Crossed Over by Sandra McDonald Part 3 Read Part 1 or Part 2
Roy DeSoto and Johnny Gage (picture courtesy Tigger - Thanks!)		Mike Danko, Willie Gillis and Terry Webster

"You said you're a paramedic?" the white cop asked Roy.

"Yes," he snapped. Weren't they listening to him? Relief helped temper his impatience. Soon he would be able to talk to Joanne on the phone. To see her and hold her, to hug his daughter and son. If they'd been scared during his absence, he would reassure them with kisses and promises. He would take a long, hot shower, like he did when he needed to scrub smoke from his hair or grime from his pores. He would eat a hearty meal and then take a long nap on something other than the bare ground. He would never, ever tell his family, friends or coworkers about what had happened.

"Your friend doesn't look too good," the white cop said. His name tag said Gillis. The other one was Webster. Gillis continued, "You want to check him out?"

Johnny. Roy felt a momentary stab of guilt. The step through the shimmering wall had been disorienting and tiring, but he'd been so happy to see the world he knew that he hadn't spared much attention for Johnny. The fortunate presence of the patrol car, two cops checking out the report of an unknown electrical disturbance, had further distracted him. Now Roy sought out his partner and found him sitting in the back of the cruiser. The younger paramedic didn't have much color in his cheeks and his damp clothes still clung to his thin frame. He had his head tilted back, his eyes closed.

"Johnny, are you okay?" Roy asked, crouching low. He automatically reached to take Johnny's pulse.

"We're not home," Johnny muttered, freeing his wrist and opening his eyes. "This isn't where we belong."

Roy glanced at the cops, who were conferring in low tones by the hood. He gave Johnny his sternest gaze. "Listen to me. I don't want to hear a word about it. You want to end up in the psychiatric ward at Rampart?"

"Being crazy would be too easy," Johnny said. "Don't you recognize those cops? Haven't you ever watched The Rookies?"

"Never heard of it."

"Yes, you have. It's Chet's favorite TV show. He has a crush on what's-her-name, Kate Jackson."

"They're going to lock you up in a padded cell," Roy said grimly. "Don’t count on me to visit, either."

"The black guy's named Terry, the other one is Billy or Willie, and they've got a friend married to - "

"Shut up," Roy hissed. He resisted the urge to reach out and shake sense into his partner. "Everything's back to normal, and in about half an hour I'm going to be sitting in my living room putting this whole thing behind me."

Johnny blew his breath out in a noisy sigh. "What do you call someone who refuses to face facts?"

"Johnny Gage, that's what you call him!"

The two cops came over, interrupting the argument. "We'd like to help you out, but we need some more information," Gillis said with a slightly apologetic expression.

Roy tried to be patient. "What other information do you need? I told you - Station 51, Captain Hank Stanley. He'll vouch for us."

Webster's face was impassive. "There's no such station in Santa Costa."

Thrown off balance for a moment, Roy rallied as quickly as he could. "Where's Santa Costa?"

"It's where we are," Gillis said, and the gentleness in his voice made Roy want to kick him.

"Maybe we're just a little confused," Johnny offered, sounding just as puzzled as Roy felt. "This isn't L.A.?"

"Where's L.A.?" Webster asked skeptically.

Roy heard his voice rise half an octave, but couldn't stop it. "You don't know?"

Johnny abruptly climbed out of the cruiser. "You know what? I'm feeling a lot better. Thanks, guys, for all your help. My buddy and I were out pretty late last night, drank a little too much - you know how it goes. We'll just be on our way now."

Webster put up a hand. "Hold on a minute. Do either of you have any i.d. on you?"

The atmosphere shifted, darkened. The attitude of the two cops had changed from helpfulness to suspicion. Roy couldn't exactly blame them, but anger swelled in his chest as he watched Johnny reach for his pocket. The cops wanted i.d.? The universe had tilted upside down, TV shows had become real, he and Johnny were the only ones who had ever heard of Los Angeles and the cop wanted to see their identification?

"See?" Johnny said helpfully, handing over the contents of his wallet. License, badge, automobile club card. "We're really firemen. Los Angeles County. You've probably never heard of it. It's up north." He shot a smile at Roy. "Guess we drank more than we thought last night, huh? Wound up in an entirely different city."

Webster and Gillis exchanged glances. Roy could tell they weren't buying it. His prediction about the psychiatric ward might very well come true, Johnny sitting in a nice padded cell in a straight jacket. Except now Roy was going to be right there beside them, Squad 51's A-shift sedated and locked up forever. His hopes of going home to Joanne abruptly vanished. He glanced toward the street, wondering how far he'd get down the alley before the cops caught him and dragged him, screaming and kicking, to the loony bin.

Then again, to be fair, maybe the loony bin was exactly where he belonged.

"You said you left your car around here somewhere," Webster said. "What kind of car? We'll help you find it."

Just what they needed. To be caught in a lie. But they hadn't exactly broken any laws, had they? Roy tried to think of a reason the cops might arrest them. Johnny obviously had the same worry.

"Thanks, but I think we can manage - " Johnny started.

A radio squawk interrupted him. "Ludlow 7, Ludlow 7," the dispatcher called. "2-11 in progress at Wilshire and La Cienega."

Gillis grabbed the microphone. "Ludlow 7, 10-4."

Webster gave Johnny back the contents of his wallet. "Try not to drink so much."

"No problem!" Johnny stood there with a dumb smile on his face until the patrol car cleared the alley. The two lost firemen were left standing by the overflowing Dumpster. Grilled fire escapes stretched up the sides of the buildings that flanked them, mazes of iron that led to the hazy blue sky. The smell of rotting garbage filled Roy's nose. Funny that he hadn't really noticed it before. His stomach twisted.

"Wilshire and La Cienega," he said. "Two of the biggest streets in town. How can they say they don't know where L.A. is?"

"I don't know," Johnny admitted. He scratched the side of his head and turned to his partner. "What now?"

Roy thought hard for a moment. He pulled out his own wallet and started counting. Twelve dollars. Not a lot, but enough. Tucked behind the bills was a laminated photo of Joanne and the kids, and for a moment he found himself rubbing his thumb over his children's faces.

"Roy?" Johnny asked cautiously. "What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking alcohol is exactly what this situation calls for."

Johnny almost smiled. "I think you're right."

The street that bore Wilshire's name offered a wide selection of drinking establishments along with some record outlets, a typewriter-repair store and a head shop. They picked the very first bar they found, a dim and mostly empty hole-in-the-wall that reeked of cigarettes and old beer. The lone pool table had a rip down the length of its dirty green fabric. A sign reading "Out of Order" had been taped to the jukebox. The barstools didn't match each other. Roy didn't care.

"What'll you have?" asked the middle-aged blonde behind the counter. A happy-face T-shirt stretched tightly over her ample chest, and some of her bright-red lipstick had migrated to her yellowed teeth. Her long, frizzy hair had been pulled into a wild ponytail.

Roy sat down heavily. "Schlitz."

"Make that two." Johnny took the stool next to him. He spun around, eyeing the place. Roy was interested in nothing more fascinating than the gouges and scratches in the countertop. When the bartender plopped down their drinks, Johnny asked, "You got a newspaper?"

"Does this look like a news stand?" she asked.

"Be right back," Johnny said.

Roy didn't answer. He would leave the fact-finding and investigation to Johnny. Not a very mature attitude, perhaps, but the only one he felt capable of mustering at the moment. He took a deep gulp of his beer, glad for the cold taste in his dry mouth. Barley, yeast, hops. Food of mankind. He was halfway to the bottom when Johnny returned with two newspapers and a folding map.

"Get this," Johnny said, spreading one on the bar. "The Santa Costa Times."

The bartender ground her cigarette out in a tray and squinted at them. "You were expecting something else?"

"Ever hear of Los Angeles?" Johnny asked.

"No."

"Thought so." Johnny pointed to the front page for Roy's benefit. "Look. It's right. Today's date, it's right."

Roy jerked his head toward the black-and-white TV hanging from the ceiling. "That thing work?"

"Sometimes."

"Turn it on, will you?" Roy asked.

She lit another cigarette before moving toward the old set. "Are you two firemen?"

"Used to be," Roy said.

The bartender started watching a soap opera as Johnny unfolded the map. The familiar contours of California filled Roy's vision whether he wanted them to or not. Blue ocean met up against the long and jagged coastline. Large brown areas marked the desert regions and green ones indicated national parks. The city of San Francisco, where Roy had honeymooned, was exactly where it always had been. He remembered running with Joanne to catch a cable car, and the way her hair had whipped in the breeze as they clung to a pole and kissed.

"Lookee here," Johnny said, jabbing at the Pacific Coast Highway. A dirty, uneven fingernail traced the route south. "Palm Springs. Santa Barbara. And Santa Costa."

Roy blinked. The entire county of Los Angeles, thousands of square miles, more than eighty separate cities, remained intact under Johnny's finger. But it had been relabeled.

"We're in the right place," Johnny said. "But in the TV show, they called it Santa Costa. They do that, right? Make TV series and movies in L.A. but pretend they're somewhere else."

Roy waited to feel something other than depressed, but his dark mood only deepened.

Johnny must have sensed his thoughts. "It explains why no one ever heard of L.A. And if we can figure that part out, we can figure the rest out, too."

"Why even bother?"

"Why do you mean?"

"We're never getting home."

"Don't say that. You don't know that." Johnny began folding the map again. "That guy we saw - he knows what's going on. All we have to do is find him."

"For what?" Roy asked bitterly. He kept his gaze on the countertop. "So we can go visit The Brady Bunch or The Partridge Family?" What a great idea. Another great Johnny Gage idea."

"Why are mad at me?" Johnny demanded. "I'm the one who just saved your life, remember?"

True. He had no right to be mad at Johnny. But the bitterness, once unleashed, fortified itself with Roy's fear that he was never going to see his family again. He had no one to lash out against except his unfortunate partner.

"Thanks a lot," Roy said, hating the childishness in his voice. "What was the point?"

Johnny spun him, forcing him to meet his eyes. "Since when have you been so big into self-pity? You think I'm having a good time? You think I don't want to go home? If we want answers to this thing, we're going to have to go looking for them."

"You go look," Roy said. "I'm staying right here."

"So you can get drunk and feel sorry for yourself?"

"That's the plan."

Johnny grabbed the newspapers. In exasperation he said, "I'm going to go find that guy with the sword, because sitting here's not going to lead to anything. You coming or not?"

Roy realized he'd pushed Johnny too far. He too had been hurled around reality like a rag doll. He'd been chased and shot at and probably felt as ragged as Roy did. True, he didn't have a wife or kids to worry about, but he had his own family and life back in the Los Angeles County they knew. And he had saved Roy's life, not just this one time from the river, but many times in the course of their careers - from explosions, flames, collapsing ceilings or floors or walls. Roy had been knocked unconscious exactly three times since going to work at Station 51, and each time he'd come around to find Johnny's worried face in his line of vision, Johnny's careful hands checking for broken bones or other injuries.

The older paramedic knew he should apologize. Should get off the stool and follow Johnny into the sunlight in search of answers. But there was no physical danger to brave out there, nothing that fell into the realm of Roy's ordinary experiences. Maybe he was a coward. Maybe he just didn't want to find out if there even was a Station 51 in this reality, or a white one-level house at 78 Rye Road. Maybe he didn't want to see unfamiliar faces where only familiar ones should be. Or worse, find people he knew and loved, and hear the blankness in their voice as they asked, "Who did you say you are?"

Roy didn't apologize. He didn't get off his stool. Instead, in a move that would shame him later, he turned his back on his partner. "Go ahead without me."

"Fine," Johnny said. "You just sit here and drink until you forget."

Which was exactly what Roy tried to do.

To be continued . . .

Author's Notes: Grateful thanks to Susan and Terry for their great assistance! Any remaining typos, goofs, etc are entirely my own fault. Coming next . . . Willie Gillis can't get two lost firemen off his mind. Johnny gets into trouble. Roy smells smoke. Read Part 4.

 

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