TRICK OR TREAT:
OR, THE NIGHT MCCONIKEE'S HAT
CAUGHT FIRE
by Irene Markoja
Towards noon, Captain Stanley finished putting up the orange and black streamers he had picked up at K-Mart on his day off. Seated around the table below him were Marco Lopez and Mike Stoker, who were pouring bags of goodies - Fun-Size Three Musketeers, Snickers, Milky Way and M & M's - into two large metallic bowls.
Chet Kelly slid a couple of candy bars from one of the bowls and opened them. He stuffed a piece of Snickers into his mouth when the Captain turned around.
"Hey, you twit," cried Captain Stanley, "that stuff's for kids."
Marco's dark brown eyes turned up, looking at Chet with little surprise. "It's no wonder why all the Hot Tamales are gone," he said. "Did the Phantom eat them for supper again this year?"
"Don't blame me," said Chet, pointing towards the stove, where John Gage and Roy DeSoto were preparing caramel apples for the visiting trick-or-treaters who would visit Station 51 that night. "Roy's favorite expression is 'Chili tonight, Hot Tamale.' Rumor has it that it's his favorite candy."
Roy, who was removing stems from the apples he bought at the greengrocer, turned his head suddenly towards Chet. His blue eyes twinkled with mock surprise, and his smile appeared ironic as he asserted, "I haven't had Hot Tamales since I was in junior high. I don't even like candy."
"Roy," smiled John, who turned away from the double-boiler containing a few pounds of caramelizing confectioner's sugar. "Weren't you wolfing away on them after one of our runs?"
"Well, no." Roy was nervous, trying to justify himself. "You might had seen Brice eating the stuff." Roy knew that John and Brice got along as well as ice cream and ketchup.
John stepped forward, pointing his finger upwards as he spoke, "Well, Brice doesn't have blond hair and blue eyes, and you can't be mistaken for Woody Allen."
"Nor could Brice."
John Gage should had watched his cooking, for the caramel in the double-boiler caught fire behind him. With steed urgency, Roy DeSoto raced towards the fire extinguisher posted next to the station telephone, pulled the pin, and sprayed the white foam on the flame. The fire was completely smothered, but John looked in the pan. The melting sugar was now charred black.
"Oh, man!" That was Johnny's exasperated sigh.
"Well, you should had watched what you were doing," said Roy.
"Yeah, Gage," interjected Chet Kelly, who was now chewing on his miniature Three Musketeers bar. "You would had burned this place down."
John took the double-boiler from the stove and carried it to Chet's side of the table. "I can make you eat this, Chet. Come here." By now, however, Chet stood up and ran into the apparatus bay, trying to avoid looking inside the pot.
"Well, Gage, you and DeSoto shouldn't have wasted money on caramel apples," Captain Stanley said, his kindly manner coming through in his voice. "The parents will only throw them away."
"It's not like we put razor blades in these things," cried John, who put the pot back on the stove.
"But there are enough nuts out there who do," argued Roy, munching on an apple. "My son almost bled to death eating one of those things last year."
John Gage and Roy DeSoto spent Hallowe'en morning at Christopher and Jennifer DeSoto's school, where an assembly on Hallowe'en safety was held. Both paramedics were well-qualified to speak during the assembly, for they were dispatched to no fewer than 10 runs last Hallowe'en. One of those runs was at the DeSotos' home, where Chris was badly cut after chewing on a caramel apple lying between his Kit Kats and Milk Duds. The apple contained a rusty razor blade, and Chris required five stitches to close his bloody wound. He also needed a tetanus shot. Jennifer's caramel apple also contained a razor blade but, fortunately, she didn't touch it. The Hallowe'en treats were linked to a seemingly nice old lady living on their block. She thought she would boobytrap the kids who vandalized her front yard by putting her late husband's old razor blades in everything she gave out - not just her caramel apples, but candy bars.
The crew telephone rang. Captain Stanley answered it.
"Station 51, Captain Stanley," he said. A pause. "He's coming tonight? We have a Hallowe'en open house tonight for the kids. Can't he wait 'til tomorrow?" Another pause. "Oh, well. He can come tonight. Talk to you then."
Captain Stanley hung up. He suddenly became nervous, pacing on the floor as he exclaimed, "Good grief! McConikee's coming over tonight! He's doing a station inspection!"
The claxon was heard. The dispatcher spoke, "Station 51, traffic accident with injuries. Canyon Road, off Alameda. Cross street Elm. Time out, 12:02."
As the firefighters raced towards their red vehicles - John and Roy into their squad truck, the others into their engine - Captain Stanley responded, "Station 51, KMG-365."
The emergency turned out to be much messier than expected. Rather than a routine car crash involving one or two people, there was an accident involving 30 teenagers on their way to a half-day school field trip. John and Roy were unable to save four of those teens, and two more rescue squads were dispatched to the scene.
"Hey, Roy," piped John, as Roy backed the squad into the apparatus bay, "how do you think the Cap would feel if Brice was the Chief and he was doing the inspections?"
"I think he'd change careers," answered Roy. "I don't know what's so bad about McConikee. He seems like a pretty nice guy."
"I think so, too," said John, as he stepped out of the squad. "I just think that the Cap's overreacting."
It was already a quarter to six, and the skies in Los Angeles County were already dark. A few kids lined up outside the rec room, crying "Trick or Treat" before Chet and Marco handed them their treats. Younger kids were accompanied by their parents or older siblings, and Roy could only smile at their mere presence. After all, his own kids were going out for Hallowe'en that night.
Captain Stanley was making his rounds outside the apparatus bay. He was still nervous.
"McConikee's already on my case," he told John and Roy, who were now pouring coffee into their cups. "He thinks there are wrinkles in our bedsheets."
"Cap, just relax," assured Roy. "It's not like a bunch of wrinkly bedsheets would wreck your career."
"You don't know that man," hissed Captain Stanley. "He's a fussy, manipulative son of a gun -"
Chief McConikee walked into the rec room, his kindly face beaming.
"I have some good news, Hank," he began. "Station 51 has passed the inspection - again. But there's just one problem."
"The bedsheets were wrinkled - we can fix that, no problem."
"Not that."
Chief McConikee pulled his arm in front of him. In his hand was the charred, half-melted black plastic that was once his firehat. "Now, who was the joker who played this Hallowe'en prank on me, back in '65?"
Captain Stanley's face turned as red as the fire engine. Johnny and Roy looked at each other. Who torched McConikee's hat, they asked themselves.
"It was an accident, I swear," the Captain said. "We were out of pots and pans for our Hallowe'en dinner, and I decided to use your hat to cook my clam chowder." Then, he turned peevishly to Chief McConikee and concluded, "I hid that thing underneath the couch for so long - and my old station just got renovated."
"No wonder why I couldn't find it for so long," cried McConikee, taking a blow torch from the closet. "Maybe I should do the same thing with your hat now that you're THE Captain, Stanley." Then, he said, aiming the blow torch at the Captain's hat lying on the dinner table: "Trick or treat."
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