Death in Nostalgia City

by Mark S. Bacon

  Over the past few days, Kate had checked the Internet and used her media contacts to collect as much information on the park as she could.

  “Got lots of PR when we opened. But we want to build a long-term name, not just get ink ’cause we’re new.”

  “So, you’re not satisfied with your media coverage?”

  Kate assumed that Max’s present public relations VP would be history soon. She wanted to know the point of contention. Max had a habit of firing PR people.

  “Publicity? That’s part of it. But I want more from my PR department. I want someone to do the same thing you did in Vegas.”

  “As I recall, you weren’t getting good publicity when I started at your Vegas hotel. We had a little troubleshooting to do.”

  Maxwell walked back toward his desk. “There’s always a hitch or two. Nothing’s perfect.”

  “Max, is that car accident a big problem? I read about that guy getting killed. But it was a small item in the Vegas paper.”

  “Accident? Yes, terrible. Horrible accident. That man’s poor family. We’re trying to help them now.”

  “It’s not the only problem you’ve had, is it? I read about trouble with the railroad construction. A bridge collapsed before it was finished. And possibly some ride vandalism?”

  “Where’d you read that?”

  “The bridge story was in the papers. The thing about vandalism was rumored on a theme park website.”

  “Good girl, you did your homework. Knew you would.”

  Calling her a girl would not insult nor sidetrack her. She knew Max too well. “Is something going on, Max?”

  “Wish I knew.”

  Kate was silent.

  “Okay, we’ve had some bad luck. No question. And every theme park has to deal with vandals. So do we. But you know how the media is. I don’t want the stories to get out of hand.”

  Kate sat back in her chair and turned her gaze directly on her former boss. “I understand. You want Kate Sorensen, spin doctor, in case there’s another accident.”

  “But there won’t be. What I need, Kate, is for you to kick our publicity campaigns into high gear. With your contacts--”

  “With my contacts I can try to keep a smiley face on the park’s image, no matter what.”

  “And do your usual fine job of generating stories with great promotion ideas.”

  This was far more demanding than Kate had anticipated. Working for Max--a sometimes ill-tempered meddler who didn’t always keep his mouth shut--was one thing. In addition, she’d have to play spokesperson for an accident-prone theme park. It sounded exciting. She hadn’t come to Arizona to say yes, but now she wanted the job. Besides, Vegas glitz was wearing thin.

  “I don’t know, Max.” No reason to agree right away. “I’ll have to talk to Bruce.”

  Before he called her a cab, Max told her what he was willing to pay. She hoped he didn’t hear her intake of breath.

  Chapter 6

  Lyle had an idea why the president of Nostalgia City had asked to see him. But maybe Archibald Maxwell really did just want to thank him for his actions at the gas station. In any event, it gave Lyle the chance to see the executive offices. He’d never been above the second floor. When he reached the inner sanctum, he first noticed the silence. Thick carpet soaked up all sound. The heavy decision-making probably went on behind the large, wooden double doors with chrome-plated handles shaped like Route 66 highway signs.

  Lyle wondered what the receptionist with the beehive hairdo did when she went to the grocery store or the movies. Venturing outside Nostalgia City was an occupational hazard for those who styled their hair to match their jobs. The people in Flagstaff and nearby Polk likely were used to seeing beehives, flips, and flat tops. Lyle’s tonsorial concession to the period was his sideburns. They were somewhere between Elvis and Walter Cronkite.

  “I’m here to see Mr. Maxwell.”

  “I’ll tell him you’re here.”

  “Don’t you want my name?”

  She pointed at Lyle’s shirt. He glanced down at his badge and grinned then turned away and headed for a chair. “She can read your badge, dummy,” he mumbled to himself.

  The reception area’s spare ’60s modern decor with brightly colored pop art paintings--such as a collage of yellow stars and Marilyn Monroe’s face--made the room feel like a museum. Lime green and orange vinyl furniture completed the impression.

  Lyle settled into an uncomfortable, low-backed chair and picked up a magazine with Steve McQueen’s picture on the cover. A minute later, the solid wooden doors opened and the most stunning woman he’d seen in a long time walked out. She had to be at least six feet tall. Business clothes didn’t completely hide her curves. And those legs. She reminded Lyle of a taller, older version of Susie Lopresti, the cheerleader he lusted after in high school. Lyle pushed his cabbie hat back on his head to get a better view without appearing to stare. He didn’t need any subtlety, however, because the woman walked right up to him.

  “All set,” she said. “Are you parked downstairs? I appreciate the service.”

  Lyle stood and looked up. Damn, she was well over six feet. Her blond hair, knotted up to look businesslike, drooped a little as if it wanted to be unfastened. “I, ah, my cab’s downstairs.”

  He dropped his magazine and turned to the door. Just then, another cab driver walked in.

  “Does someone need a lift?” the driver asked into the silence of the reception area.

  The beehive looked confused. She glanced down at her desk and then looked up. “Mr. Deming? You have an appointment with Mr. Maxwell.”

  “That’s right. Is it 4:30 already?” He turned to the blonde. “I’m sure my colleague here can help you.”

  “Sorry,” the blonde said. “It’s your hat. I thought you were waiting for me. Thanks anyway.”

  As she turned to go, Lyle thought he caught a hint of a smile.

  He sank back in his angular chair. Had she really been that spectacular, or was he just horny? Since his wife divorced him, dates had been few and far between--zero in fact since his dad moved in. It wasn’t that Lyle was unattractive. Some people said he resembled George Clooney--okay, maybe a slightly older George Clooney. Lyle didn’t have time to consider this further because Archibald Maxwell came out to greet him. He ushered Lyle back to his office and they sat opposite each other in chairs next to a window.

  “Want to thank you for your quick work last week. One person was killed, but it could have been much worse with all that gasoline around.”

  “I just reacted, that’s all. Somebody had to. Wish I could’ve helped that guy.” Lyle didn’t really want to be reminded.

  “The pump that broke shouldn’t have spilled gas. It malfunctioned. We’re replacing them.”

  “Let’s hope nothing like this happens again.”

  Max nodded. After a moment he said, “You like driving a cab?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “You used to be a policeman,” Max continued, “a detective sergeant in Phoenix.” It was a statement, not a question.

  Lyle thought he knew what was coming. He glanced around at the unconventional artwork in the office. On one wall hung a painting of a rural landscape surrounding a spark plug the size of a Saturn moon rocket. The painting next to it featured a full-color Spam can label. Lyle remembered that one. Must be a print.

  “Our security chief tells me you were a good investigator, solved a lot of cases. Right now, Nostalgia City has a situation we need to solve. I think you could help us.”

  “Mr. Maxwell, I appreciate the compliment. I know we had some problems, but even with the car accident last week I didn’t think it was too serious.”

  “It’s damn serious, and we have to stop it right away, before it gets worse. That’s why I hoped you could help.”

  Maxwell’s eye contact was hard to avoid. Lyle glanced at the Spam can again but found his gaze quickly pulled back to the president.

  “Sorry,” Lyle said. “I don’t want to be
disagreeable. I do like working here. I worked for the Phoenix PD for years, but now this is the kind of job I want.” He touched the name badge on his breast pocket. “I like visiting with the tourists, showing them around.”

  Maxwell stood up, looked out the window for a moment, then faced Lyle. “We would--of course--offer you additional compensation, and you’d report directly to me. Clyde won’t like that idea. Tough for him.”

  “I appreciate the offer.” Lyle lifted his hands, palms up. “I do. It’s not the money. I’m retired from being a cop. It takes it out of you. I came here because I wanted a change. Besides, security is pretty good. Bates’s people should be able to handle it.”

  Maxwell snorted. “I like to have back-up plans. Thought you’d be just the person. You were a detective and you know your way around the park.” He stared at Lyle.

  “But if the runaway Ford just lost its brakes or something...”

  “Hell, it was no accident. Done on purpose. This is the third act of sabotage in two months.” Max shook a finger at Lyle as if it were his fault. “First a ride, then the railroad bridge, now this. Trouble is, we don’t know why.”

  “What’s the sheriff doing?”

  “Not much. Besides, we don’t need that kind of publicity.”

  Lyle hadn’t realized the accidents represented a serious threat to his newly adopted home. His new job meant more to him than most people knew, but going back to being a cop wasn’t an option.

  “We’ve got to stop this, now,” Maxwell said. “Would you please think about it, Mr. Deming?”

  Chapter 7

  “It looks worse than it is,” Joann Nye said. “Most of this has blown over.”

  Eighteen days after her talk with Max, Kate Sorensen, the new Nostalgia City VP of public relations, was asking herself what she’d gotten into. Her new secretary waved a hand over a small sea of newspaper clippings and a few website printouts covering the public relations department’s conference table. Bold headlines shouted, Theme Park Crash Claims Life of Tourist, Nostalgia City Shocked by Death, Houston Man Dies in Theme Park Accident.

  “This is about two weeks’ worth of clips,” Joann said. “We usually lay them out so everyone in the department knows what kind of media hits we got. Bob, your predecessor, used to review the clips with staff every Monday.”

  “Kinda focused on print media, wasn’t he?” Kate scanned the clips and discovered the tourist’s death had been front-page news all over Arizona and the West. Many major U.S. papers ran at least a small story. “What about social media?”

  “It was bad too, for a while,” Joann said. “But tweets from visitors are all back to positive. People love to take pictures of themselves with the old cars and stores and post them.”

  “Anyone post pictures of the gas station crash on Facebook?”

  “I don’t think so. We don’t monitor that too closely.”

  “We’ll have to start.” Kate said. “Did the crash affect attendance?”

  “Not much. Weather’s been good. People forget, or they don’t worry about it.”

  Joann was a slightly overweight woman in her thirties. Her business dress and makeup were more Flagstaff than Vegas. She looked like a soccer mom, but her voice had authority.

  Kate picked up a clipping. “I see the sheriff called it a ‘one-in-a-million accident.’ Things must have quieted down after that.” She gathered up a handful of the clips and took them to her office.

  Kate couldn’t decide if she liked the office décor or not. Her desk, credenza, and a bookcase had a dull, brushed aluminum finish. Sleek, new, and retro, they felt cold. She’d warm the place up with books and plants. When she had time.

  She sat at her desk and started reading the accident clipping from Arizona’s largest paper, the Phoenix Standard. The story carried comments from witnesses and a description of the crash scene.

  Another paper focused on interviews with the sheriff and included a cost estimate of the damages. In all, bad press about an unfortunate accident. But she could deal with it. Did it really warrant Max’s offer to nearly double her salary? Max’s projects always had ups and downs. Maybe he was just worrying more as he got older. Regardless, the offer had made Kate’s decision to leave Vegas an easy one.

  She set the clipping aside and glanced at the framed picture on her desk. The tanned face of an athletic-looking man smiled out at her. Bruce had surprised her by not arguing over a move to Arizona. Was it the size of her salary? She hoped Bruce could find something to do in Arizona. He was sales manager at a fitness club in Vegas.

  Joann stuck her head in Kate’s office. “Max’s assistant just called. He wants to meet with you at 11 o’clock instead, before your program for new hires this afternoon.”

  “Thanks, Joann. Max wants me to hit the ground running. That’s fine. What’s the afternoon program all about?”

  ***

  “One of the things they asked me to cover in orientation today,” Lyle Deming said, “is what we didn’t have back then.” He stood on a riser and scanned the theater-style classroom looking at the rows of new employees. A few were his age or thereabouts, although many looked like they were younger than some of his sport coats.

  “Back then means the Nostalgia City time frame. Essentially, we’re in the early 1970s--up to 1975--but we include a lot of stuff from before then. In the early 1970s we still had lots of 1960s cars, music, clothes, stores, you name it. One decade drifted slowly into the other. Sometimes we just refer to the park’s ’60s and ’70s time frame as NC time or the NC era.”

  “Why that period?” asked a scholarly looking young woman in the second row.

  “Nineteen seventy-five marked the fall of Saigon and the end of the Vietnam War. That period, roughly from President Kennedy’s inauguration until the fall of Saigon, was a definitive time--a transition for America. I think marketing to baby boomers also has a lot to do with the park’s focus.

  “Now I’m not an historian, just an NC employee like you, but I was in school in the ’60s and ’70s so I can tell you the things we definitely did not have during that time. First, we didn’t have CD players. And there was a good reason for that. No CDs.”

  The new employees chuckled. Lyle had their attention. For the time being.

  “And, we did not have: DVDs, MP3s, or even PCs. There were no laptops, no flat screens, no video cameras, no digital cameras, no digital music, no digital TV.” He held up a hand, spreading his fingers. “These were the only digits we knew about.

  “Macs were hamburgers, a tablet was a yellow pad with lines on it, and blackberries were fruit. No Web surfing, only ocean surfing. And let me emphasize, we did not have smart phones.

  “Now, why do you think I mention all this, particularly the cell phones?”

  A young man with long hair and freckles raised his hand. “We’re not supposed to use our cell phones here at work.”

  “Right on, man. Back in the day, if I saw someone having a conversation with his hand--” Lyle held his hand to his ear. “--I’d think he was nuts. Closest thing we had to cell phones was the Bat Phone. Or the shoe phone. Remember Get Smart? No, never mind.

  “Anyway, dig this: Do not use any electronic gadgets like cell phones, or iPods, Kindles or whatever in the park. Leave them in your locker. Questions?”

  Lyle looked across the rows of people and noticed the gorgeous blonde he’d seen weeks before in Maxwell’s office.

  “Remember,” he said, “music was a big part of NC time, so try to learn some of the artists’ names. You hear their songs playing all over the park. Back then, everybody had transistor radios and they listened to groups like The Doors, Led Zep, The Rolling Stones. I know.” Lyle held up a hand. “The Stones are still around. They’re even older than I am!”

  One of the training coordinators signaled Lyle that his time was running short. After a few minutes, he asked for final questions.

  A young man in his twenties raised a hand. “You mentioned the Vietnam War. That was a big deal was
n’t it?”

  “Yes, it was. Bigger than Afghanistan or Iraq. It lasted for years and years.”

  “How come there’s nothing in our handbooks about it?”

  “Lots of things happened in the NC era: Vietnam, assassinations, riots, Watergate, the Cold War. But Nostalgia City’s designed for fun. Our guests pay a lot of money and they want to just chill and enjoy the good old times. They want to relax and unwind, not fight the Vietnam War all over again.”

  Chapter 8

  After he finished his talk and the training coordinator announced a break, Lyle watched as the tall, shapely blonde strolled up to the podium and stood below the platform. She looked up at him with deep blue eyes, perhaps one of the few times she ever needed to look up at anyone. Judging by her tailored jacket and dress, Lyle figured she didn’t sell sodas and hot dogs.

  “If you’re looking for a cab,” he said, smiling, “I’m off duty.”

  The woman gave him a puzzled look. Obviously, she didn’t remember.

  “I was kidding.” Why was he nervous? He’d met beautiful women before.

  The puzzled look faded from her face. “You really think there’s no place for Vietnam in Nostalgia City?”

  “Why dramatize a war?”

  “It shouldn’t be dramatized, but from what I’ve seen, Vietnam is ignored. Isn’t that unrealistic? And what about the social unrest, marches, sit-ins?”

  “What’s the point? I mean, yes, Vietnam happened in the ’60s and ’70s, but this is a theme park. People want to be entertained, go on some rides, and maybe dance a little.”

  “Seems like avoiding any mention of what was really happening turns NC time into a fairyland. Sort of a fantasyland for adults.”

  “What’s wrong with that? What should we have? Vietnamland? Anti-warland? Hand out souvenir protest signs? Rename a hotel the Hanoi Hilton?”

  Lyle knew instantly he’d overreacted, even before the woman’s surprised look registered with him. He wanted to bite back his last words.