“1-Adam-12 requesting code 7,” Officer Jim Reed mumbled into
the mike. He crossed his fingers.
The dispassionate voice of the dispatcher floated through the car. “1-Adam-12,
standby for call.”
Jim whimpered, dropping his head back against the headrest.
The radio beeped. “1-Adam-12, 211 reported. See the man at 5454
El Paseo. Handle code 3.”
“Hey, that's just a block from here,” Jim said before acknowledging
the call.
Pete Malloy nodded. “And it's on the same block as that new Italian
place.”
Jim grinned at the older man. Things were looking up. “Hey, that's
right. Maybe it'll be a false alarm.”
“Don't hold your breath.”
Pete killed the siren as they approached the block of storefronts where
the burglary was reported. Jim grabbed the mike, but hesitated as his stomach
growled. Loudly.
"Pete?"
“What?"
"Know what I think?"
"I can't imagine."
"I think Dispatch is really a bunch of aliens. They're conducting an evil
experiment to see how long it takes to starve LA police officers."
Pete rolled his blue eyes. "You've been watching way too much Star Trek.
Just put us Code 6."
“1-Adam-12, code 6 at location.”
Jim got out of the squad car, pulled his baton out of the door holder and
slid it into the ring on his belt. He cast a practiced eye up and down the
street. Three teenagers loitered around a bus-stop bench, an elderly man
burdened with shopping bags made his arthritic way slowly northward. A silver-blue
'68 Mustang convertible cruised by, the blond female driver giving Reed the
unmistakeable eye. He felt his face color as he hurried around the end of
the squad car and met Malloy at the entrance to Majo's Magic Shoppe. “This
the place?”
“This is the place,” Malloy said, grinning at his partner's
sudden turn to crimson. “What's the matter, Jim? Don't tell me being
married has made you forget how studly you are?”
Jim didn't even dignify that remark with a response. He shoved open the
wooden shop door. A bell tinkled merrily above his head. He spied an agitated
forty-year-old man practically hopping from one foot to the other behind
a counter. “You reported a burglary?” he asked.
“Yes, I reported a robbery,” the man snapped. “Took you
people long enough. I pay taxes, you know! I expect better service!”
“Yes, sir,” Pete said smoothly. “Can you tell us what
happened?”
“What happened is some punk kid dressed up in some kinda weird get-up
robbed me of four-hundred dollars!”
“'Weird get-up?' Can you describe it, sir?”
“Oh, I don't know, he looked like one of those space men you see on
that TV show, Star Trek. Had on a yellow and black shirt with black pants
tucked into black boots. You know the rig.”
Pete cocked an eyebrow as he and Jim exchanged glances. “Yeah, I
know the rig. Look, how old would you say he was?”
“Nineteen, maybe twenty. About my height He had dark hair, dark
eyes. Pointy ears.”
Jim had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing at his partner's
goggle-eyed stare.
“Pointy ears?” Pete asked.
“Yeah, like that Dr. Spock character. You know, pointy ears.”
“Don't you mean Mr. Spock?” Jim asked.
“Mister, doctor, lawyer, whatever . . . he had pointy ears is all
I'm sayin' here.”
Malloy tried to steer the conversation onto a less surreal path. “Okay.
When he left, was he on foot or in a car?”
“On foot, heading north. At least I didn't see him get in a car.”
“Did he have a weapon?”
“He had a knife.”
Pete finished jotting down the information in his notebook. “All
right, then, we'll get it out on the air,” he promised. He nodded
at the man, then headed back to the car.
Jim was able to keep a straight face until he shut his door. His face broke
into a wide grin. “I can't believe that. Robbed by Mr. Spock.”
“Fascinating,” Pete said drily.
“So you wanna radio it in?”
“Not especially. Besides, you need the practice.”
Jim picked up the mike. “LA, 1-Adam-12. Supplemental on the 211:
subject on foot, heading north on Paseo Boulevard. Nineteen-to-twenty years
old, brown/brown, five-eleven, 150. Wearing yellow shirt, black pants, black
boots. Armed with a knife.”
“You didn't say anything about the pointy ears.”
Jim grimaced, then keyed the mike again. “. . . and has pointy ears,”
he mumbled.
“1-Adam-12, repeat that?”
“Subject is apparently dressed up in a Star Trek outfit. He's got
pointy ears.”
“10-4.” Remarkably, there was no emotion in her voice
as she acknowledged, but Jim could swear he heard the howls in the dispatch
office.
“I hope you're satisfied,” he growled at Pete.
Pete just smiled benignly. “Just trying to teach my junior partner
not to leave out any little detail.” He dropped the car in gear and
pulled away from the sidewalk.
Jim sighed as he watched for a yellow-shirted, pointy-eared robbery suspect.
“Maybe we'll find him at that Italian restaurant,” he said hopefully.
“I dunno. Do Vulcans eat?”
“Of course they eat. And Spock's half human, don't forget.”
“Oh, no, of course not. How could I forget that?”
“Well, they don't call this La-La-land for nothing.” A man
in a yellow shirt running down the sidewalk caught his eye. “Hey,
Pete, pull over! There he is!”
Jim had his door open almost as soon as the words were out of his mouth.
The instant Pete stopped the car, Jim hit the pavement running after the
suspected Mr. Spock, who had shed his pointy-ears but still carried a brown
paper sack. The kid ducked into an alley, knocking over trash cans as he
ran. Jim hurdled the trash cans, but in the dimness shrouding the alley,
he didn't see the splintered wooden pallets strewn across the broken asphalt.
His left ankle turned under as his foot crashed through the pallet's flimsy
slats. He grabbed at another stack of pallets, trying to break his fall,
but they crashed to the ground with him. His head hit unyielding asphalt
and the alley disintegrated into darkness.
<H4 ALIGN=Center>###</H4>
Malloy hit the sirens and grabbed the radio. “1-Adam-12, my partner
is in foot pursuit of the 211 suspect. The alley behind the Rexall Drug
store at Paseo Boulevard and 15th
. Request assistance.”
“1-Adam-12, 10-4. All units in the vicinity of 1-Adam-12, be advised
1-Adam-12 is in foot pursuit of 211 suspect and requesting assistance. Identify
Tac 2.”
Pete flipped the radio to Tac 2, then accelerated hard to the nearest cross
street. He yanked the wheel to the right and careened around the corner.
He vaguely heard 1-Adam-43 identify on Tac 2. Another block and he spun
right again onto Clark Avenue. He dodged a pedestrian, then swerved around
an old man in an Edsel. He reached the alley's west entrance just as the
suspect plunged into the street.
Malloy slammed on the brakes. Throwing the car into park, he lunged out
the door and after the suspect, who had turned around and ducked back into
the alley. There was no sign of Reed. Malloy didn't have time to worry
about his partner–he was too busy trying to get his legs to churn fast
enough to catch the fleet-footed Vulcan. About the time he was seriously
wishing he could just have the Enterprise beam the suspect up, the suspect
ducked into a doorway. Unfortunately for him, the door proved to be locked.
Pete yanked his gun free of its holster.
“All right, freeze! Police!” he barked. “Up against
that wall. Put your hands on the wall in plain sight.”
While the suspect complied, Pete finally saw his wayward partner emerge
from the shadows. “About time, Reed,” he muttered. “Wanna
cuff him for me?”
When Jim didn't move, Malloy chanced at irritated glance at his partner.
"Earth to Jim, I told you, put the cuffs on him already."
He was shocked when his normally sane partner glared at him with cold
gray eyes. "Damn it, Pete, I'm a doctor, not a cop!"
“What?”
“I said, I'm a simple country doctor! I don't arrest people! Get
security to do that!”
My partner's gone off his rocker. “Reed, what are you talking
about?”
Jim didn't answer. He swayed, then his knees wobbled and he sagged to the
ground.
Malloy started toward his falling partner, but the suspect feinted toward
the alley entrance.“Hold it right there, mister!” Malloy yelled.
He ran over to the Vulcan wannabe and yanked his cuffs out. “All
right, put your left hand on the back of your head. Now!” he yelled
when the kid hesitated. He slapped one cuff around the kid's left wrist,
then dragged him to the fire escape and clicked the other cuff around the
sturdy iron railing. “Stay put!”
He jogged over to where Jim lay crumpled on the ground, trying to ignore
the sick feeling in his stomach that told him his partner was dead. “Jim,
can you hear me? Jim!” He gently slapped Jim's cheek.
Jim moved his head and moaned, then his eyes flickered open. “Pete?
'Zat you? What happened?”
Pete allowed himself a small smile. “Why don't you tell me?”
Jim struggled to a sitting position. “Ow,” he muttered, grabbing
his head. “I fell. Musta hit my head.”
Malloy saw a large goose egg forming on Reed's left temple. “That's
all you remember?”
“Yeah. Why? Is there more?”
“Oh, no. Nothing more,” Pete said airily. “You stay
put while I call for an ambulance.”
“I don't need–”
“Oh, you do need. Trust me.”
He checked the suspect one more time, then jogged back to the squad car.
Sergeant MacDonald pulled up just as he was keying the radio. “1-Adam-12,
requesting an ambulance at Clark Avenue and the alley behind Foster's Bar.”
“Watcha got, Malloy?” Mac asked.
“What I got, Mac, is a suspect dressed up a little early for Halloween
and a dazed partner who suddenly thinks he's Dr. McCoy.”
“Dr. McCoy? What are you talking about? Is Reed hurt?”
“He fell and conked his head. C'mon.”
Jim was laying back down when they got there. Mac dropped to one knee and
looked at Reed in concern. “Jim? You okay?”
Jim opened his eyes. “Hey, Mac. I, uh, think I hit my head.”
“So I hear from your partner. How'd it happen?”
“Tripped over something.” He waved vaguely down the alley.
“Well, you just take it easy, Reed. An ambulance is coming.”
Malloy uncuffed the suspect from the fire escape and read him his rights.
Mac straightened up and took in the costume and the hair cut. “So
this is the Vulcan Bandit. I'll take him in for you, Pete. You go with
Jim to Central Receiving.”
“Thanks, Mac.”
The ambulance finally rolled up. Malloy winced as the warbly siren wound
down to a weak growl. “That ambulance has the sickest sounding siren,”
he muttered to Jim.
“Yeah,” Jim sighed, pressing his hand against his forehead.
“Look, tell 'em to take me Code 2. My head's splitting enough without
having to listen to that.”
“You got it, Reed.” Malloy assured him. “See you at
the hospital.”
“Beam me up, Scotty,” Jim mumbled.
<H4 ALIGN=Center>###</H4>
“Tribbles . . . . stupid fuzzballs are everywhere,” Jim muttered,
then pulled the blanket up over his head. “Take Captain Kirk to sick
bay . . . . I'll meet you there. . . .”
Malloy frowned from where he sat in the naugahyde chair next to his partner's
bed. The doctor had said it was just a concussion. Pete wasn't so sure–from
the way Jim was raving, maybe aliens had abducted him after all.
Jim pushed the covers off, staring at something between his bed and the
ceiling. “Cold-blooded, pointy-eared Vulcan . . . ain't got a human
bone in his body. I don't care what he says about his mother being human.”
“Jim,” Pete said helplessly.
“Intruder alert!” Reed shouted. “Set phasers on stun!!
SHIELDS UP!”
Malloy rolled his eyes, got up and stepped into the hallway. A pretty nurse
stopped on her way to another patient's room. “He still out there
where no man has gone before?”
“You could say that. Every time I try to talk to him, he starts yelling
red alert.”
“Has anyone called his wife?”
“She's on her way. She had to find someone to watch their baby.”
She gave him a sympathetic look. “So in the meantime, you're stuck
on the bridge of the Enterprise. Well, good luck. Don't let him blow up
the planet.” She smiled, then hurried off with her medicines.
Pete tiptoed back into Jim's room. Jim's eyes were closed and he was breathing
evenly. Pete didn't say anything. He didn't want Reed to pull a phaser on
him. He sat back down in the chair, leaned his head on his hand, and dozed
off.
<H4 ALIGN=Center>###</H4>
“Pete? Hey, Pete!”
Malloy jerked upright. Jim was looking at him curiously. “Pete?
You okay?”
“Yeah, just dozed off,” he mumbled, blinking. “How about
you?”
“Got a whopper of a headache. Has Jean been in yet?”
Malloy glanced at his watch. “I called her about forty-five minutes
ago. She said she'd be here as soon as she found a sitter for Jimmy.”
Jim looked over at the bedstand and spotted the phone. He fumbled for it,
nearly dropped it, then squinted at the dial. “How do you call out?”
“I don't think you can reach the Enterprise by phone.”
“What?”
“Never mind. Dial nine.”
Jim thanked him, dialed nine, and then when he got an outside line, dialed
his home number. “Hey, Jean, it's me. . . . no, I'm fine, really .
. . . just fell over my big feet, hit my head . . . . I dunno, the doctor
hasn't been back in . . . . no, don't worry about it. I'll be home before
the sitter can get there, anyway. . . . yeah, love you too. Bye.”
Malloy took the phone from him. “She upset?”
“A little. I don't know why she gets so worried.”
“Put yourself in her shoes.”
“Yeah, see your point.” Jim looked around the dingy hospital
room. Whoever decided pale moss green was a soothing color never had to
spend more than five minutes in a hospital room. It made him sick to his
stomach. Or maybe it was the bump on his head doing that. Either way, he
felt about as green as the walls.
“You okay, partner?”
“Yeah. Just a little woozy.”
“You need a nurse?”
“No. I just need to go home where it's quiet and dark and I can sleep
until this headache goes away.”
“They probably have something that'll fix that in sick bay.”
Jim frowned. “What's with all the Star Trek cracks?”
“You tell me, Bones.”
Jim looked stricken. “Oh no, have I been . . . what have I been saying?”
Pete smiled slowly. “Oh, let's see, you've complained about all the
tribbles cluttering up your room. You've accused Spock of lying about his
ancestry. And you've threatened to shoot me with photon torpedoes. Three
times.”
“Oh, Lord, kill me now,” Jim muttered. “Okay. How much
am I gonna have to pay you?”
“For what?”
“To keep your mouth shut!”
“Don't worry about it, partner. They'd never believe me.”
<H4 ALIGN=Center>###</H4>
Four days later, Jim walked into the locker room. He yawned a greeting
to Malloy, who was sitting on the bench tying his shoes, then opened his
locker and reached in for his uniform. He frowned. “Pete, did you
put this in my locker?” He held up a fuzzy stuffed something
that looked suspiciously like a tribble.
Malloy took it and examined it. “No, but I think these are Brinkman's
fingerprints.”
Reed snatched it back. “Very funny.” He yanked his uniform
shirt on, then his pants and finally his shoes. Ed Wells strutted in as
he was tying his laces.
“Waaaa-AAAAAH-aaah-ahh-ahh-ahh-aaahh!” he sang the Star Trek
theme in an off-key falsetto.
Reed ignored him and glared at his partner instead. “You told me
you wouldn't say anything.”
Malloy held up both hands. “I didn't! Can I help it they all read
the incident report?”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute!” Wells interrupted. “You
mean there's more to this?”
Reed shot Malloy a look that promised instant and painful death, so Pete
just shrugged. “You'll never hear it from me.”
“Reed, what'd you do? You know I'll find out eventually, so you might
as well spill it now.”
Reed just pushed past him. “It's time for Roll. See you in there,
Pete.”
Malloy waited until the door swung shut, then jabbed a finger in Wells'
chest. “Lay off my partner, Ed.”
“What? Widdle Jimbo can't handle a little good-natured teasing?”
Malloy relaxed slightly. “Just don't make him crazy, all right? I
gotta ride with him all day.”
<H4 ALIGN=Center>###</H4>
Jim made it through roll call without any more snide comments from anybody.
He walked down the hall to the weapons desk feeling a distinct lifting of
his spirits. “Hey, Charlie,” he said as he waited for Charlie
to give him the shotgun.
Charlie shoved what looked like an electric razor at him instead.
“What's this?”
“It's your phaser, Captain Kirk.”
Jim just closed his eyes, then nodded. “All right, all right. Just
give me my shotgun, would you?”
Charlie shot him a grin. “Aw, c'mon, Jimbo. I'm just funnin' with
you, you know that. Gotta keep you guys from gettin' too big for your britches.”
Jim grabbed the gun, favored Charlie with a cold gray stare, and marched
out to the black and white. He glared at Pete as his partner slid behind
the wheel. “Well, c'mon. Let's hear all your cracks about tribbles
and 'beam me up' and 'full ahead warp nine'. Get it over with.”
Pete held up both hands. “Look, partner, I had nothing to do with
all that in there. So just calm down.”
Jim grabbed the mic. “1-Adam-12, PM watch clear.”
“1-Adam-12, see the man, unknown disturbance, 5454 El Paseo. Handle
code 3.”
“Uh oh. That's Majo's Magic Shoppe,” Jim muttered. Pete
nodded, then backed the unit out of its spot and hit the lights and siren.
Jim tried to keep his breathing normal as he watched the Los Angeles urban
landscape whiz past, but his breath left him in a resigned sigh as they pulled
up at the curb.
Four Klingons were engaged in a pitched battle on the sidewalk in front
of the shop.
Pete smiled at his partner. “Seeing as you're the resident expert
on human and alien relations, I think I'll let you take the lead on this
one.”
Jim just slumped lower in his seat and groaned. “Beam me up, Scotty.
I quit.”
