Metzger's Dog

27 Porterfield held the small slip of blue paper. “What time did this come in?”

“The call was logged in Langley at eight forty-five, a little over a half hour ago. Quarter to six Los Angeles time. That’s where it came from. Los Angeles.” The young man seemed pleased to be able to say something that sounded like information. His small, glittering eyes narrowed as he waited.

Porterfield spoke in a quiet, measured tone. “Get copies of this to Deputy Director Pines, Mr. Kearns, and Mr. Goldschmidt, then do what they tell you to.” The young man turned on his heel like a military orderly and leaned forward as he took the twelve strides to the door.

Porterfield didn’t care for the young man, but he was a necessary annoyance while the Donahue matter was unresolved. The young man’s real name was Carpenter, but he was listed on the Seyell Foundation’s payroll as Karl Burndt, a name that didn’t seem to fit and which Porterfield needed to make an effort to remember.

Into the telephone Porterfield said, “I need a line to the Los Angeles main office, highest priority, secure if possible, but don’t waste time waiting for a scrambler. If nothing else works, I’ll take a commercial line.”

He glanced at his watch. It was nearly nine-thirty. While he waited, he read the message again. “619352. You spoiled the picnic.”

CHINESE GORDON PULLED HIS CHAISE LONGUE next to Margaret’s and stepped forward to adjust the television where it rested on the welding table. Then he moved to the wooden stairway and accepted a can of beer from Kepler, who was sitting on the ice chest.

Kepler scratched his stomach. “You’re right, Chinese. It’s ten degrees cooler in the shop than upstairs, and that’s ten degrees cooler than outside.”

“It’s the concrete floor,” Chinese Gordon said. “Even the animals know that.” He turned to see the big dog climbing up off the floor and settling himself on the empty chaise longue beside Doctor Henry Metzger.

“Here it is, Chinese,” Margaret called. Chinese Gordon sauntered up behind her and leaned on the cool metal side of the van.

The television screen showed a display of cars stopped on the freeway. The telephoto lens made them look as though they’d been squashed together, and they shimmered in the heat waves so that in the distance the cars seemed to be submerged in gelatin.

Printed across the picture were the words “Disaster! The Odds Catch Up with Los Angeles.” The staccato opening of the Noon News theme hammered its electric urgency like a coded message, then swelled into a deep, sweeping flourish of importance. Then there were Gene Turton’s curly white hair and pale paraffin face. “The biggest traffic tie-up in the history of the world, a near-total cutoff of communication, and hundred-degree temperatures make this a special day in the Southland. More after this.” Gene Turton was replaced by a group of young people pouring impossible quantities of soft drinks down their throats, their heads tilted toward the sun.

“I hate that Southland thing,” said Kepler. “The Southland is way down upon the Suwannee River, not southern California. The man is an ass. If I had him here I’d—”

“Kepler!” said Margaret.

Gene Turton was back. “This morning within a period of less than thirty minutes major accidents slashed into at least seventeen key spots on the Los Angeles freeway system and put a stranglehold on traffic, marooning millions of commuters and choking the life out of the city.”

“Calm down, Gene,” said Chinese Gordon.

“At the same time, what appears to be a freak accident at the South Grand Avenue switching station knocked out the telephones of some ten million homes and businesses in Los Angeles County, leaving the Southland deaf and dumb. A Noon News minicam team cornered the mayor in his office only an hour ago, and he had this to say.” Gene stared at something off-camera for several seconds, and then the mayor appeared in a glare of lights that threw black shadows behind him on the wall and made his eyes shine like those of an animal caught in a car’s headlights.

“I’m asking the governor for emergency assistance, in the hope that he will ask the President to declare the county a disaster area. This will make possible the use of the National Guard to help get us out of this mess, and might also make the business community eligible for economic assistance if they suffer significant damage from this day’s events. It’s only eleven, and we’ve got a long day ahead of us.”

A reporter’s arm appeared and a microphone was thrust under the mayor’s chin. “Have you communicated with the governor yet?”

The mayor scowled. “No, I haven’t. The telephones don’t work. Remember?”

Gene Turton’s face appeared again. “For the first time ever, all flights are being diverted from Los Angeles International Airport because of what’s happening here on the ground. Noon News has learned that, because of the monumental traffic problems, nobody has been able to get in or out of LAX for several hours. The terminals are already full of stranded passengers, and the airlines are now afraid that if they do land they’ll have to take off empty.” Gene Turton’s eyebrow lifted slightly as he stared into the camera. “No one could be reached to tell us how passengers were to be transported from the Ontario, Burbank, and Orange County airports, or how the airlines expected people booked on outgoing flights to get there.”

Chinese Gordon patted the dog’s head. “Can I sit down, boy?” The dog stared at him but didn’t move.

Gene Turton continued. He was gazing earnestly into the camera, which zoomed so close that his face nearly filled the screen. “There are unsubstantiated reports of a bus drivers’ strike, and other major stories that broke this morning. Throughout the day we’ll have camera teams in helicopters on the spot wherever news is happening, but it may take days to sort out everything that’s happened. We do know a few things that we can pass on. One is, don’t try to drive anywhere unless it’s a genuine emergency. By ‘emergency’ I mean that someone’s life is in danger. There are over four million automobiles stuck out there now. Don’t let yours be one of them. In the meantime, be patient and keep your sense of humor. In a day or two we’ll laugh at this the way people in New York laugh at the 1965 blackout, and people in Buffalo laugh at the blizzard of ’77. Let’s show the world that Los Angeles is a place where people help each other, hmm?”