Slow Burn -- Chapter 3/21

CHAPTER THREE

Dina and Nick had now abandoned the station’s kitchenette and headed for the main garage.  There the intrepid reporter saw a crew member emptying a fire truck of equipment and spreading it on the floor nearby.  She vaguely glimpsed another girl inside the truck.

“Hi there!” Dina called in a friendly greeting, striding towards them.  “Mind if we ask you a few questions?”

The girl sorting the equipment, clad in a blue LAFD T-shirt and slacks, looked up and brushed fine strawberry blonde hair out of her eyes.  She looked annoyed.  “Yes, actually.”  Her voice carried a crisp Eastern European accent.  “We’re very busy.”

Dina motioned for Nick to start filming.  “Oh, you don’t have to stop working.  Some action shots will be good.  I’d just have to put some mics on you…”  She started rummaging through her bag.

“Ugh, fine.”  The blonde stood as Dina approached and attached a mic to her T-shirt collar.

“What’s your name?”  Dina asked winningly.

“Augusta Zawisza,” came the dry reply.

“Za-wissa,” Dina said, rolling the name on her tongue.  “Ukrainian?”

The girl rolled her eyes.  “Polish, actually.”

Dina veered from the cold reception and looked toward the other woman.  Her dark hair and Iberian figure could be seen through the window of the truck.  “And you?” she called out, holding the miniature microphone aloft.

“Marguerite Cervantes!  But, um…”  The girl laughed helplessly.  “I’ve kind of got hemostatic dressings and bandage wraps spread out all across my lap right at the moment.  Rain check?”

“Sure!” Dina responded, replacing the second mic for the moment.  Then she turned back to the unimpressed blonde.  “So…Augusta.  What brings you to Los Angeles?  Are you an immigrant?  My family actually came over from Italy in the 90s.”  As usual, Dina tried to feed in a little personal information to break the ice.

Augusta bent down again to resume her work sorting hose attachments before replying.  “Student, actually.  I’m a third-year at UCLA.”

“Ah.  I take it you’re a student volunteer, then.”

“Yeah.  Rit and I both are.”  The Polish girl gestured toward the engine.  “I’m Business Management, she’s Nursing.”

“Got it,” Dina replied.  “But surely your studies keep you busy.  How did you come to be working with the LAFD?”

“My mother always told me I should build up the place I live.  Right now, that’s here.”  The Pole paused thoughtfully.  “And in this line of work a woman can prove herself by her courage and brains…”  She looked Dina up and down.  “…without having to dress like a slut.”

Dina flushed, and motioned to Nick to turn the camera off.  “Excuse me?”

Augusta rose and put her face close to Dina’s.  “You heard me.  Let me ask you a question.  Why do you dress like that?  Skirt up to here.  Blouse cut down to here.”  As she spoke, the girl gestured to the respective high and low points of Dina’s attire.  “Don’t you have more self-respect than that?”

“I dress this way because I like how I look!” Dina responded hotly.

Augusta snorted.  “If you say so.”

Dina abruptly ripped the lapel mic off Augusta’s shirt.  “I think we’re done here.  Let’s go, Nick.”  The reporter stalked off toward the offices, shooting a lethal glare over her shoulder.  Nick trailed behind at a safe distance.

Augusta was still watching them go, a hand on her cocked hip, when Marguerite’s voice emanated out of the truck.  “Still grinding that particular axe, eh, Gus?”

Augusta stooped to pick up a small stack of hose attachments and marched toward the vehicle.  “Ugh, it just makes me mad!  Is this the land of opportunity?  In my part of the world there’s lots of women who can’t get ahead except by tapdancing for a bunch of men.”

“Is that what they’re calling it now?” Marguerite asked impishly.

Augusta plowed ahead.  “And some of them get so…how do you say?  So brainwashed that they keep on dressing just to satisfy the male gaze.”  She reached the interior compartment and deposited her load with a clatter.  “Like Miss D-Cup Reporter there.  Or my sister.”  Her hand clenched the handle of the compartment, knuckles white.

“In my experience,” the Hispanic girl said evenly, “one should never assume one knows everything about someone else’s life.”  She bit her lip for a moment, then spoke further.  “Sure you aren’t just mad because you think no one listens to you?”

Augusta looked like she was about to launch into a retort, but then instead broke into a sardonic smile. “Rit, did you know you’re one of only about five people in the world I would let say that to me?”

“Trust me, I know.”  Her sloe-eyed friend smiled back.

Augusta started locking attachments into place, then gestured down to Marguerite’s skirt and matching nylons.  Even though she was seated and the garment was covered with stacks of carefully-sorted dressings, it was nonetheless evident that it stopped several inches north of her knees.  “Rit, you aren’t exactly helping the cause of universal womanhood in a skirt like that.  Never seen you on duty like this before.”

“Do you know how many formal dress functions paramedics actually get invited to?  Not a lot.  Captain Hawkins said to gussy up nice for the press conference, and I’m pulling out all the stops.  Señorita bonita, at your service.  I just have to steal a few minutes to do my makeup.”  She pointed toward a small bag stashed at the rear of the compartment.  Then she turned her finger upon Augusta in accusatory fashion.  “And don’t think I’ve forgotten the bet you lost.  You promised to give me five minutes to go to work on you, one of these days.  You’re stunning anyway; with just a few touchups you’ll be gorgeous!”

Augusta made a face and stuck out her tongue before relenting with a chuckle.  “Yes, yes, I did promise.  But not right now.  I have a feeling we’re going to be much too busy for that today.”


* * *


Dina blew into Lieutenant Thompson’ office like a pint-sized squall, slamming the door behind her.  The plate on the door – reading “Lieutenant, LAFD, 15th Battalion” – rattled fiercely.  The lieutenant was startled and inscribed a thick ugly line across the inventory report she was initialing.  Virginia was sorting equipment receipts beside the lieutenant, and nearly jumped out of her seat; the stack flew up into the air and drifted down like a bureaucratic snowfall.  Marigold laid the pen down deliberately.  “Can I help you, Ms. Reed?”

Dina was flushed and curt.  “You can tell me when Captain Hawkins will be here!”

“I wish I could tell you.  We still have not been able to reach her.”  There was an edge of real concern in her voice.  “To be honest, I’m starting to worry a bit myself.”

Dina took a moment to compose herself before speaking again.  “Then perhaps you could tell us where we can set up to be ready when she does arrive.  I think I’ve had my fill of interviewing the crew for the time being.”

Mare hid a small smirk as she wondered which of the girls had pissed the reporter off.  Captain Hawkins’s call had gathered a group of fit, opinionated, often hot-blooded young women; there were a number of candidates.  She waved the thought aside.  “We can get you established in the Captain’s office.  It’s the next door down, on the right.”

Dina nodded.  “Thank you, lieutenant.”  She exited quickly, speaking in low tones to the cameraman out in the hall.

Mare chuckled softly as she turned back to the paperwork, before noticing an increasingly perplexed Virginia crouched on the floor, studying the various receipts.  The junior medic looked up anxiously.  “I’m sorry lieutenant…did you have these organized by date of receipt?  Or by equipment type?  Or date of issue?  I can’t…er…”  She trailed off, still trying to make sense of what she held.

“Oh for Pete’s sake.”  Mare gave a sigh of exasperation and jerked the papers out of Virginia’s hands.  “I can do it myself in less time than it would take to explain it to you again.”  Her voice was tinged with annoyance.  “Look, it’s time for a crew meeting anyway.  Go out and call them all into the kitchen.  You can do that, can’t you?”

The young medic gulped and nodded, biting her lower lip fiercely.  She veritably scurried from the room.

Mare rolled her eyes as she began sorting the receipts with practiced hands.  “God save us from rookies and volunteers.”  She spoke to no one in particular.  “And reporters.”