The surgeon had detected the bitterness in Brackett's voice. "This guy wouldn't happen to be a paramedic…and, hence, a personal friend of yours…would he?"
"He's not just a paramedic. Johnny's one of the best paramedics this hospital has ever trained! And, yes! He happens to be a close personal friend of mine!" Brackett slammed the palm of his hand down on the padded arm of his chair. "This whole 'shooting' business is just so da-amn senseless!"
"Agreed!" Kurtz flashed his frustrated fellow physician a sympathetic smile. "Barring complications, I am extremely optimistic that he'll make a complete recovery…in four to six weeks."
Kel exhaled a deep sigh of relief and got stiffly to his feet. He gave the good—er, great news bearer a grateful grin and extended a hand across the cluttered desk. "Thanks, Paul! That is what I was hoping to hear!"
Kurtz took and shook his happy associate's proffered appendage.
"Now, if you'll excuse me…I hafta make a 'house call'."
"Tell Dixie I hope she feels better real soon!" Paul called after the disappearing doctor.
Chet spent New Year's Day moping about his apartment.
He didn't even bother to turn his TV set on. If he couldn't watch the bowl games with his buddies, he'd just as soon not see them, at all.
His sullen mood may have had something to do with the fact that he kept hearing his words, "And, by the end of the shift, LA will be completely destroyed…and only one of them will be left standing. I'm betting it's The Smog Monster," over and over, in his head.
His comments in the parking lot, after their last shift, had been made strictly in jest.
Still, Kelly couldn't help thinking that he'd somehow jinxed Johnny's shift.
Joanne watched as her four-year-old placed one too many plates down on the dinner table. "Chris, honey, you've got one too many. Put one back on the cupboard and then go upstairs and get your Grandmother. Tell her it's time to eat."
Christopher looked completely confused and carefully recounted the dishes. "I got just enough," the boy assured his mother.
Joanne saw that her son seemed pretty determined not to remove any of the plates from the table, and suppressed a smile. "Very well. Then go get your grandmother and your sister. We're going to eat just as soon as they get down here."
The boy looked even more confused. "We can't eat ye-et. Uncle John's not here."
Christopher's parents exchanged solemn glances.
Roy stood there in his kitchen, struggling for the right words to explain a very unpleasant situation. "Your Uncle John can't come over tonight, Chris."
"But you said last ni—"
"—I know," Roy interrupted. "Your Uncle John can't come because he got…hurt last night."
The boy stood there, staring up at his father with big, sad eyes, and biting his lower lip. "Is he in the hopspital again?"
His parents swapped another pair of solemn glances.
Roy's undivided attention returned to his son, and he reluctantly nodded.
Christopher stared up at the extra plate. "Kin I eat after a while?" he quietly inquired. "I'm not very hungry right no-ow…"
Roy could relate to that. He bent down and swooped the boy up in his arms. "Sure, Chris. The two of us'll eat…later."
At around nine that night, Patrol Officers Nick Fedrizzi and Alexander Michaelson were summoned back to their stationhouse and told to report to the Desk Sergeant.
"You wanted to see us, Sarge?" Mike asked.
Sergeant Les Grange glanced up from his reports, saw the two uniformed officers standing before him, and grinned. "Uh-uh, yea-eah. We just got a call from some hysterical old lady who swears that there is a fireman hiding in the trash bin behind her apartment building." Grange struggled desperately to continue, without losing control. "I, uh, called you two 'experts' in here…because finding firemen is…right up your alley!" The Sergeant could no longer contain himself, he—and everyone else within earshot—cracked up laughing.
Well, everyone but the two 'experts', that is.
The officers snatched the incident address from their still chuckling Desk Sergeant, and beat a hasty retreat.
Eight minutes later, Unit 11 pulled up to an apartment building.
Nick started to exit the car, but his partner held him back.
"I'm tellin' yah," Mike warned, "this has got to be a gag! If there is an 'old lady', she's probably the Sarge's grandmother, or somethin'!"
His partner simply smiled…and pulled his arm free.
Apartment 12 was located on the alley side of the building's ground floor.
The two 'experts' stepped up to the door and rang the buzzer.
"Who is it?" a woman's muffled voice called out.
"Police Officers, Ma-am!" Nick calmly called back. "Please, open up!"
Locks clicked. A deadbolt rattled. Chains jingled…and the portal slowly swung open. "He's still in there!" the elderly lady who appeared in the apartment's doorway blurted. "I've been watching the Dumpster the whole time, and he hasn't come out ye—"
"—Ma-am," Officer Michaelson interrupted, "what's this all about?" The policeman didn't have a whole lot of patience when it came to practical jokes. Heck! He didn't have a whole lot of patience—period!
Speaking of patience…
The 'hysterical old lady' was rapidly becoming a bit impatient herself. "This is about a fireman in my trash bin! My word! Don't they tell you anything before they send you off somewheres?" She took the two officers by the elbow and started hauling them off down the hall. "Come along, boys! Before he gets away, and you two cart me off to the 'funny farm', or wherever it is they take crazy old ladies, these days!"
The 'experts' glanced at each other with arched brows and reluctantly allowed themselves to be towed along.
The woman ushered the cops out of the back of the building, down a dark alley a ways, and right up to a rather large, shiny red trash bin. She then released her captives and stood there, waiting for them to 'raise the lid' on their investigation…so to speak.
The two officers stood there, feeling more than a little foolish.
Nick flicked his flashlight on and finally started reaching for the bin's lid.
"You're not really going to go through with this?" his partner hopefully inquired.
"Yes. WE really are," Nick calmly replied and carefully raised the heavy metal cover.
They shone both their lights into the bin.
Neither officer was surprised to find the rubbish container completely empty—save for one large, black plastic trash bag. The men exchanged 'knowing' glances.
Which the old lady noticed. She raised herself up onto the tip of her toes and peered down into the bin. She did appear to be genuinely surprised to find it empty. "He's go-one!"
"Yup!" Mike snidely remarked. He picked the black plastic bag up from the bottom of the bin and then dropped it. "He just dropped his trash and ran!"
Nick shot his partner an 'oh brother' look and then turned back to the old woman. "Are you related, in any way, to Sergeant Les Grange—or anybody else over at the 12th Precinct—for that matter?"
The woman completely ignored the cop's question. "I'm telling you, there was a fireman in this trash bin! I heard him talking—just as plainly as I just heard you!"
The two officers exchanged 'knowing' glances again.
"You 'heard him talking', did you?" Mike insincerely inquired.
The old lady nodded.
"To who?" the 'experts' asked—in unison.
The woman shrugged. "That's what I called you two here to investigate."
"What, exactly, did this 'fireman' have to say?" Nick wondered.
The lady replied with another shrug of her shoulders. "I dunno. I can't remember, exactly. Just the sort of things a fireman would sa—"
"—LA," a man's voice suddenly blurted from out of nowhere—er, from out of the trash bin, actually.
The two police officers stiffened and their hands dropped instinctively to their hips.
"The fire on the 1200 block of Lakeland Avenue is now under control. Cancel additional units. Squad 16 is available. Engine 16 out one hour…"
"Things like that!" the old lady declared and pointed toward her trash bin, in triumph.
The 'experts' were momentarily too dumbfounded to speak. They stood there, staring at the 'talking' trash bin, in disbelief.
"10-4, Engine 16…" another man's voice piped up and out. "All units responding with Station 16, cancel…"
Mike finally regained enough of his composure to take action. He reached down into the bin and picked the trash bag back up. He set it carefully down at their feet and undid the twist tie. Once the bag was open, he carefully dumped its contents out onto the pavement.
Neither officer seemed all that surprised to see a fireman's bloody turnout coat and a black helmet, with a paramedic's emblem on it, fall out of the bag.
Nick pulled a clean hanky out and then crouched down to check the coat's pockets. He discovered a handheld radio in a black leather case.
"Squad 16…" the handy-talky crackled to life once more. "Standby for a response…"
"Squad 16. Go ahead, LA…"
'Bleep.' 'Bleep.' "Squad 16…Man down…"
The two policemen exchanged 'knowing' glances for the third time in as many minutes.
Then Nick looked up at their informant. "Ma-am, you didn't happen to see who dropped this bag into this bin, did you?"
The old lady looked thoughtful. "To tell you the truth, I've never really paid all that much attention to my trash bin…until it started 'talking', of course."
The officers were forced to smile. "Of course."
TBC