Shut Up and Carry the Bumper Home

by MJ Hajost

Hank Stanley stood in the vast doorway that fronted Station 51, hands shoved into pants pockets, rocking slightly on his feet. Bright blue sky dominated his vision as he followed the contrail of a passing jet. He wondered idly at the plane’s destination, deciding that someday he, too, would be a passenger on just such a jet bound for exotic places. The cheerful greeting from behind reminded him that it would be a while before he would find either the time or the money for such a trip.

“Mornin’, Cap!”

Hank turned and favored the slightly younger half of his paramedic team with a smile. “John,” he nodded. “You’re a little early, aren’t you, Pal?”

Johnny shrugged. “I’ve been up for hours,” he drawled casually, propping his lean form against the hood of the squad and following Hank’s stare. “Such a beautiful day, I didn’t wanna waste it sleeping.”

Hank snorted. “Who are you, and what have you done with John Gage?”

“Aw, Cap, I’m serious,” Johnny grinned. “I love spring. Everything’s so…so fresh.”

Hank shook his head. “I never would have pegged you for a romantic, John.”

Johnny shrugged. “Oh, I can be romantic when I put my mind to it,” he explained.

“Well, there’s half your problem, Gage,” came from behind the two men. “You don’t have a mind to put to it.”

Johnny lifted an eyebrow, his smile growing wider. “Chet,” he grinned, slapping his co-worker on the shoulder with a friendly pat, “even you can’t ruin my good mood.” He pushed away from the squad and sauntered back toward the squad room.

Hank glanced toward John and sighed with satisfaction. “I love the first day of spring, don’t you, Kelly?” He wandered after John without a backward glance.

He nearly bumped into Johnny in the doorway of the squad room.

“Gage, could you find another doorway to block?” Hank muttered, giving the other a slight push and stepping around him.

Johnny didn’t seem to hear him. “What the heck is that?” he demanded, pointing at the chalkboard that stood near the far wall.

Hank followed his gaze and, like Johnny, blinked and stared. “Ya got me, Pal,” he said after a moment, turning back toward the coffee pot.

Johnny, mouth open and frown creasing his forehead, strode to the board to have a closer look.

On it was written:

The words “DO NOT ERASE” and several exclamation points underscored the gibberish.

“What the...?” He turned back to Hank, who had dropped bonelessly into a chair with his coffee. “What kind of nonsense is that?”

“If it confuses you, Gage, it can’t be nonsense.”

Johnny didn’t even appear to have heard Chet. “What’s it mean, Cap?” He turned a puzzled face over his shoulder.

“Hey, I didn’t put it there,” protested Hank. “How the heck am I supposed to know?”

The back door opened and Mike Stoker walked in, standing aside so Henry could amble past him.

Hank looked at the dog, then Mike. “How’d you get him off the couch?” he demanded, the conundrum on the board momentarily forgotten.

Mike shrugged. “I found him out by the back door, waiting to get in.”

Henry meandered to his favorite piece of furniture and once more assumed his throne. Chet dropped beside him and scrutinized the chalkboard. “What’s that, Cap?”

Hank shook his head. “I don’t know. I didn’t write it,” he muttered.

“I think it’s a puzzle of some sort,” opined Mike. “Looks like some sort of grammar quiz,” he added with a soft chuckle.

“Well, in that case, Gage doesn’t stand a chance.” Chet gazed smugly at Johnny’s scowl.

“I could, too, figure it out.” Johnny’s dignity was clearly wounded. He stepped closer to the board. “What do you have to do?” he wondered, after a moment’s study.

“I think you’re supposed to punctuate it,” Mike suggested.

“You seem to know an awful lot about this, Pal.” Hank lifted his head to study the quiet engineer.

Mike shrugged. “I didn’t write it, if that’s what you’re getting at, Cap,” he smiled. “It just looks like something my senior English teacher used to give us to do when we got bored.”

“Uh-huh.” Hank remained skeptical. He rose from his chair and approached the board, standing alongside Johnny and studying the words.

“You know how to do this, Cap?” Johnny asked, looking at him out of the corner of his eye.

“Well, there’s gotta be a solution,” Hank replied, picking up the chalk.

The rest of the crew watched while he made a few futile attempts at commas and periods. He erased his first choice, made a new mark, erased another blot, and finally tossed the chalk onto the tray. “I’ve got better things to do with my time,” he muttered, turning around and glaring at his crew. “Don’t you guys have work to do, too?”

A chorus of “Yeah, Cap’s” answered him as the men jumped to their chores.

“You know,” Roy grinned good-naturedly at his partner, “I wish the first day of spring would come around more often. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Cap this happy.”

Johnny’s teeth flashed as he finished tying off the line for the hose rack--even that tedious chore had not dampened his cheerfulness. “Aw, Roy, he’s usually happy, you know that.”

Roy stifled a snort. “Well, let’s just hope he stays that way, okay?”

They strolled back into the squad room, just avoiding being bowled over by Chet as he barreled through the doorway.

“’Scuse you,” Johnny called after him.

Chet stopped and turned back. “Don’t say a word,” he whispered. “Just play dumb.” He frowned a second. “Not that you’d have a hard time with that, Gage…”

Johnny opened his mouth, then clamped it shut again, making a face at Chet’s back as the other firefighter hustled into a chair and grabbed the newspaper. Roy shook his head in amusement and stepped around Johnny toward the refrigerator. He was halfway there when a startled cry issued forth from the captain’s office. He swung his head back around, eyebrows lifted.

Chet continued to sit unmoving at the table, seemingly absorbed in his newspaper. Only the subtle shaking of his shoulders betrayed silent laughter.

“All right, who’s the wise guy?” Hank’s bellow preceded him into the room.

Johnny jumped back as the captain stormed into the room. Four pairs of eyes studied their leader in puzzlement. The fifth head lifted more slowly from the paper.

Hank held up his fist. “Who’s the wise guy?” he demanded again. He opened his clenched fist and dribbled a handful of what looked like wood shavings into his other hand. Minute particles clung to his hand, and at a second look, appeared on his trousers and shoes as well.

The other men exchanged glances. “Um, Cap,” Mike Stoker finally ventured, “what happened?”

“I’ll tell you what happened!” thundered Hank. “Some wise guy filled my desk drawers with this—stuff!” He held up his hands.

“What is it?” It took a great deal of self-control for Roy to keep his laughter in check.

“How the heck should I know?” Hank paused for breath and glanced at the mess drifting from his hand to the floor now, the air catching in his throat as he beheld small grey and black particles amid the lighter colored slivers. “Oh, good Lord,” he muttered, his eyes widening. “Someone put a mouse nest in my desk!” His face and voice were so full of righteous indignation that the five men in front of him might have been mildly frightened by his outburst. Something about the feeling of helplessness that surrounded their captain, however, released the tension that had them collectively holding their breath. Stoker was the first to snicker.

“It’s not funny!” proclaimed Hank, pique widening his eyes even more. “You guys oughta see the mess in there!” He realized as his gaze traveled among the others in search of the culprit that he would find no sympathy in the squad room. He snapped his mouth shut with an almost audible click and shook his head. “Heaven help him when I find out who’s responsible…” he muttered, spinning around and stalking back to his office, little flecks of detritus following in his wake.

As soon as he was out of earshot, four men rounded upon Chet.

“How’d you manage that little stunt without him knowing about it?” demanded Roy.

“Where’d you find the mouse?” wondered Marco.

“Gotta hand it to ya, Chet, that was a masterful idea,” agreed Johnny magnanimously as, not being the victim for a change, he could afford to be kind-hearted toward the prankster.

Chet merely shook his head. “I had nothin’ to do with it,” he exclaimed.

“Oh, come on, Chet, you can tell us the truth.” Mike appeared in awe. “How did you get in there and plant that stuff without Cap knowing about it?”

Chet’s hands rose. “Look, fellas, honest! I’m not the one who put it there!”

Johnny made a face. “Chet, for cryin’ out loud, nobody’s gonna tell the Cap it was you!”

“It wasn’t me!” He peered helplessly around the group a moment, then relaxed. “But, I do know who did…”

The sudden swell of insistent voices stopped abruptly with another startled cry from the vicinity of the captain’s office. “Oh, for the love of--ow!” They heard a chair scrape across the floor, then a scurrying of feet, followed by another startled exclamation.

The five men exchanged a brief glance. Closest to the door, Roy was the first out of the room. The others tumbled after him.

“It bit me!” Hank was sucking crossly on his finger.

“What bit you?” asked Chet from behind Roy in the doorway of the captains’ office.

“That!” Hank pointed.

“This?” Johnny bent down and scooped a tiny creature into his hand. It scampered across his palm and up the sleeve of his jacket. Johnny’s arm jerked back and he muttered an “Ahhh...” Then, he was once more cradling the small bundle of frantic fur in his hand. “It’s just a hamster, Cap,” he said, holding it up for the others to see.

“Yeah, well, it still packs a pretty good wallop with its teeth.” The captain sounded disgusted.

“Where’d you find it, Cap?” grinned Mike, reaching forward and taking the animal from Johnny.

“In my drawer!” Hank’s ire was growing.

Mike handed the hamster to Marco. “Here,” he said. “Why don’t I help you clean up, Cap?” he offered, stepping around the others.

“Good idea,” muttered Hank, drawing his hand back as Roy reached out to check the bite. “I’m fine,” he grumbled.

“I’ll find a box,” offered Johnny. He and Marco scampered from the room. Roy followed a little more slowly. Chet remained watching Hank and Mike until Hank shot him a glare and Chet remembered that he had chores to do.

In the end, Stoker finally helped his captain clean up the stray shavings and small animal food still dropping in twos and threes from his desk drawers and every item that had been in there. Hank continued to mutter, not at all helped by Mike’s occasional snicker at the tiny pieces of wood that continued to cling to Hank’s person.

By lunchtime, the captain’s humor had been only partially restored. He settled into a chair at the table as Mike set the last of the condiments on the table along with a large bowl of potato chips.

“Hey, aren’t you two gonna eat?” he called to Chet and Johnny, who were standing near the chalkboard embroiled in an argument.

Johnny gesticulated with the chalk toward the board, a gleeful smile on his face. Chet grabbed the chalk from him and made some marks. Johnny smirked some more and wiped away Chet’s marks.

“Gage! Kelly! Lunch!”

The noise stopped and both heads turned.

“You’ll never be able to figure it out,” Chet proclaimed, dropping the chalk and sauntering to the table.

“Would you two stop arguing over that nonsense?” protested Hank. “You’re giving me a headache.”

Dropping into a chair on the opposite side of the table, Johnny reached for the milk and filled his glass. “It’s not nonsense,” he replied, grabbing a handful of potato chips from the bowl as Roy pulled it toward himself. He ignored Roy’s look. “It makes perfect sense. You just gotta know how to punctuate it right, that’s all. You’re always telling us we need more mental stimulation.” He winked at Roy.

Hank slid a sandwich onto his own plate. “Since when have you started listening to my speeches?” he wondered, handing the sandwich platter to Mike.

“Aw, Cap,” protested Johnny as he squirted mustard on his bread, “I always listen to your stories.”

“Yeah, when you’re not snoring through ‘em,” Chet snorted. “Sorry, Cap,” he added quickly as the captain shot him a glare.

“You two exercising your brains is a pretty scary thought,” murmured Roy as he bit into his sandwich.

“You sure you can figure out the solution, Johnny?” asked Mike, gesturing to the board.

“’Course I can,” grumbled the paramedic. “Sheesh. Why don’t any of you think I can do anything smart?”

There was an instant’s silence.

“Aw, now, Johnny,” chortled Roy, “you don’t really want us to answer that, do ya?”

Roy found Johnny out sulking on the hood of his Land Rover a half hour later. “What do you say we take a run over to Rampart and pick up some supplies?” he suggested, leaning against the car and lifting his face toward the afternoon sun.

Johnny glared at him a minute. “Never thought my own partner would turn on me.”

Roy grinned. “So, ya gonna tell me the answer?”

Johnny’s expression shifted abruptly. “You’re so smart, figure it out for yourself,” he replied, suddenly once again cheerful. He slid off the car, stuffed his hands into his pockets, and ambled toward the apparatus bay.

Roy watched him go, a smile on his face. He might never be able to figure out his partner, but trying sure made for an interesting day. Besides, he knew Johnny had no more clue to the puzzle’s answer than did he.

And, at his partner’s expense, the captain’s good mood had been restored. That alone was worth the price of a John Gage snit.

“Uh, Cap? Here, this is yours.”

Hank looked up from his desk and the file in front of him as Mike Stoker tossed a book to him. He caught it as it slid across the papers and lifted it. “The Power of Lust...” His voice rose to a question on the last word of the title, and he raised his eyes to the engineer with a snort. “This isn’t mine, Pal,” he grinned. “Probably Gage’s or Kelly’s.” He tossed it back across the desk.

“It’s got your name in it....” Mike sounded doubtful, but determined to return the property to is rightful owner.

“It does not,” began Hank. He stopped at Mike’s curious expression and grabbed the book back. Opening the front cover he saw written on the inside:

“You’ve gotta be kidding.” Wide eyes lifted to meet Mike Stoker’s innocent, and amused, baby blues. “Aw, come on, Stoker, you and I both know this book isn’t mine.”

Mike simply continued to stare.

“All right,” Hank sighed, “where’d you find this--this piece of trash?”

“On the sink in the latrine,” supplied the engineer with barely a hint of humor. His twitching mouth betrayed the building laughter.

“All right, all right, it’s obvious someone planted the thing.” Hank tossed the offending literature into his garbage can, then, after a moment, pulled it back out and handed it to Mike. “See that this gets into the dumpster outside, Pal,” he pleaded.

“Sure, Cap.” Mike turned to go.

“And, Stoker?”

Mike turned back.

“Not a word, not one word. And it’s NOT mine.”

Mike nodded. “Right, Cap.”

Hank watched him go, and wondered what more the fates had in store.

The quiet of the early afternoon lasted only until the first post-lunch call. A transformer explosion in one of the local refineries had not only knocked out power for two square miles, but had started what ended up as a three-alarm blaze. It was a bedraggled group that wended its way back to the station near dinner time.

Mike Stoker was the first to notice something odd as he approached the station. At first, he thought it was a reflection of some sort against the glare of the late afternoon sun. He blinked, but the front lawn of the station still looked a little odd. “Cap...” he began.

“What the--?” Hank muttered at the same moment.

“What is it?” Mike wondered.

“Hell if I know,” Hank grumbled.

“It looks like...like forks.” Mike pulled alongside the driveway, his eyes shifting to the mirrors so he could back the truck into the station.

“Forks?” Hank craned his neck to peer through Mike’s window at the front of the station.

Stoker was right. Forks. Hundreds of them. The front yard had been impaled with small, white plastic forks, handle end up.

Two minutes later, six very puzzled men approached the grass with identical expressions of wonderment.

“Well,” Johnny said finally, not shifting his gaze from the sight, “this couldn’t be the work of the Phantom.”

“Even the Phantom wouldn’t be this cruel,” Chet agreed.

“Or that creative,” added Roy.

“Yeah, well, whoever it was,” snapped Hank, “he ain’t around to clean ‘em up. Which means,” he went on, his eyes sweeping meaningfully around the circle of men, “that you are all going to have to get them out of there!”

“Aw, Cap--” started John.

Another glare stopped the protests on the lips of the others.

“And I want it done before dinner!” Hank wheeled around and headed for his office.

The rest of the crew exchanged annoyed glances.

“Man, I can’t believe I never thought of this one,” Chet lamented.

“Hey, where are you going?” Marco called after Johnny, who had turned and was trotting into the station.

“Gotta find my camera,” Johnny called back gleefully. “This is too good to not have a picture of.”

“Well,” suggested Roy, “the sooner we get ‘em picked up, the sooner we eat.” He bent to the task.

An outraged roar interrupted him. Four heads swiveled toward the station house, and four men raced inside, half-expecting to see blood pouring from a seriously wounded captain. Their worst fears couldn’t have been further from the truth.

Chet was in front of the pack, and his sudden stop in the doorway of the captains’ office was so sudden that the three men behind him slammed into him like a scene from an old comedy. His jaw dropped speechlessly.

Hank stood about three feet into the office, outraged surprise regarding the sea of ping pong balls that surrounded him. As he lifted his head to greet the men in the doorway, two more of the little plastic objects tipped from a box rigged over the doorway and dropped onto the heap at his feet. He faced his men, tight-lipped fury struggling just underneath the surface of self-imposed calm.

Chet looked down and followed the wave of white flowing out into the apparatus bay. “Uh, Cap...”

“Don’t say it, Kelly.” The words came out in a clipped voice. “Just don’t say a word.”

There was a sudden flash of light. “Hey, Cap, where’d all the ping pong balls come from?” Johnny grinned from behind his camera.

Hank looked at Roy. “Get him outa here before I kill him,” he suggested.

Roy grabbed Johnny’s arm and steered him out of the office. “Come on, partner,” he said, “let’s get this mess on the lawn cleaned up so we can eat.”

The others followed a little more slowly, Johnny shooting off several photographs and ignoring Chet’s grumbled objections to the presence of the camera in his face.

They soon discovered the true malice behind the joke. The forks could only be removed one at a time. There was no way to grab several at once, and the process quickly became tedious.

Hank finally wandered out to help, for no other reason than to hurry the process of getting some food on the table.

He probably more than any of the others spent the time plotting several forms of revenge against the culprit.

When they had finally retrieved the last fork (they thought), the weary firefighters wandered back into the station. As befit his status as captain, Hank was the first into the latrine. He pushed open the door to the toilet stall, his mind only half on where he was headed, lifting his eyes only after he had stepped through the door.

“Oh, excuse me!” He backpedaled hastily, averting his reddening face as he glimpsed the figure sitting in front of him. “Sorry, pal....”

He took two steps and stopped, swinging back with a frown on his face. “What the--?”

He pushed open the stall door again.

His bellow brought five firefighters stumbling into the latrine, the paramedics in front. “Cap? You okay?”

Hank yanked the figure in the stall from her perch and held her up for the crew to see. “Who’s the wise guy?” he demanded.

Johnny and Roy stared a moment, relaxed, and straightened, all before exchanging a furtive glance.

“Uh, Cap?” ventured Johnny. “What’s the Resusci-Annie doing in the toilet?”

“That’s just what I’d like to know!” thundered Hank, tossing the training mannequin aside and training a murderous glare on his crew.

“Gage,” suggested Chet, “I told you to tell your girlfriend to stop dropping in on you at work like this.” He retrieved the dummy from the floor and straightened its wig.

“Kelly!”

Chet jumped. “Cap?”

Hank pointed to the doorway, where his colleagues were already silently departing. “Out! Now!”

Chet didn’t wait for a second invitation.

Hank dropped wearily into a chair after dinner, having finally completed the day’s log. Mike, Johnny, and Roy were out back bouncing a basketball around, but Chet and Marco had settled in front of the television set and were watching Barney Miller. As he immersed himself into the antics of Wojo and Fish, Hank felt himself begin to relax for the first time since lunch. He dropped his chin into his hand and actually smiled at the television set.

Marco answered the phone rang, as he was the closest.

“LA County Fire Department, Lopez speaking.” He paused. “Yes, he is, just a moment.” Marco held up the receiver. “Cap, it’s for you.”

Hank pushed himself from the lazy comfort of his chair. “Thanks, Marco,” he said, taking the phone. “Cap’n Stanley,” he said into the mouthpiece, a smile still plastered on his face.

Marco sat back down and returned his attention to the television set, but slowly swiveled his head as he took in Hank’s portion of the phone conversation. Chet’s gaze lifted as well.

“You did what?....No, ma’am, I didn’t....Well, someone might have said that, but....Yes, ma’am, I do appreciate it, but.... No, I have no idea why they gave you this number.... Yes, you certainly were being.... Ma’am, no, ma’am, this is a fire station.... Yes, ma’am....Yes, I will do that.... Thank--”

Marco watched as a perplexed Hank settled the receive back on the hook and turned to his equally puzzled companions. Hank opened his mouth to speak when the phone rang again. He shrugged and lifted the receiver from the hook. “LA County Fire Department, Cap’n Stanley,” he said.

The two firefighters listened to another bizarre exchange before Hank hung up the phone, this time a little more forcefully than he had the first time.

“What was that all about, Cap?” asked Marco.

“I have no idea,” Hank replied slowly. “Two women, both saying they’d gotten a phone call from somebody telling them he’d lost his wallet in their neighborhood, and asking them to look for it and call and let him know whether or not they’d found it.” He shook his head slowly. “Strange.”

The phone rang a third time about fifteen minutes later, and Hank regarded the phone with deep suspicion.

An hour later, a decidedly nervous Hank was about as jumpy as his crew had ever seen him. The phone had run no less than eight times with the same purpose as the first two phone calls. And, Hank was no further in finding out the source of the trouble than with those same two calls.

By then, the others had decided that there were certainly other, more interesting places to be in the station than in their captain’s presence. Johnny sought the shelter of his locker, where he perused the thick training paramedic manual. Roy and Mike sat talking quietly on the tailgate of Roy’s truck. Marco had decided a quick shower was in order, and Chet had determined the safety of his own bunk was just the place to avoid Hank’s growing wrath, especially as he seemed to be the one under the heaviest suspicion as the culprit for raising the captain’s ire in the first place.

Hank poked his head into the locker room door and rather tersely ordered lights out. Engrossed as he was in his manual, Johnny nearly fell out of his locker. Marco nicked himself with his razor at the sound of the captain’s stern voice. Chet pulled his blanket firmly over his head.

The phone calls continued until nearly midnight.

It was almost another hour and a half before anyone relaxed enough to fall asleep.

A light rain was falling as the crew rolled from their bunks the next morning. Johnny surveyed the grey skies through sleep-blurred eyes through the window over his bed and grumbled good-naturedly.

“Guess this means I’ll have to spend the day cleaning my apartment now.”

“You’re welcome to come with me to take the kids to the dentist,” offered Roy.

“I’m driving down to El Cajon to take my grandmother to the doctor,” commented Marco. “You could keep me company.”

“I’m running errands all day,” added Mike. “I’d love to see someone else miserable besides me.”

“I have a captains’ meeting this morning,” muttered Hank. “You could represent me.”

Johnny turned to Chet. “What about you, Chet? Don’t you have anything for me to do?”

Chet grinned. “Right, like I’d want you doing me favors, Gage.”

“Yeah,” retorted Johnny, “well, what makes you think I’d even do you a favor anyhow?”

“What the—“ Hank’s voice interrupted their quibbling.

Johnny bumped into the captain as he stopped in the doorway of the apparatus bay. “What’s wrong, Cap?” he asked, following the captain’s gaze to the front of the building. He answered his own question by asking another one. “Why are all those people standing out there?”

“I don’t know,” muttered Hank, “but I’m gonna find out.” He strode purposefully toward his office and the front door.

Shrugging, Johnny made his way into the squad room in search of coffee.

Mike was staring out the back window gloomily, Marco stood in front of the open refrigerator door inspecting the contents within, and Chet and Roy had already poured themselves coffee and were separating the morning paper.

“Mornin’, Henry!” Johnny called to the dog camped out on the couch. Henry thumped his tail once and watched Johnny lazily, only the trained eye able to detect the hopefulness with which the dog studied the dark-haired eating machine.

“Hey!”

Johnny’s cry went largely ignored. Henry thumped his tail again, but that was all.

“Who fixed that?”

This time Roy lifted his head and gave Johnny a glance before returning to the sports. “Fixed what?”

Johnny was walking toward the chalkboard, gesturing. “That.”

The sentence was now separated into its component parts, punctuation making sense out of the gibberish that had puzzled them much of the evening before:

“That makes no sense at all,” Johnny declared firmly.

“As if you’d know the difference, Gage,” Chet assured him, returning to his newspaper.

“You guys aren’t gonna believe this.”

Five heads turned. Hank stood in the doorway to the squad room.

“What’s wrong, Cap?” Roy seemed to be amused at Hank’s bewildered expression.

“You have to see this,” Hank repeated. He turned and headed back toward the front of the station.

There was a beat, then the rest of the men scrambled to follow.

Hank had pushed the garage door opener, and the huge door was lifting slowly on its tracks. The five firefighters traipsing between the squad and engine halted as one, mouths dropping open in astonishment.

A small crowd of onlookers stood quietly along the sidewalk that fronted the station. One or two pointed and spoke in a hushed tone. The rest just stared.

Across the front of the station stretched yellow “Do Not Cross, Crime Scene” police tape. Prominently on the driveway was a slowly fading chalk outline of a body, outlandishly outlined in a grotesque death pose. More yellow police tape crisscrossed the front yard, effectively prohibiting anyone from disturbing the scene.

A police car pulled up as the garage door reached its zenith. Hank stared mutely as Dave Scott stepped out and approached.

“Hank.” Dave’s voice was cordial.

Hank merely nodded.

Dave looked at the crowd, the tape, then the chalk outline. “Was it anybody we know?” he asked finally.

Mike Stoker choked down his laugh as Hank glowered at anyone within reach.

“Hey, Cap,” Johnny asked stupidly, “how come we didn’t hear the cops here?”

Roy wisely said nothing, instead moving forward to remove the offending plastic from the front of the building. Marco pulled out a hose and washed the dwindling chalk marks from the driveway. The crowd gradually dissipated.

By the time the replacement shift began to arrive, all traces of the crime scene had vanished. All save for the pictures Johnny had managed to snap before Hank sent him scurrying for the safety of the locker room.

“Rough shift, Hank?” Cliff Hookrader’s sympathy was probably the hardest thing for Hank to accept.

His lips tightening in a forced smile, Hank muttered, “Let’s just say I’ll be glad to see this place in my rearview mirror.”

Hookrader was studying the log. “Doesn’t look like you had too many runs,” he commented. “Boredom got to ya, huh?”

“Just pray your shift isn’t anything like mine,” Hank muttered. He gathered the materials he needed for his meeting and departed without a backward glance.

Out in the parking lot, he climbed thankfully into his car, tossing his papers onto the seat next to him and starting the engine. Backing swiftly from his space, he angled the car around the side of the station and out toward the street. The light drizzle had turned into a steady, gentle rainfall. Hank switched on the wipers. As he reached the street in front of the building and began his turn, he found himself staring idiotically out the windshield. Or, rather, trying to stare out the windshield.

A fine layer of suds encased the window, swiping wispily back and forth in time with the wipers, slithering across the front of the car as they drifted from the glass.

So engrossed was he in watching the soap fly around that at first he didn’t notice the sudden lightening of the weight of his car. He hit the brakes abruptly, hearing the clatter behind him as he stopped. He stared in the rearview mirror, a hundred choice words coming to mind and every one remaining unsaid. Hank sat without moving until a tap on the passenger window startled him from his reverie.

“Something wrong, Hank?” Hookrader peered curiously into the car, glancing back and forth between Hank, the lather dripping into the street, and the bumper lying about ten feet from where he stood..

“It’s a conspiracy,” muttered Hank.

He climbed slowly from his car and walked around to inspect the damage. From the direction of the building came the distinct strains of “Tiny Bubbles,” slightly off key.

“Murphy,” Hank intoned, turning back to the engineer who was strolling casually across the lawn, “shut up and get that bumper out of the street.”

Grinning, Murphy stepped off the curb and retrieved the errant auto part. “What do you want me to do with it, Cap?” he asked cheerfully as he approached Hank with it.

“Carry it home for me, Murphy,” snapped Hank. “I’ll drive, and you follow along behind.”

Murphy set the chrome down, eyes twinkling. “Grumpy, grumpy,” he chuckled.

“Murphy,” interrupted Hookrader, jerking his head toward the station, “go get a hose and wash off Hank’s car.”

Murphy nodded. “Sure thing, Cap.” He strolled back into the station, humming softly.

Hank pointed a finger sternly at Hookrader. “Don’t even think it,” he muttered.

“You know, Hank,” Hookrader said, mouth twisting slightly, “something tells me this hasn’t been your average shift.”

Hank stared. “That it has not,” he agreed stonily.

He watched impassively and silently while Murphy rinsed the soap off his car, claimed his bumper, and drove away without another word.

“Uh, Cap?” Murphy ventured as he rolled up the hose.

Hookrader looked up from where he still stood.

“Any idea what they did with the hamster?”

Hookrader blinked. “I sure hope they put her in a safe place,” he frowned, turning back toward the station and heading up the drive. “My granddaughter wants it back.”

Author’s note: Brian, thanks for the story that inspired the title. That one, and all the others.... Gonna miss ya, roomie. Special thanks to Cece for all the help with this one. Who’d have thought that nice, sweet thing could be such a creative prankster? And, Diane, you are, if anything, possibly even more wicked than Cece. You really did THAT to your friend?

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