Death in Nostalgia City

by Mark S. Bacon

  He stepped off the dais. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to be sarcastic. I like it here. I like the park, and Maxwell’s vision of it is fine with me.”

  “I guess so.”

  “Hey, you’re on a break. Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”

  To Lyle’s surprise, the blonde, who introduced herself as Kate Sorensen, agreed. In a few minutes, they were seated at a table in a large employee cafeteria that had obviously depleted Arizona’s entire supply of Naugahyde and Formica.

  “I’m usually not that negative,” Lyle said as they sat facing each other. “Well, not always. In fact, I’m trying hard to relax and get rid of my cynicism.”

  “A little cynicism is okay,” she said with a thin smile. “By the way, I enjoyed your talk. You made the younger employees really think about all the things that weren’t around then, stuff we take for granted.”

  “I like doing it. And it’s a break from driving my cab.”

  “So that’s what you meant about a cab ride. How did you get the job speaking to new hires?”

  “My big mouth. I made a couple of smart remarks when I went through orientation. The guy briefing the kids must’ve lived through a different period than I did. Sounded like he’d read it in a book. I just corrected him once or twice.”

  Did Kate raise her eyebrows a fraction?

  “Don’t get the wrong idea,” he continued. “I didn’t make fun of him. I went up later and apologized. A week or so after that someone from training called and asked if I’d be interested in doing this. I only do it once in a while. For fun.”

  Lyle was now certain he had pegged himself as an antagonistic know-it-all.

  He tried a different tack.

  “Lots of this I remember ’cause I had an older brother who was into cars and bands. I remember hearing The Beatles back when I was in early grade school. Guess you could say I’m a baby boomer too, but a late boomer.”

  “As opposed to a late bloomer?”

  “Yeah, that too.” Lyle was pleased to see Kate smile. “You’re obviously new. What do you do here?”

  “PR. I’m the new VP of public relations. I started today.”

  VP, huh? Lyle looked into her lively, expressive eyes. She had a slender nose and wide mouth that on a smaller woman would have seemed too large.

  “Do we need to revamp our image?” he asked.

  “Recent publicity hasn’t been good, has it? We need to handle accident problems. And the vandalism,” she said, lowering her voice. “I heard that someone tampered with the Yo-yo ride. It was a clumsy job and was spotted right away.”

  Lyle wondered what to say. The tourist’s death--and what Max said it could mean to the park--had stayed in his head despite his efforts to ignore it.

  “It’s okay,” Kate said. “Max told me everything. It’s one of the reasons I’m working here. Max--Mr. Maxwell--decided he needed a new PR person. No one else knows about the problems besides you and me and the security chief, Bates.

  “And half the people who work here.”

  Kate nodded. “Guess you’re right. That’s one reason why Max asked you to look into the accidents. To see what’s going on.”

  “I told him I’d think about it.”

  “He said you turned him down.”

  He tried his “I’m only a cab driver” routine, but she’d obviously been told he was a former police detective. He affirmed his faith in Bates’s abilities and explained how he just wanted to drive his cab.

  “I know Maxwell,” Kate said. “I worked for him in Vegas. If he says he needs help, he means it.”

  “So he told you to come over here and persuade me to go back to being Sergeant Friday.”

  “Not exactly. It was partially my idea since you were going to be at the orientation.”

  “Maxwell used to build hotels in Vegas, didn’t he?”

  “Are you changing the subject?”

  “Trying to. That okay?”

  “Sure. Max was in Vegas a long time. I did PR for him at the last hotel he built.”

  “This is a bigger project.”

  “Bigger than I realized. They even built a residential community.”

  “Timeless Village. That’s where my dad and I live.”

  “Your dad?”

  Lyle explained his father’s health conditions and the fact that he’d moved in with him recently.

  “I’m in Timeless Village too,” Kate said. “Sort of like upscale company housing, isn’t it? My boyfriend and I thought about buying a house there. But we’re also going to look in Polk and Flagstaff. He’s trying to sell our condo in Vegas.”

  That told Lyle that Kate was not married but also not available. Not that he had anything in mind. She was probably too young for him anyway. It was amazing, when he thought about it, how women who were “too young for him” were getting older.

  “I think I’m going to like it here in Nostalgia City,” Kate said.

  Chapter 9

  Lyle left the training center, having managed, again, to avoid becoming an NC cop. But why had he reacted to Kate’s comments about the park’s lack of controversy? He didn’t mind talking about Vietnam and all the shit that happened back then. Not at all. Some people just didn’t understand how a tranquil fairyland job was just the tonic for stress. Come to think of it, so was gin and tonic. He thrust his hands into his pockets. The rubber band he wore twisted and pulled the hairs on his wrist. It helped him focus.

  He paused at a street corner and glanced at the retro-style signs above the shops. Most were made of neon tubes bent to form letters. On the opposite street corner, under an orange Rexall Drug Store sign, sat a trolley. Lyle hopped on, and it took him to the Fun Zone amusement area. His badge got him quickly through the employee entrance, and a five-minute walk brought him to the front of the large K-BOP studio trailer.

  Inside, the main room of the portable broadcast studio was a comfortable office. Poster-sized photographs of The Beatles lined the walls. The pictures told the story of the singing group from their fresh-faced, mop-haired days to their bearded Hare Krishna period that ended when the group broke up in 1970. When Lyle asked for Earl Williams, a technician pointed to the next room, a glassed-in broadcast booth partially obscured behind potted plants. Lyle leaned over and saw his friend Earl behind the glass. Williams was talking to an animated young woman who appeared much smaller than she probably was--compared to Lyle’s friend, who could double for an NFL linebacker. Williams saw Lyle and motioned for him to come into the booth. Above the door, an old-fashioned “On the Air” light was lit, but Lyle stepped in.

  Lyle had first met Williams at a Phoenix radio station when Lyle was police spokesman for a neighborhood crime-watch program. Lyle wondered how NC had lured Earl away. Williams had become the leading oldies DJ in Arizona and even had his own nationally syndicated weekend program.

  “’Scuse me, Drenda,” Williams said. “This is an ol’ buddy of mine.”

  Taking his earphones from around his neck, he stepped away from his console. The DJ’s hair was long but not quite an Afro. Williams’ smile and child-like impulsiveness contrasted with his imposing size. He wrapped his large arms around his friend and lifted him off the ground momentarily. At 170 pounds and nearly six feet tall, Lyle rarely considered himself small. Next to Big Earl, he felt like Billy Barty.

  “Lyle’s a buddy from Phoenix. Lyle, this is Drenda Adair.”

  Drenda was as tiny as she first appeared. Lyle took in her short auburn hair and simple makeup. Cute, he thought, though her dress and bearing meant business.

  She greeted him then turned back to Williams. “Okay, Earl, please remember. NC era only. The station is part of Nostalgia City and in Nostalgia City, it still is 40 years ago. I’m sorry to be the one to remind you.” Before she left she turned and added, “It’s great to have you here. I’ve been listening.”

  With that, she bustled out of the booth.

  “They warned me ’bout that lady when I started this gig,” Williams said. “I shoulda k
nown better.”

  “I know who she is, but I’d never met her. Doesn’t look like what you’d expect. They call her the Nostalgia Nazi.”

  “So I heard. Now I know why.”

  “She’s the senior vice president of history and culture,” Lyle said. “Which means she’s the final word around here on what really happened in the ’60s and ’70s.”

  “Yeah, but she looks like she was born in the ’90s.”

  “Doesn’t matter. She’s a hotshot academic, and she’s related to Maxwell. At least she has a ’60s name. How many people do you know named Drenda?”

  “That’s pretty cool, really. And you look pretty retro yourself there, Mr. Deming, bow tie and all.” Williams made a face.

  “What’s the matter with a bow tie? It’s part of my cabbie outfit. Hey, lots of famous Americans wore bow ties. Harry Truman, Humphrey Bogart--”

  “Pee Wee Herman?”

  Lyle searched for an appropriately vulgar response, but before he could say it, Williams held up a hand. He plopped down in his chair and slid over to the microphone.

  As Earl announced the next record, Lyle looked out the large picture window that let passersby see the DJ at work. The trailer had been set up near the monorail ride. The track wrapped around the trailer then dropped sharply, almost to street level, before turning toward a straightaway.

  “Remember, come by and see us,” Earl said into the mic. “We’re doing a remote today, right in front of the Soul Train. I call it that. Most folks call it the Nostalgia City Monorail. And now, here’s a great one from Rod Stewart.” Williams hit a button and set his earphones down.

  Lyle took the other chair in the cramped booth. “So you’re actually in the park live, in person, not on tape.”

  “Live from now on. I’m renting a place in Flagstaff. I’m planning to do my national shows from here, too.”

  “How’d they get you to move to K-BOP?”

  “Mostly money. But that’s cool. We can hang out.”

  Lyle nodded. “What’d you do to get Ms. Historically Correct on your back so soon?”

  “I sorta dee--viated from the play list.”

  “You like to deviate. I’ve seen you.”

  “All I did was play “A Hazy Shade of Winter.”

  “Simon and Garfunkel, 1966.”

  “Actually I played another version.”

  “The Bangles?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Earl. That was in the ’80s. No wonder she caught you.”

  “I know, man. It just sounded good.”

  “Stick with the NC era. Don’t you know, you’re not only on the air, but you’re piped into every building, shed, and parking lot in Nostalgia City?”

  “So they tell me.”

  “Okay, try this one: ‘Harper Valley PTA.’”

  “Don’t kid me. You trying to stump me with that one? Too easy. Jeannie C. Riley, 1968. Okay, Mr. Musical Knowledge, what about, ‘The Night Chicago Died.’”

  “Oh, I know that.” Lyle paused. “Was it...’75?”

  “Time’s up.” Again, Williams held up a hand for silence while he announced a song.

  “I give up,” Lyle said a moment later.

  “You can’t beat me. This is my business. ‘The Night Chicago Died,’ Paper Lace, ’74.”

  “Big Earl, you’re my hero.”

  “Fuck you,” Williams whispered with a smile then leaned back in his chair and grinned at a family of tourists passing by the studio’s picture window.

  Lyle was about to return the sentiment when he heard a grinding noise then a high-pitched screech like a buzz saw. One second later, an impact sharper than an earthquake slammed the studio trailer sideways. The picture window shattered. The trailer slid 100 feet then stopped abruptly. Acrid smoke and screams filled the air.

  Lyle survived the jolt by hanging onto the console and bracing himself against the wall. Short of breath and gagging on the fumes, he saw his buddy slumped motionless over the control panel. He tried to find something to staunch the blood flowing from the back of Earl’s head.

  Chapter 10

  “Kate Sorensen. Is Kate Sorensen here?”

  Kate looked up from the rear of the classroom when a young man broke into the orientation session. “Call your office,” he said. “There’s been an accident.”

  Kate pulled out her cell phone as she dashed from the room, only to realize that she didn’t know the extension to her own office. She found a directory on a desk and was soon listening to her secretary.

  “Someone just called from the monorail. It’s bad. Lots of people hurt.”

  Even before she got to the square, Kate could hear children wailing. She jumped out of the cab and dashed around two ambulances, dodging paramedics and firefighters loaded with emergency gear. She froze when she saw the destruction. An entire monorail train had leaped off its track and slid across the open plaza. Passengers lay strewn about the pavement, some moving, some not. Three crumpled cars lay on their sides. People struggled to drag themselves out of side windows now facing skyward. Like a bad disaster movie, Kate thought, only real.

  One of the cars had remained upright as it skidded across the terrazzo square and collided with a small carousel, knocking wooden horses--and children--onto the ground. Kate stumbled forward, stunned. She passed the bright blue and silver monorail engine, its nose buried in a trailer marked with red letters: K-BOP Remote Studio.

  She didn’t know what to do first. Paramedics were already clambering into the trailer’s broken picture window, so Kate sprinted to the carousel where a handful of adults were bending over injured children. She picked her way through the splintered ruins. Children cried while absurdly cheerful calliope music continued to play. The chaos here mirrored the main square. Some children appeared dazed but unhurt, others lay motionless. Kate stopped when she saw a tiny body squirming beneath the chartreuse and purple head of a wooden horse. She dragged the horse to the side and the black-haired girl looked up at her with unexpectedly blue eyes. Kate saw in a moment the girl had a compound fracture. A hint of bone protruded from her left arm.

  “Don’t move, honey. We’re going to take good care of you.” The girl moaned and shifted. Kate noticed her T-shirt: Grandma’s Little Angel in bold script. Unsure of how to treat the injury, Kate followed her instinct and shouted, “Medic. Need help here!”

  A paramedic rushed over and soon had the girl’s arm immobilized with an air splint. Moments later, a white-haired man, himself injured, coat ripped, a rag soaking up blood from a gash on his head--appeared next to them. “My granddaughter,” he said. “Oh, my God. Is she okay?”

  The paramedic reassured the grandfather. Kate left the girl in their care and crossed the square where emergency personnel--supplemented by guests pitching in--comforted the injured and helped passengers out of the smashed monorail cars. Crowds of curious tourists started flowing into the plaza. People gasped at the wreckage and injuries. Paramedics were setting up a triage, while men in NC security uniforms tried to direct the onlookers away.

  Kate slid to a halt beside the last monorail car and bent to help a dazed and bruised woman who was trying to crawl out of the now-horizontal doorway. As Kate stood and glanced around, she saw a long, damp splash of red across the pavement. She turned away and steadied herself on the edge of the car. She was not going to vomit. After a deep breath, she rounded the car and saw the red liquid was ketchup. Next to it lay the shattered frame of a hot dog cart.

  Finally, the last of the injured were extricated. Paramedics transported the most serious cases and bandaged those with cuts and bruises as they awaited more ambulances. Kate shifted gears mentally and started looking for the camera people and reporters she knew would start streaming in. She drifted around the chaotic scene trying to get an idea of what happened while trying to anticipate questions the media would throw at her. Was anyone killed? she thought suddenly. Maybe “how many?” would be a better question. One or two people on gurneys were unconscious.

&nbs
p; Kate spotted a man with a gray crew-cut shouting to the security guards. He was wearing a suit and seemed to be in charge.

  “Excuse me,” she said. “Do you know if anyone’s been killed?”

  “No.” He looked away from Kate and shouted to two security guards, telling them to move the line of onlookers farther away.

  She showed him her ID badge. “I’m Kate Sorensen. I’m the new VP of public relations.”

  “Congratulations.”

  Kate looked at the man’s ID badge. It said he was Bates, chief of security. “Can you tell me where the injured will be taken?”

  “Depends on how bad they’re hurt.”

  “Is there a hospital in Polk? I’m new here. Today’s my first day.”

  “Welcome to Nostalgia City,” Bates grunted, then turned away immediately and shouted, “Nelson, I told you to move those people back.”

  “Any idea what caused this?”

  Bates turned back and looked as if he was surprised to see her still there. Kate’s only consolation was that she had at least two inches on the security chief, forcing him to look up slightly. “I don’t have time to answer questions,” he said.

  “Maybe not, but we’re all going to be answering questions when the media show up. We need to give them at least basic information.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about the media. You want to know what happened? Ask that engineer over there. This is his responsibility.”

  Kate looked for someone in a uniform, but Bates gestured to a guy with bushy red hair who wore a shirt and tie. He was directing workers as they collected pieces of debris.

  “If anyone from the press talks to you, would you please have them see me?” she asked.

  “Sure, lady,” Bates said with a leer. “I’ll send the assholes right over.”

  Kate formed a quick opinion of Bates, but gave him benefit of the doubt. He was probably as shocked by everything as she was.

  Wandering around the perimeter of the disaster, she soon saw what she’d expected--a TV news camera crew. She introduced herself to an eager-looking young man in a tan shirt with his collar open and his tie loosened.