Metzger's Dog

accidents on the inbound San Diego, Santa Ana, Foothill, and Long Beach freeways already, and the reports are coming in faster than I can write them down.”

“Sounds like you’ve got your work cut out for you today, Bobby.”

“No problem for the Byrdmobile, Dan. I can fly just about anywhere today and have plenty to talk about. And believe me, I’d rather be up here than down there sweating on the freeway. I’d advise everybody to leave for work as early as possible and be prepared to spend some time in the car.”

“I’d say it’s time to play a real oldie, Petula Clark’s ‘Downtown.’”

Kepler smiled. They wouldn’t know the size of it for another half hour or so, and they probably wouldn’t believe it then. The radio stations would lure as many cars as possible into the trap in that time. The disk jockey played “On Broadway,” then Arlo Guthrie’s “Comin’ into Los Angeles.” Kepler listened to the music, tapping his fingers on the roof of the car as he glided along tree-lined back streets. The main thing was to keep heading north and west, away from the city. If he had to backtrack even once, he knew he might be stuck all day. Already, even on these streets, the inbound lanes had begun to clog and stall, and he had to stop occasionally while a car from the other lane pulled in front of him and turned around to try another route.

It was only ten minutes before the disk jockey stopped “Summer in the City” in the middle. “We have an update on the traffic situation from Bobby Byrd up there in the Byrdmobile. Bobby?”

“Dan, the California Highway Patrol has just called Sig-Alerts in four more places. Route Five, the Golden State Freeway, is a disaster area, with four incidents. It’s cut off at the Santa Monica–San Bernardino interchange, the junction with the 605, and the junction with the Hollywood south. I’ve just flown over those areas and I can tell you the best thing to do is stay far away from them. I’ve never seen anything like it. The traffic is stopped dead all over the northern half of the city, and they say there’s no way CALTRANS can get emergency equipment to any of the trouble spots before at least ten o’clock. From up here the freeway system looks like one gigantic parking lot. For thousands and thousands of those cars down there I’d say there’s no way to go forward, no way to go back, and no way off until the accidents are cleared. What I’d do is turn off my engine and wait.”

“Not a bad idea, Bobby. Just don’t try it in the old Byrdmobile. I didn’t wear my hard hat today, and I don’t want to feel anything heavier on my bald head today than a kiss.”

“Not much chance, Danny, so you might as well put the hat back on. I’m on my way south now to check some of the other bad spots.”

“We’ll be checking with Bobby Byrd from time to time in case we run out of bad news. In the meantime, the CHP is advising everyone who doesn’t have to drive today to please stay home.”

Kepler drove on. It was becoming more difficult now. It was seven-fifteen, and the inbound lanes were stopped completely. He had to pass three blocked intersections before he found one with enough space between cars to make a left turn.

When a commercial for transmissions was over, the disk jockey said, “In case you haven’t noticed it yet, today is a good day to write somebody a letter. A motorcycle policeman just drove up the sidewalk, no less, to tell us that there is a problem with the telephone equipment at the downtown switching station. So if you’re waiting for a call from that special someone, don’t bother, go have an affair instead. If you’re beautiful, have an affair with your favorite radio personality, who signs off at ten.”

Kepler could see the Ventura Freeway ahead. It was awesome. He could see thousands of cars, all twelve lanes packed with cars—even the shoulders beside the freeway were full of cars. Overhead, police helicopters hovered, the chopping drone of their engines the only sound. On the pavement of the freeway, among the shining and useless metal shapes of the cars, he could see the figures of people walking, sitting on hoods and fenders and roofs, standing in groups to talk.

As he stopped at the light beside the freeway entrance three girls walked down the entrance ramp, passing within inches of the line of cars stopped there waiting to merge with the unbroken, unmoving line of stalled vehicles.

A man in a Mercedes leaned on his horn and yelled, “Get the hell back to your car! What if it starts moving again?”

One of the girls stopped beside the man’s window. Her face was calm and expressionless and sincere. “It can’t, see? I have the keys.”

27                   Porterfield held the small slip of blue paper. “What time did this come in?”

“The call was logged in Langley at eight forty-five, a little over a half hour ago. Quarter to six Los Angeles time. That’s where it came from. Los Angeles.” The young man seemed pleased to be able to say something that sounded like information. His small, glittering eyes narrowed as he waited.

Porterfield spoke in a quiet, measured tone. “Get copies of this to Deputy Director Pines, Mr. Kearns, and Mr. Goldschmidt, then do what they tell you to.” The young man turned on his heel like a military orderly and leaned forward as he took the twelve strides to the door.

Porterfield didn’t care for the young man, but he was a necessary annoyance while the Donahue matter was unresolved. The young man’s real name was Carpenter, but he was listed on the Seyell Foundation’s payroll as Karl Burndt, a name that didn’t seem to fit and which Porterfield needed to make an effort to remember.

Into the telephone Porterfield said, “I need a line to the Los Angeles main office, highest priority, secure if possible, but don’t waste time waiting for a scrambler. If nothing else works, I’ll take a commercial line.”

He glanced at his watch. It was nearly nine-thirty. While he waited, he read the message again. “619352. You spoiled the picnic.”

CHINESE GORDON PULLED HIS CHAISE LONGUE next to Margaret’s and stepped forward to adjust the television where it rested on the welding table. Then he moved to the wooden stairway and accepted a can of beer from Kepler, who was sitting on the ice chest.

Kepler scratched his stomach. “You’re right, Chinese. It’s ten degrees cooler in the shop than upstairs, and that’s ten degrees cooler than outside.”

“It’s the concrete floor,” Chinese Gordon said. “Even the animals know that.” He turned to see the big dog climbing up off the floor and settling himself on the empty chaise longue beside Doctor Henry Metzger.

“Here it is, Chinese,” Margaret called. Chinese Gordon sauntered up behind her and leaned on the cool metal side of the van.

The television screen showed a display of cars stopped on the freeway. The telephoto lens made them look as though they’d been squashed together, and they shimmered in the heat waves so that in the distance the cars seemed to be submerged in gelatin.

Printed across the picture were the words “Disaster! The Odds Catch Up with Los Angeles.” The staccato opening of the Noon News theme hammered its electric urgency like a coded message, then swelled into a deep, sweeping flourish of importance. Then there were Gene Turton’s curly white hair and pale paraffin face. “The biggest traffic tie-up in the history of the world, a near-total cutoff of communication, and hundred-degree temperatures make this a special day in the Southland. More after this.” Gene Turton was replaced by a group of young people pouring impossible quantities of soft drinks down their throats, their heads tilted toward the sun.

“I hate that Southland thing,” said Kepler. “The Southland is way down upon the Suwannee River, not southern California. The man is an ass. If I had him here I’d—”

“Kepler!” said Margaret.

Gene Turton was back. “This morning within a period of less than thirty minutes major accidents slashed into at least seventeen key spots on the Los Angeles freeway system and put a stranglehold on traffic, marooning millions of commuters and choking the life out of the city.”

“Calm down, Gene,” said Chinese Gordon.

“At the same time, what appears to be a freak accident at the South Grand Avenue switching station knocked out the telephones of some ten million homes and businesses in Los Angeles County, leaving the Southland deaf and dumb. A Noon News minicam team cornered the mayor in his office only an hour ago, and he had this to say.” Gene stared at something off-camera for several seconds, and then the mayor appeared in