The Gold Coast

58

Abe and Xavier have been sitting around headquarters for a good half of their shift, a rare event indeed. They’ve been playing video football, pumping weights, napping, and playing more football. Xavier is killer at the game, he plays for money at the Boathouse, and he hits the keys of his control board like a typist going at two hundred words a minute, so that all eleven of his men play like inspired all-stars. On offense Abe is constantly being tackled for a loss, sacked, intercepted, or having his punts blocked, and once on defense he gets steamrolled every way possible. In the latest game the stat board shows him with minus 389 yards rushing, in a game he is losing 98–7. And he got the seven by screaming, “Look out!” just after beginning a play, actually fooling Xavier into glancing around while he tossed a successful bomb.

So Abe quits.

“No, Abe, no! I’ll play with my eyes shut, I swear!”

“No way.”

And Abe is napping again when the alarm goes, a high, not-so-loud ringing that squeezes every adrenal gland in his body. He’s up and out and fastening his seat belt before he’s even awake, and only as they zip out onto Edinger and into traffic does his heart rate sink back to a halfway reasonable patter. Another year off his life, no doubt; firemen and paramedics have a really high heart attack rate, as a result of the damage caused by these sudden leaps of adrenal acceleration. “Where’m I going?”

“Proceed northward on the Newport until encountering the Garbage Grove Freeway, west to the Orange Freeway, north to Nutwood and over to State. We have been called to render assistance at a car crash.”

“You’re kidding.”

Abe notices that Xavier’s hand is clamped on the radio microphone so tight that the yellowy palm is almost completely white. And the joky rapid-fire patter has an edge in it, it always did of course, but now it burrs X’s voice to the point where the dispatcher asks him to repeat things sometimes. Xavier needs a long vacation, no doubt about it. Or a change of work. He’s burning out, Abe can see it happening shift by shift. But with his own family, and the dependency of what sounds like a good chunk of Santa Ana’s populace, he can’t afford to quit or to take a long break. Pretty obviously he won’t stop until it’s him that breaks.

Abe concentrates on driving. Traffic is bad where the Garden Grove Freeway bleeds into the Orange and Santa Ana, in the giant multilevel concrete ramp pretzel, every ramp stopped up entirely, it’s offtrack time again, the song of the sirens howling up and down, power sensation as the truck leaps under his foot, the tracked cars on his right flying by in a blur of color, one long rainbow bar of neon metal flowing by, whoops there’s a car offtrack right in their path blocking it entirely, heavy brakes. “Shit! What’s that doing there!”

“Get back ontrack.”

“I’m trying, man, can’t just drive over these civilians you know.” Abe puts on flasher, blinkers, the truck is strobing light at a score of frequencies, should hypnotize the car drivers if nothing else. No break in the traffic appears.

“They think we a Christmas tree,” X says angrily, and leans far out of his window to wave futilely at the passing stream. “Just edge over into them, man.”

Abe takes a deep breath, eases in the clutch, steers right. Xavier shouts abuse at the cars in the fast lane, and finally says to Abe, “Go for it,” and blindly Abe floors it and steers over into the lane, expecting a crunch from the side any second. As soon as he gets past the stalled car on the shoulder he veers back onto the concrete shoulder and guns it, fishtailing almost into the rail. Xavier is waving thanks to the driver who gave them the gap. They’re up to speed again. “We got a dangerous job,” Xavier says heavily as he settles back into his seat. “Opportunities for impaction while attempting to reach our designated destination are numerous indeed.”

Abe sings the last line of their “Ode to Fred Spaulding”:

And he never, exceeded, the speed, limit—againnnn!

Xavier joins in and they cackle wildly as they trundle at eighty miles an hour up the freeway shoulder. Abe’s hands clamp the steering wheel, Xavier’s palm is white-person white on the mike.

X says, “Have you heard the latest Fred Spaulding joke? Fred sees the overpass pylon coming at them, he shouts back into the ambulance compartment, ‘Tell the victim we’ll have him there in a second!’”

Abe laughs. “That’s like the one where he asks the victim what’s the definition of bad luck.”

“Ha! Yeah. Or where he asks him to explain double-indemnity insurance.”

“Ha! ha! Or the one where he says, ‘Have you got insurance?’ and the victim says, ‘No!’ and Fred says, ‘Don’t worry about it!’”

Xavier is helpless at this, he puts his forehead on the dash and giggles away. When he’s done he says, “Wish I didn’t believe in insurance. You wouldn’t believe how much I pay every month.”

“It’s a good bet, remember that.”

“That’s right. You die young, the insurance company says, ‘You win!’” He laughs again, and Abe is cheered to see it. Abe adds:

“And if you lose the bet, you’re still alive.”

“Exactly.”

They reach Nutwood, turn off the freeway and head west to College Avenue, shooting through the shops and restaurants and laundromats and bookstores that serve Cal State Fullerton. Crowds watch them pass, cars skitter over to the slow track or slide into empty parking slots, giving Abe little scares each time they hesitate and almost scatter into his path. Familiar surge of power as they part traffic likes Moses at the Red Sea. Up ahead traffic is dense, stopped, the brake lights go off in his brain, Chippie car lights rolling red and blue in the intersection. “We need the cutters,” Xavier reports from the radio. “Code six.”

Abe sucks down air, he’s breathing rapidly. He drives onto a sidewalk to make half a block, thumps back over the curb and crawls by cars to the sota.

They’re there. Three-car job. Sits, something in the silicon. Or maybe this was a combination of silicon breakdown and human error. College had a green light, cars were pouring through, apparently; a truck fired through its red light on Nutwood and broadsided a left-lane car that was caught against the car in the right lane, the three of them skidding over into a traffic light and a power pole, knocking the poles flat over. Both the cars are crunched, especially the middle one, which is a pancake. And the truck driver isn’t too well off either, no seat belt natch.

Abe is out of the truck and on the move, dragging his cutters over to the cars, where Chippies are gesturing violently for him. Someone’s caught in the middle car, and with all the sparks from the power lines, they fear electrocution for those inside.

There are two people in the front seat of the sandwiched car. Abe ignores the driver as she appears dots, sets to work on the roof of the car to get to the passenger. Again he’s at work, cutting with a delicate touch as the snips shear the steel with great creaks and crunches, metallic shrieks covering repeated moans from the girl in the passenger seat. Xavier slithers in from above and is quickly at work, giving a rapid sequence of very exact commands to Abe above, “Cut another foot and a half back on the midline and pull it up. Farther. Okay, take that sidewall out of the rear door, we can get her out here.” Stretcher set, for a teenager in yellow blouse and pants, all stained blood red in an alarmingly bright pattern. Xavier and the Chippies run her to the truck and Abe works his way into the smashed car to check on getting the driver out. In the right rear door, lean over the blood-soaked seatback—

It’s Lillian Keilbacher. Face white, lips cut, blond hair thrown back. It’s definitely her. Her chest—crushed. She’s dead. Dots, no doubt about it. That’s Lillian, right there. Her body.

Abe backs out of the car. He notes that the car was a new Toyota Banshee, a little sport model popular among kids. Seems he’s gone deaf; he sees the turmoil of spectators and cars around them, but can’t hear a thing. He remembers Xavier, sweating, talking in a near hysteria about the time he turned over a dead kid in a car and saw, just for a moment, his son’s face. He makes a move toward the car, thinking to check the girl’s ID. But no, it’s her. It’s her. Carefully he walks to the curb and sits on it.

“Abe! Where—Abe! What are you doing, man?” Xavier is crouched at his side, hand on his shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

Abe looks at him, croaks, “I know her. The driver. Friend of the family. Lillian, Lillian Keilbacher.”

“Oh, man.…” Xavier’s face scowls with distress; Abe can’t stand to look at him. “We got to go anyway, the other one’s still alive. Come on, bro. I’ll drive, you can work in back.”

Abe is qualified to do the medic work, but when they reach the truck he can’t face it. He balks at the rear door. “No, man. I’ll drive.”

“You sure you can?”

“I’ll drive!”

“Okay. Be careful. Let’s go to Anaheim Hospital.”

Abe gets in. Seat belt on. He drives. He’s a blank; he finds himself at the freeway exit leading to Anaheim Memorial and he can’t remember a single thought from the drive, or the drive itself. Xavier pops his head through the window. “This one looks like she’ll pull through. Here, make a left here, man, ER is at the side.”

“I know.”

Xavier falls silent. Wordlessly they sit as Abe drives them to the ER ramp. He sits and listens while Xavier and the nurses get Lillian’s friend inside. Memory brings up to him the image of Lillian’s dead face rolling toward him, looking through him. His diaphragm’s all knotted, he’s not breathing well. He blanks again.

Xavier opens the driver’s door. “Come on, Abe, slide over. I’ll drive for a while.”

Abe slides over. Xavier puts them on the track to the street. He glances at Abe, starts to say something, stops.

Abe swallows. He thinks of Mrs. Keilbacher, his favorite among all his mother’s friends. Suddenly he realizes she’ll have to be told. He imagines the phone call from a stranger, this is the Fullerton police, is this Mrs. Martin Keilbacher? At the thought his jaw clamps until he can feel all his teeth. No one should ever have to get a call like that. Better to hear it from—well, anybody. Any other way has to be better. He takes a deep breath. “Listen, X, drive me up onto Red Hill. I got to tell her folks, I guess.” As he says this he begins to tremble.

“Oh, man—”

“Someone’s got to tell them, and I think this would be better. Don’t you?”

“I don’t know. —We’re still on duty, you know.”

“I know. But they’re almost on the route back to the station.”

Xavier sighs. “Tell me the way.”

As they turn up the tree-lined, steep street that the Keilbachers live on, Abe begins shaking in earnest. “This one on the left.”

Xavier stops the truck. Abe looks past the white fence and the tiny yard, to their window of the duplex. A light is on. He gets out, closes the truck door quietly. Walks around the hood. Come on, he thinks, open the door and come out, ask me what’s wrong, don’t make me come knock on your door like this!

He knocks on the door, hard. Rings the bell. Stands there.

No answer.

No one’s home.

“Shit.” He’s upset; he knows he should feel relieved, but he doesn’t, not at all. He walks around the duplex, looks in the kitchen window. Dark. Light left on in the living room while they’re out, SOP. Xavier is leaning his head out the window. Abe returns to the truck. “No one’s home!”

“It’s all right, Abe. You did what you could. Get back in here.”

Abe stands, irresolute. Can’t leave a note in the door about this! And the two of them are still on duty. But still, still… he can’t rid himself of the idea that he should tell them. He climbs back in the truck, and as he sits he has an idea. “Jim’s folks live up here too, and his mom is a good friend of theirs. Drive me by there and I’ll tell her and she can take over here, we can get back to the station. They go to church together and everything.”

Xavier nods patiently, starts up the truck. He follows Abe’s directions and drives them past house after house. Then they are at Jim’s parents’ duplex, well remembered by Abe from years past, looking just the same to him. Drapes are closed, but lights are on inside.

Abe jumps out and walks to the kitchen door, which is the one the family always uses. Rings the bell.

The door opens on a chain, and Lucy McPherson looks out suspiciously. “Abe! What are you doing here?”

At the question Abe loses the feeling that it made sense to come to her. Lucy closes the door to undo the chain, opens it fully. She looks at him curiously, not getting it. “It’s good to see you! Here, come in—”

Abe waves a hand quickly. Lucy squints at him. She’s nice, Abe thinks, he can remember a hundred kindnesses from her when he was the new kid in Jim’s group. But in recent years he’s noticed a distance in her, a certain reserve behind her cheery politeness that seems to indicate disapproval… as if she perhaps thought Abe was responsible for whatever changes in Jim she doesn’t like. It has irked him, and a couple times he found himself wanting to say, Yes, yes, I personally have corrupted your innocent son, sure.

Random thoughts, flashing through Abe’s confusion as he sees that tiny squint of suspicion or distrust. “I—I’m sorry, Mrs. McPherson.” Say it. “I’ve got bad news,” and he sees her eyes open wide with fear, he puts a hand forward quickly: “No, not about Jim—it’s about Lillian Keilbacher. I just came from their house, and there’s no one home to tell! You know, you know I’m a paramedic.”

Lucy nods, eyes shining.

“Well,” Abe says helplessly, “I just found Lillian in a car crash we were called to. And she was dead, she’d been killed.”

Lucy’s hand flies to her mouth, she turns to one side as if bracing for a blow. It’s as bad as Mrs. Keilbacher. No, it’s not.

“My Lord.…” She reaches out hesitantly, touches Abe’s arm. “How awful. Do you want to come in and sit down?”

That’s almost too much. Abe can’t take it, and he backs up a step, shakes his head. “No, no,” he says, choking up. “I’m still on call, got to go back to work. But I thought… someone they knew should tell them.”

She nods, looking at him with a worried expression. “I agree. I’ll go get the Reverend Strong, and we’ll try to find them.”

Abe nods dumbly. He looks up into her eyes, shrugs. For a moment they share something, some closeness he can’t define. “I’m sorry,” he says.

“I’m glad you came here,” she says firmly. And she walks him back to the truck. Something in the kindness of those words, and in the fact that his task is done, breaks the restraints in Abe, he can feel the shock of it again; and he shakes hard all the way back to the station, while X drives grimly, muttering “Oh, man… oh, man…”

Back at the station they collapse on the couch. The football game mocks them.

After a while Xavier says slowly, “You know, Abe, I don’t think we’re cut out for this job.”

Abe drinks his coffee as if it were whiskey. “No one is.”

“But some more than others. And not us. You’ve got to be stupid to do this job right. No, not stupid exactly. It takes smarts to do it right. But…” He shakes his head.

“You’ve got to be a robot,” Abe says dully. “But I’ll be damned if I’ll become a robot for the sake of some job.” He drinks again.

“Well…” X can only shake his head. “That was bad luck, tonight. Damned bad luck.”

“A new definition.” But neither of them even cracks a smile.

For a long time they just sit there on the couch, side by side, staring at the floor.

Xavier nudges him. “More coffee?”